kenimichrow

[kenimichrow]

The Landless King (Arvaelon Narkerym) 1: The Day of Memories

 Spring in the Southern Continent, City of Flosee

That day was a day of memories. 

It started with good memories. It was a new city in a new continent. A new country with a new culture. I had already been there a few days after arriving from Masserine, where I had left my magic teacher to settle into his retirement. Having rested a little, I could now go out and explore.

The city was filled with sights to behold. I met a merchant with wondrous wares from all parts of the Sessite Confederacy. Each item was extraordinary and unique, and he explained each one’s origins in detail as he tried to convince me to purchase it. Alas, traveling is not the most profitable of pastimes, and so I had to turn him down. He seemed to think I was haggling and brought the price down, but in the end I could neither afford the luxury nor the weight.

Soon after that I wandered into the palace district. I gazed upon huge majestic buildings with foreign architecture that I couldn't even begin to understand and admired their lavish beauty. You’d think that I would have had my fill of such displays of overly obnoxious amounts of wealth from my decades in Kessan, but there is a reason they cost so much. They were dazzling with a hypnotic strangeness unique to the Sessite Confederacy’s culture. I’m sure I made more than one palace guard anxious as I stared at them from the street, so I did not linger at any one palace for long.

Flosee, however, is not only beauty and wonder. That day, I met a poor soul who tried to pick my pocket. I chose not to pursue him as he ran into the market crowd after I foiled his attempt, but his presence reminded me of the dark underbelly of the city that I had been ignoring. 

He wasn’t the only poor soul in the city. 

I pretended not to see them, but slaves littered the city. It made my own slave mark tingle beneath my leather bracer as memories of ancient pain tried to surface. I pushed it down, intent on enjoying my day, but my momentary pity for the thief rekindled the same thoughts for those shackled in the market. 

My mood soured, but I told myself I could do nothing for them. It wasn’t as if I had sparked the Revolution of Sladora myself. I had simply played my part. There were other far wiser men who had given me the opportunities to free myself. I had been the soldier, not the commander, and so I wouldn’t know how to light the match of similar flames here. And even if I could, would I do it wherever I saw slaves? Travel the world, setting every city on fire who dared to collar their fellow man? 

I saw my long lifespan stretch before me, and a weariness began to weigh down on my soul. The Revolution of Sladora had been a hard and trying time, and I selfishly didn’t want to repeat it just to change the entire world. I just wanted to live in it, content that I myself was free and that I had my homeland of Sladora to return to. 

Perhaps Tuenoril was right, and I was a coward without conviction. Our whole family was now dead, countless years of their life cut short, and what had I done to stop it? Counseled caution? Spoke of endurance and waiting for an opportune moment? As I waited, our sister had wasted away in the same bed where her nightmares were made real. Would the slaves in the market waste away too under their suffering as they waited for an opportunity that might never come to them?

I had no answer, and so I pushed it to the back of my mind and made my way to find lunch. I had seen a particularly interesting food stall earlier that day and had promised myself I would try it.The excitement of trying something new temporarily replaced my melancholy, but the fates were not so kind as to let that last.

Art by Haver

Before I could reach my anticipated destination, I saw a flash of steel from the corner of my eye. My instincts from the war made me turn to face it, but the blade I saw was not meant for me. Too quick to stop, a dagger entered the throat of a nearby guardsman. The unlucky man fell to the ground as he quickly bled out, and his compatriots swiftly descended on his assassin.

The sudden violence was unnerving, and I was quickly swept up in the panicking crowd as they fled the scene of the attack. I managed to find an alcove to escape the stampede, but by then I had been carried far from where it had all happened. When I tried to return and offer help, I was shooed away by a wary guard who was barring people from re-entering the market. 

I decided to find a tavern instead to fill my belly and clear my sense of unease. It was only later that I would realize that the guard’s death might have been a warning from Kirith, if her divine spark still lived. 

“Flee! Like the flood of people from the market. Before the coming violence.” Her gentle voice might say. But alas, I viewed it then as only a random skirmish in the vast expanse of the cityscape. 

My unease dissipated as the shadows grew long. As I made my way back to the inn I was staying at, I heard a gasp in a nearby alley way along with fleeing footsteps. When I moved to inquire, I found a woman staggering towards me as she clutched her side. Blood dripped onto the pavement and gushed between her fingers. Even in the dim light I could tell it was the wrong color. I could smell rot, and the flesh exposed by the tear near the wound was clearly festering in a way that old injuries fester when ignored. But old wounds didn’t bleed like that. 

