Under a warm noon sun, Lowtide Mansion is more awkward than intimidating, a gothic structure with the moody style of a past age. Colgrevance gathers his raiders, four familiar and one fresh.
“We’ve rested, recovered, regrouped.” Colgrevance pats the top of a little blue man’s head. “And now we are informed. For those that don’t know, this is Kiv.”
“Kriv,” says the thigh-high man. “And, oh wow, can I tell you about vampires. They don’t like garlic, mirrors, running water, or puns done by miss-stake.”
Bodies bleed. Some moan, most breathe, all are dressed in finery.
Colgrevance crouches over Beorn. A matching pair of shortswords stick out of the warrior’s gut. Blood leaks out like the sap of a tapped maple tree.
Clapping his gauntlets together, Colgrevance says in Celestial, “Stable.” The silver metal encasing his hands flickers a light green, and he uses its minor enchantment to stall the bulky half-elf’s bleed and ease his gasps.
“Sorry, I froze,” says Colgrevance. “I’ve never been caught by a hypnotic rune before.”
The massive estate rises above the slums of Titantale city, a noble fortress guarding against the encroaching forest of leaning shacks and failing masonry. A light rain, steady throughout the night, has made knuckle-deep canals out of the alleyways leading to the mansion.
Moving too slow to splash, Colgrevance steps to where his alley meets street. He sniffles and settles a hood over his lantern before placing it in front of a crouching bald man wearing simple clothes.
“Jacob.” Colgrevance shifts his shield from back to forearm and broadsword from hip to hand. “Are you feeling heroic?”
The full-body armor is simple as diamond. No horns or decorative swirls distract from its function. It exists to protect, not to entertain.
Colgrevance wipes gore out of a groove in his greaves. A bandmate splattered zombie on him the day before, and it’s taken the paladin all night to clean the cursed ichor from his gear.
He yawns, mouth staying open as his head bobs. “Wish I had a proper squire.”
A guardswoman pops her head into the tavern’s common room. “Sir, there’s three black ships sailing in to dock.”
“How long until dawn?” Colgrevance slips a heavy shield onto his left arm and picks up a longsword with his right. “How close are the ships?”
Shouts echo outside.
“Minutes until light.” She fingers her spear. “And the ships are here.”
As a martial art, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu stands apart. It requires live matches as a regular part of training and provides solutions to fights that won’t end in civil lawsuits.
Many physical disciplines have a host of benefits beyond their main focus. Yoga offers more than stretching. Boxing offers more than punching.
Jiu-Jitsu offers a robust package within a playful wrapping and shared by a tight-nit community of old souls.
It is a challenge in time, money, pain, and injury, but for both my son and I, it has been a worthwhile year at Renzo Gracie Academy, Portland.
My current book, Ranger of Path, is based on a role-playing campaign I created and game mastered over a decade ago.
Now it has come full circle, and I’ve created a new campaign based on this book.
Go where the people are.
It’s true with politics, writing, and role-playing. I need to engage people to be successful. Hence, a website is the easiest path to initiate as it utilizes what people already use.
For enjoyment: Only eat a Reaper Pepper mixed into a recipe. Tuna sandwiches and chili both work well.
For a challenge:Eat something first and have stomach medicine on hand. A whole pepper or that One Chip is good for laughs, but there is no good reason to feel heartburn afterwords.
Schadenfreude: My son’s shaky cam
Yuri treasures my tears. This doesn’t make him a monster, but he is a hunter. From nerf gun wars to jiu jitsu I’m setting up outlets for this aggression so he doesn’t skin me in my sleep, and gains self control for school.
My wife and I disagree about him taking joy in another’s agony. Whether a pepper, a choke, or a soft dart in the eye, I take the pain with a father’s pride.
He’s eight and half-way through third grade, and I see more of myself in him every day.
It’s mid-November, the middle of National Novel Writing Month. I am doing my part by putting the final touches on a 117K fantasy novel that I will self-publish no later than early next month.
Writing a fresh rough draft within a month sustained my writer’s mind for a half-dozen years, but I dropped NaNoWriMo when I became serious. The yearly challenge had reinforced a number of bad writing habits because there was no critique.
Yuri at seven is following my footsteps and frustrating everyone, including a much better version of the bullish vice principle that I faced at eight.
Y- “What?”
J- “It’s true; now go back to ignoring me.”
My son’s version is a pragmatic woman that is taking puzzling him out as a challenge with his success her goal.
As wonderful and patient as she and his school is, they need help.
When I was his age…
I doubted the authority of the adult world.
I’d recently moved from Hawaii to Pennsylvania and was facing down a huge vice principle with a stubbornness that he couldn’t process except as a power struggle.
As an only child, I’d developed a fundamental belief in equality and fairness that did not blur with age or system appointed power.
The big man didn’t try to reason with me. He started with a false accusation, because I had to be guilty of something. He was right, but he didn’t know details. So he guessed, but I wouldn’t budge. So he stated a punishment, but I wouldn’t accept it. So he upped the ante and doomed his approach by calling in my mother.
She possessed a bear of a personality he couldn’t match with size or wit, and she made him apologize to me.
I must hook readers with a character. They must care about him/her from the first page if not the first paragraph or even the first letter of the first word.
I
Hmm, too ambitious. How about this:
Ishkur dances for life as his audience stabs and grabs. A spontaneous performance answering an ambush that interrupted the half-elf’s revere.
I’ve written as a hobby for a long time, but now that I’m publishing refining my storytelling has become essential. I can’t get by with Nanowrimo stream of consciousness. This isn’t just therapy anymore; this is business, and I need to get better at it.
My first published book.
Destiny’s Hand hasn’t caught readers’ interest. It’s been hard to see it sit mostly unread, but I am thankful for the lesson.