I offered her support, and she fell into my arms. I instructed her to apply as much pressure as possible to her side, though I was careful not to touch it myself as I held her up. Then I scanned our surroundings for the nearest guard. My search was fruitless in an eerie way. There were no guards nearby. I wracked my memory and could not remember seeing any guards for a while. The unease from that afternoon began to grow anew, but my immediate concern was the woman. 

We made our way into the city towards where I assumed would be a guard station. As we walked, the woman leaned on me more and more until I was practically carrying her. 

Then I heard them. Warning bells ringing throughout the city.

Memories of the night the Sladoran Revolution caught flame flooded my mind. The cold sweat brought on by panic. Standing above my dead master as the mansion came alive at the sound of the city bells. Fleeing into the night to discover the city in a riot as other slaves who had also successfully assassinated their masters attempted to save those who had failed. My heart rate spiked, but I forced myself back to the present. 

There was no battle in the streets right now, but the bells were ringing, so there might soon be. I turned to the woman in my arms, intent on moving her to my back to speed up our progress, only to find her eyes unfocused and her breath stopped. Reverently, but with haste, I laid her in the streets. I said a silent prayer to a God who had long before my birth been no longer able to hear it, and turned away.

My knowledge of Flosee was limited, and with a different culture, I had no way of knowing the city’s plans to protect the citizenry in the case of an attack. As such I made a guess - the most protected part of the city would be either the palace district or the city center. I decided the city center was the better bet, as they would have to make it past the palace district to get there, and began to make my way there. 

Before I could reach it, however, sounds of battle began to surround me. As I tried to avoid the sources of the noise, I caught glimpses of ogres, trolls, hill giants, and even goblins fighting alongside men of all different races covered in red-painted armor. It was an unsettling sight of cooperation as they murdered the people of Flosee, but oddly quixotic in a gruesome way. 

I did not stop to admire it, though. I fled deeper into the city. I quickly became lost in the maze of a foreign metropolis, but I noticed I wasn’t alone. Others fleeing the battle were also gathering, almost as if they were being corralled toward one another. This became more obvious when, at one plaza, red-painted attackers emerged from all directions. Most of the civilians fled, but two armed combatants and myself were cut off. 

One of those trapped in the plaza was a grey skinned half-orc covered in hides and wielding a large sword. He was the only one of us who looked rather undisturbed by being surrounded, even seeming a little excited as he eyed their crimson armor. 

“These guys don’t seem to be too friendly, how about you guys?” 

When I called out to the two, he didn’t even look at me. I thus deemed him agreeable enough to hide behind as I summoned a disk of force to act as my shield.

The other potential ally, a mocha half-elf with the exotic features of the Sessite Confederacy, no doubt from the dilution of her Elven blood, had a similar idea. The leather clad lady graceful maneuvered to my side and brandished a dagger at the man who charged her. As she fended him off, she greeted me back in a furious shout. “They’re burning my city to the ground!” I took that as yes, she was indeed friendly to me. Probably.

Art by Haver

The half-orc began to mow down those who came at him like they were little more than dogs, so I decided to lend a hand to my kin. I made my way behind her attacker with my rapier in hand, and gracefully cut him down. Or rather, I tried. I managed to get a few good hits in, but then made a major error of judgement.

Casting magic in combat was new to me. Though over the last 35 or so years I had been taught by my teacher to fight with it, and had even learned to cast while wielding my rapier, I had not had many opportunities to put the skill to use in real combat. As such, I failed to put the proper distance between myself and my opponent before trying to cast a ray of freezing air at him. The spell shot over his shoulder as his blade sank into the flesh beneath my arm. I could feel the blood seep into my wool shirt beneath my armor, plastering the tattered cloth to the wound.

As a seasoned soldier, I pushed through the pain, but the battle dragged out as neither the lady nor myself could land a decisive blow. Eventually the half-orc, having decimated his half of the battle, moved to our side of the plaza to take out the remainder of the enemies. One by one they fell at his hand until finally, only one attacker still stood. His life ended thanks to a well placed dagger by the lady while he cowered from the half-orc’s raging visage. 

The half-orc smiled at the woman and patted her shoulder with a growly “good job”, while I clutched my side, ignored. He then kicked one of the corpses that surrounded us and asked, “Where are these weaklings from?” 

I could only shrug, but the half-elf mentioned some rumors of red-painted bandits she had heard before. She had no specifics, though. 

As we mulled over the mystery, I suddenly noticed that it hadn’t been three people fighting in the plaza, but four. A small halfling waddled through the fountain water that came up to his waist as blood streaked behind him. When he got to the edge, he clamored over the fountain wall and came to stand before the three of us. 

He was caramel in color with the robes and features of a native and a grim look on his face. “Who here is a citizen?” He demanded, but only the half-elf gave a reluctant “I am”. It seemed the half-orc was also a visitor unlucky enough to be in the city at the wrong time.

“Then you’re conscripted. You’ll be with me on this. I’m a member of the city guard.” The halfling mandated.

“I am?” The half-elf sneered scornfully, clearly not on board.

“We must defend the city.” He stated firmly, but the half-elf continued to express her reluctance. We didn’t have time for them to argue, here in the middle of a besieged city, and so I quickly stepped in.

“Have you seen any other guards of late? I don’t think only two, one conscripted, are going to be much good by themselves.” I interjected, and the halfling paused. 

“And who are you?” He asked. 

“You can just call me Arnny for now.” I replied in the interest of brevity. My full name could be a mouthful for those unfamiliar with the Elven tongue.

“Well, Arnny’s right, I stumbled upon some robed figures who seemed to have killed a guard. Have you seen anything like that?” The halfling asked as he looked at the group. 

“I haven’t seen any guards, but I have seen some dead people with some nasty wounds made by a robed figure in the… uh, in an alleyway.” The lady responded. 

“Like decaying nasty? On a fresh wound?” I asked, remembering the woman who had died in my arms earlier. 

“Yeah.” We began to muse over the connection between everything that had happened: the strange wounds, the robed figures, and the guards. It was clear by the timing that the robed figures had something to do with the red-painted attackers, but there wasn’t much any of us knew. Thus, before we said much, the half-elf stopped us. 

“I think this discussion would be better had somewhere safer.” She cautioned. 

“Then we should head to the guard station. Even if there are no guards there to help, it will at least have supplies.” The halfling suggested, and we all agreed, though the half-orc gave a token protest in favor of searching out more combat. The half-elf quickly assured him we’d probably find a fight on the way. After all, the city was under attack. 

Before we could decide which guard station to head to, however, a crowd of people came running through the plaza. Low and behold there was at least one guard other than the halfling left in the city. He was directing the group that raced by as they traveled through the war torn streets. He called out to us as they passed: 

“The walls have been breached! The city is lost! Head to the docks! We must escape the city!” With his brief warning delivered, he continued to herd the citizens to the south. We quickly decided to follow. 

What awaited us there was the bright, orange flames of all the city’s boats set afire. Massive ships all flying the same colors dotted the river. They clearly belonged to the red-painted soldiers who had taken the city. Behind us, those same enemies surrounded us, killing any who fought back. Eventually a lull in the battle appeared, and a leader among the attackers came forward. “Surrender or die.” He declared simply.

The half-orc who I had fought beside in the plaza immediately went to protest by readying his weapon until the half-elf put her hand on his arm to caution him. “There will be time for revenge another day.” 

“It will not be revenge for me.” He grunted back, still hesitant. 

“For me it will be.” She murmured with quiet fury. 

Something in those words, perhaps the fierce anger so lowly spoken, seemed to convince him “You promise me a good fight?” He asked.

“It will be.” She swore in a voice dripping with venom. With a grunt of agreement, he dropped his sword. Everyone in the crowd did as well. Surrender was the clearly logical choice. We were vastly outnumbered with no place to retreat. If even the battle-hungry half-orc could see it, how could the rest of us not? 

Logic did little for my heart as despair locked around it just as the cold metal of the shackles locked around my wrists. 

Almost a hundred and twenty years, and I was still as powerless as the night slavers invaded the small fishing village I was born in off the coast of Martovia. That night, the bells rang out as they had here, and my family fought as I had fought here. My father and eldest brother lay dead at our feet as my sister and I urged Tuenoril to surrender. Just as the woman had urged the half-orc. It was the clearly logical choice then too. But my mother never even saw Kessan, and my only remaining family despises even the sight of me. Was it logical if you died anyway? Was it logical if in return for your life you lost everyone you cared about?

I had hoped I would never have to make that choice again. I trained so I would never have to make that choice again. I thought I had become stronger since then. That I could at least defend myself if something like that ever happened again. 

I stared down at the shackles.

As the weight of my past and my present overtook me, all I could feel was a vast apathy resurging from a human lifetime ago. 

It must certainly be that the Elven gods are dead, and our fates cast off to crueler ones. 

[kenimichrow]

Blog Updated!

So I've updated my blog to reflect what's actually going on. 

I've also removed Google+ from all my social media links.... because it's been deleted from the internet. I'm behind the times, I know.

So now the blog should be accurate again!

I will also be posting The Landless King – Arnvaelon Narkerym chapters from now on, so look forward to some actual content!

The Landless King – Arnvaelon Narkerym Story Project

“Describe your character, please,” requested my Game Master who goes by the moniker ‘Zarkon’.

An elf with dark black hair just long enough to be pulled back into a stubble of a ponytail. He has bright golden eyes that give off the impression of a soul older than his youthful appearance. His skin is light, but still tanned a slight brown from years spent beneath the sun. Thin and lithe, he wears a woolen shirt and pants beneath a set of studded leather armor and a hooded cloak. The most notable thing about his outfit is a set of embossed leather bracers covered in vague images of elves wielding longswords, bows, and magic with a quarter moon in the center that fit beneath his gauntlets. On his hip is two pouches and a rapier, and on his back is a bow, quiver, and backpack made for travel. He carries himself with grace and the posture of a man enamored with the world, but not free from it.

Thus begins the story of Arnvaelon Narkerym, Elven Magus of Sladora.

The Landless King

I’ve started a new Pathfinder campaign of late called The Landless King. It’s a custom campaign set in the homebrew setting of Kalredia, crafted by Zarkon, the Game Master. The first session was inspiring, and with the encouragement of Zarkon, each player is to keep an in-character journal for the game.

I will be posting mine here, with the tag LandlessKingArnny.

NOTE: My character name is based off the Candlekeep Elven Dictionary, and the Elven name endings found on this Fantasy Name Generator.

Pronunciations

Arnvaelon (Arhn-vay-lon)

Narkerym (Nahr-keh-rim)

[kenimichrow]

NaNoWriMo: Profile Set… Go!

So I have created a profile on NaNoWriMo.org, if anyone else has an account and would like to watch my progress. The link is here: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/kenimich-row.

Unfortunately, if you don’t have an account you can’t see mine. Frustrating, right? Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep you updated here.

First off: I’ve change the title of the Novel to “The Dark Fairy’s Soul” instead of “The Dark Fairy’s Dungeon“, because “Dungeon” seems like it’s giving away the plot now that I’ve written a synopsis for the NaNoWriMo site, and because the “The Dark Fairy’s Dungeon” isn’t a dungeon very much in the story. Hence, a more accurate and less spoiler-ish title. We shall see if it sticks.

Secondly: I now have a synopsis for the book you can all read instead of just a genre! I will post it bellow!

And Thirdly: That’s about all I’ve done. I started on the outline, and then realized I was missing some key details I had painted a very vague brush with in my summary. Then I ended up down a rabbit’s hole, and then a fox’s hole (a Chinese Drama named “The Fox’s Summer” to be exact)…. But now I’m back to the keyboard! And I think I’ve mostly ironed out the previous wrinkles and can get back to the outline!

I realize that by the time I have the outline done, at least half of NaNoWriMo will already be over, but I’m determined that I will participate and that leaves me with two options:

Write over 3,000 words a night in hopes of doing NaNoWriMo in half the time, OR

Be reasonable and just start counting the 30-day period from whatever the first day is and do the 1,700 words a night as normal.

Since this is my first NaNoWriMo, and I want at least a chance of succeeding, I’m going with option 2. I’m make a post about it here when I start the timer, so that you can all hold me to it.

Now, without further ado, I present the synopsis of “The Dark Fairy’s Soul”, as posted on the NaNoWriMo website:

“Never reinforce their prejudices against you.” This is the teaching passed down by the Dark Fairy clan of Sunrose Village, a place where Spirit Magic is regarded as necromantic and evil, and all spirit attuned fairies are dealt with as the same.

Stylus Dark has ingrained these words on his heart, and lived his life accordingly. So when a soulstone is delivered to his door by his Raven companion, he sets out to free the soul trapped within – without anyone being aware he was ever in possession of such an artifact. There is one catch, however: Stylus doesn’t know anything about the magic surrounding soulstones.

A mysterious connection letting him speak to the soul inside strengthens his resolve to figure it all out, until he makes a discovery that will tempt him down the road of a true Dark Fairy. When the stakes are everyone he’s ever known versus a single trapped soul, will Stylus stick to his mores, or will he transform his friend into a Dungeon to save them all?

[kenimichrow]

NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month 2018

So, it’s been a while. I would like to say that I’ve been hard at work making my novel series into a reality, but I’ve run into some blockers on the conclusion. Combine those blockers with several life changes (new house, new spouse, new job, etc.), and writing has sort of fallen by the wayside.

This doesn’t mean to say I have done nothing. In any spare moment, driving or cleaning, my brain swirls with creative juices. With one direction blocked, it has poured out into other avenues, other stories, and while I may not have had time to work on them either, they have been brewing, to the point I have occasionally been force to write them down in brief.

One such tale erupted from my mind after being exposed to the stimulating muse: Dungeon Born by Dakota Krout. Though the first novel has some repetitive story telling and editing errors, the story itself is addictive, and as I progressed through the novel series, I could tell where the author was getting better and eliminating these flaws. I was thoroughly entranced by the time the third book ended, and immediately pre-ordered the fourth, which was just released on November 3rd.

Waiting on the fourth novel proved frustrating, and all the wonder and excitement generated throughout the novel boiled within me until I couldn’t take it any longer. And so I channeled all that energy into writing a brief summary for a similar novel.

This new tale was similar to Dungeon Born in that it is part of the genre reportedly created by Jeffery Logue called the “Living Dungeon Genre” (I think). However, I have refused to write real fanfiction since my teens, and wanted to make a story of my own in the genre. The only thing I wanted to keep for my story was the idea of the development of a person’s soul into an outrageously powerful dungeon.

So I took this theme and I twisted it, in my own fashion, trying to figure what kind of dungeon story I wanted that was unique from what Dakota Krout had written. I do believe I have succeeded quite well.

As such, when I decided to restart my writing my participating in NaNoWriMo, I figured I would trying turning this story into a novel. Especially since I could restart my creative spark by reading Dungeon Desolation, Dakota Krout’s newest installment which was released on this month.

So this is my declaration of intentions, and notice that step one is complete: I just finished reading Dungeon Desolation, and I can feel the inspiration looking for a way out. Now I just need to channel it into the next step: the book outline.

Wish me luck!

P.S. Just as a note I will be changing the format of my blog to not be so demanding on my time and holding back my ability to focus on other aspects of my writing. But that might be a while. For now, I will focus on NaNoWriMo, and giving updates on my progress.

[kenimichrow]

Me: I came to lay the beast.

Monster: Don´t you mean slay?

Me: *takes a good look at them* I´m definitely sure it´s the first one.

[kenimichrow]

Concept:

A movie where a mostly average dude accidentally stumbles across a valuable magical artifact, which is a key piece of contention in a war between the forces of good and evil. The forces of evil attack his home, and the confused man is nearly killed, but is rescued from certain death by a mysterious, beautiful young woman.

The young woman takes him to a secret hideout, where her father, a wise old wizard, has been secreting away key weapons and artifacts so that the forces of darkness cannot destroy them. The young woman proceeds to get into an argument with her father. Legends tell of a champion of the light, who is destined to rise up and use the tools that they have been hiding to defeat the darkness. The young woman has been training with most of these tools for all of her life, and now, as they have obtained the last artifact, she feels it is imperative that they act. The darkness will come for them. They cannot simply wait for that to happen.

But the wise old wizard rebukes her. She is arrogant to think that she is the legendary champion. Destiny often works in more subtle ways, and destiny has brought to them another option: the random dude she just rescued.

Disgusted, the daughter storms off. The random dude moves to go after her, but the old wizard stops him. His daughter is headstrong, and she is passionate. She wishes to fight, but she must learn patience, and appreciation for other paths in life. The old wizard has had more time to appreciate the paths of fate. The random dude has much potential - though of course, he doubts it and refutes it, baffled but unable to leave for fear of being tracked down by the forces of darkness again.

The next day, the old wizard announces that it is time to begin his training.

The random dude goes through precisely one day of gruelling magical/physical tutelage, and then books it to where the daughter is still brooding by a waterfall. Last night he saw this chick suplex a motorcycle and summon up a wall of fire with her bare hands. Dude is not an idiot. He is not going to match the skills of someone who has spent a lifetime training at this stuff, no matter how sexist her father is. He makes a suggestion - he’ll distract the old man with training montages, while the daughter takes all the mystical artifacts and goes to defeat the forces of darkness. It’s the perfect plan! Even if the forces of darkness are still after them, and they come here, then he and the old wizard can serve as a red herring. Meanwhile, the daughter can do whatever she thinks she needs to do to defeat them!

For about five minutes the daughter waffles, because maybe that is arrogant, to think that she is a legendary hero. She’s been living her whole life with the Wizard of Undermining Women’s Contributions, after all.

But the random really is a good dude, so rather than deciding he must have a Destiny, or explaining that her father is probably just trying to protect her, or asking him to help learn instead, he clasps her shoulder and looks her in the eye and is just like:

“You flip-kicked a truck. Normal people can’t do that. So I’m thinking you deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

The daughter concedes his point. After all, she saw him struggling to carry those two buckets up the hidden mountain, and her dad’s not even making him try to do it with his mind yet.

They go through with the plan. The daughter steals all the artifacts/weapons and then has another ‘fight’ with her father, which prompts him to seal all the locks on the already-empty treasure room. Announcing her intention to go sulk, she then takes the mystical items of destiny and fucks off on an epic quest to defeat the forces of darkness.

Occasionally we cut back to the random dude still training with the old wizard. This is the comic relief portion of the film, featuring various hijinks as the dude tries to keep the wizard from discovering that all the mystical artifacts are gone and that his daughter isn’t still just hanging out by the waterfall or in her room or something. Occasionally the wizard wants to find her to help with the training or because ‘nothing motivates a man like a beautiful woman’, and the dude just has to keep dodging it.

Meanwhile the daughter gets the action hero plotline, recruiting new allies and engaging in dangerous, pitted battles across various harrowing landscapes. She bonds with a love interest and wrestles with the temptation to join the forces of darkness, but ultimately finds her great internal reason to fight, beyond the burning desire to prove herself or meet impossible standards. 

Of course, for the dramatic climax the forces of darkness attack the hidden sanctuary where her father and dude are. The daughter and her allies rush to defend the place, as the old wizard tells random dude to take his daughter and flee, while he holds off the forces of darkness. Random dude finally explains, however, that the old wizard’s daughter has been gone this entire time. And rather than dying in a spectacular last-stand, the old wizard is stumped as his newest pupil helps hold off the attacking forces long enough for the fully-equipped and supplied champions of light, led by the daughter, to arrive and defeat the armies of darkness before the sacred sanctuary is overtaken and destroyed.

Afterwards, the old wizard is shocked at first. But then he nods sagely to himself. Of course, the random dude was the hero after all - if he had not stayed, then surely the sanctuary would have been lost. His actions led the old wizard’s daughter to victory, and surely now that they have been reunited, the random dude will take his rightful place as a champion of the light. And also probably marry the wizard’s daughter, and produce a suitable male heir…

Everyone basically just tunes him out as the random dude and the daughter fistbump, and the dude sags in relief when the daughter explains that he can go home now and then drops like a sack full of gold into his arms to try and compensate him for all the trouble.

~ Fin

[kenimichrow]

Jealousy

It's casual, the telling, A word, a thought, a picture. Its slow, the swelling, A vague idea begins to grow. And in my mind, A chant, a rhyme, My territorialness is bellowing. He's mine. But it must be done, the quelling, For there is no use in yelling. He has done no wrong, So I quietly sing this song, And pretend the comment wasn't felling.

[kenimichrow]

Hi, I am currently trying to come up with a D&D campaign. I have tried several times previously, and all have failed either because I designed them poorly or because of the stupidity of the players (one time a player died meaning that the demon chained to his soul also died in the first episode). I want to base one on MtG with the players being planeswalkers and discovering this halfway through. Thoughts?

An important thing to remember about DMing is your players are not going to follow your exact plans for them 95% of the time. They don’t have your script, and they’ve got a completely different thought process going on for solving the problems you give them. You’ve got to account for that.

Now you could ask your players to change how they play, but past a certain point limitations will have a serious affect on how much fun they’re having. After all they come to the table to play a game, not just experience your story.

So all of that being said, let’s address the example you gave. I can think of a few remedies for having player deaths ruin your campaign and the first and easiest option is to make your players die less. You decide who lives or dies and have the authority to break the rules in favor of the players (or your own favor, while we’re on the subject) once in a while.

That approach definitely lowers the challenge of your game, and that might be whats needed if your players are all new to the game. But if characters dying easily is what you want, then my biggest recommendation would be to not soul link them to any major or important NPCs in the first session. At least wait until they have some levels under their belt and they’re invested in their character and can do more proactively to not die. If and when they get soul linked maybe even give them extra powers to help them facilitate not dying.

Even if your players “get smarter” about playing the game there are always going to be issues with unpredictability. Having one or more backup plans is never a bad thing, but even the best plans leave you having to think on your feet and that is just something you’ll have to learn from experience.

[kenimichrow]

“As It Spreads” by Kenimich Row

The disease of fear, Bringing so many tears, Coninues to spread,

Across the nation. On every station.

Can it be blocked? Is there something we can adopt, As a culture to stop, The contiued spread?

Across the nation. On every station.

Behind every color is a man, Whose fear pushes his hand, If only we could understand,

Across the nation. On every station.

But as a man lies dead, All we can see is red, The mistake was too great, You cannot forgive in hate, As the escalation spreads,

Across the nation. On every station.

Inspired by the events in connection with the deaths of Alton Sterling (7/5/2016), Philando Castile (7/6/2016), and the 5 Police Officers shot in the Dallas Shooting (7/6/2016).

[kenimichrow]

“I Fear...” by Kenimich Row

I fear the man in blue, walking towards my door.

I fear the man whose black, that I’ve never seen before.

The TV shows the violence, The stereotypes fill my head, Will this encounter, End up with me dead?

I fear any resistence, Will cost me my head.

I fear any weakness, will have me shot instead.

The TV shows the violence, The stereotypes fill my head, Will this encounter, End up with me dead?

I fear the words, that I must lawfully say.

I fear the action, that I must now outlay.

The TV shows the violence, The stereotypes fill my head, Will this encounter, End up with me dead?

The gun is drawn, Panic spawns, Now a man is dead.

Inspired by the events in connection with the deaths of Alton Sterling (7/5/2016), Philando Castile (7/6/2016), and the 5 Police Officers shot in the Dallas Shooting (7/6/2016), in particular the video released by Mr. Castile’s finance after the shooting.

[kenimichrow]

No Updates This Week

Due to some family issues of late, I haven't been writing as I should. This week it's all coming to a head, so there will be no updates.

[kenimichrow]

#ThrowdownThursday: GW2 “Tell Me a Story”

This week my guild did an event called "Tell Me a Story", where you had to grab 10 grey drops or karma vendor items and then tell a story with them. My group ended up with these items:

[Pirate Flask]

[8 Broken Lockpicks]

[Vial of Purified Ocean Water]

[Hylek Green Hue Potion]

[Talon]

[Dull Claw]

[Shell]

[Smashed Inquest Capacitor]

[Canon Fuse]

[Dorsal Fin]

Our story (co-wrote by me) was this:

I returned a man his [Pirate Flask] which, in his drunken stupor, had dropped it when he tripped on a [Shell] and a [Dorsal Fin]. In gratitude, he told me a wondrous tale, which ended in where his treasure was. I went to find it, but the inquest attacked me before I reached the island he mentioned, and sunk my boat. I only managed to survive by using a [Smashed Inquest Capacitor] that I pulled off one of the attacker's corpse. When I made land I had to fight creatures with sharp [Talons] and [Dull Claws] until I final came to the chest. It was then I realized I didn't have a key. I ended up with [8 Broken Lockpicks] before giving up and searching nearby. I finally found set of cannons, and one still had a good [Cannon Fuse]. When I blew off the top, what did I find? A [Vial of Purified Ocean Water] and [Hylek Green Hue Potion]. When I confront the pirate about this he becomes excited. He said "NOW I CAN MAKE MORE BOOZE!" I realized everything had been a ruse...

Not my best work, but worked for the challenge. :)

[kenimichrow]

You get to decide where your time goes. You can either spend it moving forward, or you can spend it putting out fires.

Tony Morgan

[kenimichrow]

If you don't write when you don't have time for it, you won't write when you do have time for it.

Katerina Stoykova Klemer

[kenimichrow]

#TipTuesday: Time Management

This week's tip is about something I myself need to work on: Time Management.

If you have any hobbies and a full time job, it can be a bit hard to balance all those things and writing. 8 hours of work, plus the "lunch hour" that's tacked on, and then an hour in traffic both ways eats a good portion of any day. It leaves precious few hours for yourself, and so you have to choose how to spend those hours wisely. Here are a few tips on how use those hours in a way that balance social life and side projects with your writing.

Schedule writing days. Set aside days during the week that you will dedicate to writing. It doesn't have to be the whole evening, but it should consist of more than one hour, in order to give you time to ramp up and get some stuff done. Having a goal for this time can also help increase productivity.

Have a dedicated social day. Mine is typically Saturday, but if you're more religious minded, make it the holy day, since most days of worship involve spending a number of hours with other people. Since you are already with them, you can just continue spending the day visiting. This helps maintain your social life by doing something every week, but keeps it from overwhelming you.

Schedule hobby days. Just like scheduling writing days, schedule a day where you can work on your other projects. Again, this doesn't have to be a whole evening, but enough time to actually get something done, with a goal in mind for the evening.

Keep a notebook and/or voice recorder handy. One way to keep writing, even when you don't have much time for it, is to scribble things down in those moments you do have to yourself, even if it's just a few minutes. These also come in handy when you have a sudden burst of inspiration and need to jot down or record an idea.

Write on your lunch hour, or simply daydream about the story. Any time you have to yourself can be used as an opportunity to write. Daydreaming about the story can be useful to work through problem areas, but make sure you have something to write down to final result, or you may forget later.

In the end, the important thing is to make time for writing, as well as your other hobbies. Look at your life, and find all those little moments that you can fill in, or simply organize your life to make space.

If even with all of this, you can't find time to write, you may need to think about what your priorities are. It's not a crime if writing isn't one of them, there are more important things in life. However, if you want writing to be a priority, then you may need to cut something else out.

[kenimichrow]

The pick-me-up we all need. I came across this, and fell in love. 

[kenimichrow]

#TipTuesday: Constructive Criticism

"Your harshest critic is always going to be yourself. Don't ignore that critic but don't give it more attention than it deserves."

- Michael Ian Black

One of the greatest skills any writer can have is being their own constructive critic. This is a skill acquired over a long period of time, however, as it's hard to separate the constructive criticism from simple doubts. It can be even worse when coming from someone else, since outside voices often have more legitimacy than our own worries, or legitimize our inner  misgivings.

As such, today's #TipTuesday will cover how to give good constructive criticism (to both yourself and others), and how to weed out what criticism needs to be ignored.

Good Constructive Criticism

The word constructive means "helping to develop or improve something" (Merriam-Webster). As such, constructive criticism is only useful if it helps improve the story or writer's ability. To accomplish this, criticism needs to have the following qualities.

Brief and succinct, with a clear start and a finish; not endless. People can get confused if you carry on too long and become disoriented. If this happens, the criticism loses all value.

Relevant and to the point. If the criticism has nothing to do with the topic of discussion, then it simply becomes a distraction. It can pull people off-topic and then the matter that needed the criticism may never be examined again. Non-relevant criticism is also often received poorly or ignored, as the recipient is uninterested in criticism in that area.

Clear, specific and precise, not vague. Vague criticism helps no one. At best, it typically will frustrate the author and make them depressed since they don't know what to work on. At worst the criticism is considered pure meanness or ignorance and discredits the critic.

Well-researched, not based on hear-say or speculative thought. Speculative thought only leads the author off into rabbit holes that ultimately fix nothing and wastes time.

Sincere and positively intended, not malicious. This should go without saying, but has been said anyways.

Articulate, persuasive and actionable, so that the recipient can both understand the criticism and be motivated to act on the message. "Actionable" often includes suggested solutions, or clues to finding solutions.

(Above items taken and edited from Wikipedia's article on Criticism)

Constructive Criticism Template

The above rules can be hard to implement sometimes, however, and so having a good pattern to use when first working on being constructive with criticism helps. I recently read an article on Jane Friedman's website about writing groups and giving good constructive criticism. In the article, Jane Friedman references Ed Catmull's "Good Notes" principle:

Truly candid feedback is the only way to ensure excellence. When giving notes, be sure to include:

What is Wrong

What is Missing

What Isn’t Clear

What Doesn’t Make Sense

A good note is specific. A good note does not make demands. Most of all, a good note inspires.

These questions are a good baseline to use when trying to generate constructive criticism. If you are struggling to fill to answer a question, however, then don't. While constructive criticism is helpful, it is only helpful when needed. If you have a hard time finding something to criticize, then the piece may not need it.

Bad Constructive Criticism

Even if your criticism meets the above criteria, it can still be considered detrimental if it falls into some of the following pitfalls.

Criticizes the writer, and not the work. No one needs or wants a personal attack, even if you truly think the problem is the person themselves. Instead, focus on the behavior that is causing the problem than the person. This will be generally better received.

Phrased poorly. If criticism is phrased in a way that it can be taken as a personal attack or simple insult to the work, it will be ignored. A good rule of thumb to avoid this is to try and put yourself in the other person's shoes.

Happens to be inappropriate. Certain social circumstances may make the criticism inappropriate, such as in front of a large group when the author is trying to sell their book. Instead, in the example situation, it might be more appropriate to give the criticism in private away from the audience.

Criticism to Ignore

Any criticism that doesn't help often becomes detrimental. It can waste time and effort, or just give fuel to inner demons. If the criticism doesn't help you identify and work on a problem, then it is usually safe to ignore it and move on with your writing. If you work consistently at your craft, and continue to strive to be better (and are open to good constructive criticism) then you will most likely overcome whatever problem the bad criticism was focusing on.

If the criticism really bugs you, then try to pin down exactly what the critic means. If you feel like you hit a dead end, however, don't be afraid to ignore it even if that critic is yourself.