Strike Team - 297 Words

Maj. Williams held her breath and froze briefly as the focused beam of light swept across the rough bark of the Oak she leaned into for cover.  She couldn't feel the harsh surface of the tree, nor the chill of the night through the meshes and laminated plates of her hard suit - thankfully the enclosed helmet meant she didn't have to worry about clouds of breath vapor giving away her position.  Echo location algorithms estimated that the approaching sentries were three hundred feet away, judging from the crunch of gravel under their boots.  The light moved on and darkness returned.  Maj. Williams popped out from behind the tree as the sentries were between strides.  Aiming and firing quickly, she placed the kill shots while they were still off balance.  The only sounds were the near silent mechanical pumping of her pistol as it pushed fresh rounds into the chamber, and the soft shifting of gravel under the bodies of the fallen sentries.  The Major waved the rest of her squad forward, wasting no time.

The squad swept forward along the descending path towards their target.  Valdez and Ortega paused along the way only long enough to kill the lamp packs on the fallen sentries.  The exterior of the entire site was unlit, aside from the lamps carried by the few sentries - which had all been quenched.  The briefing had described the location as a dig site, but, it looked more like the entrance to a bunker to Maj. Williams.  The entrance was nothing more than a set of simple steel doors at the end of a narrow descending road that had been dug into a seemingly random patch of forestland.  Whatever this installation actually was TriSigurius Corporation was trying to keep it off the radar.

2000 Words a Week - Go

After a year and a half it's time to get back at it. 

The plan is to every week and try to get as close to 2000 Words as possible.  Once I manage to hit that limit on a regular basis, then, it's time to up the quality.  It will be Draft Quality, so, read at your own peril!

After the Fall of Arachtballa

Scaalia lifted a small glowing orange piece of iron from the the forge with a pair of tongs.  Turning it over in the air he inspected it carefully before placing it upon the anvil.  His smith's hammer fell upon it rhythmically shaping the tiny piece blow by blow.  After a few moments what had been a small lump of iron was now a four inch nail, satisfied with it's shape Scaalia dunked it in a nearby barrel of cool water where it hissed violently as it took its final shape.  He scavenged another piece of scrap metal and thrust it into the coals of the forge. 

Working the bellows gave his mind time to wander.  When it wasn't bent to the task of shaping metal it constantly returned to the recent news of the fall of Arachtballa; swarmed by thousands of Consumed - Fallen stalking the hallways corrupting the solders within and sending them forth to do their bidding.  It had been less than a handful of months since Scaalia had left the mountain fortress of Arachtballa for the School of Seven Virtues.  Arachtballa had been home for only a short time but it had left its impression on him.  He could still hear the snap of the blue and white pennants in the wind, and smell the freshly baked bread from the bakery across the drill yard from the small forge he'd been assigned to. 

His gaze dropped into the hot glow of the forge as the faces of his former militia unit members haunted his memories; Mullens, Ten-Penny, Connigh, Tarts, Crannagh, Bags, and Mundsie.  Did they made it out? Were they sent to evacuate the civilians?  Were they Consumed and turned against Braemoor and the rest of Armandy like all the other damned souls the Mahori had subverted?  Had they turned upon one another, choosing to end the life of their wounded friends rather see them return as mindless versions of their former selves?  Scaalia could only pray that some of them survived.  He pulled the now glowing iron from the coals and began pounding it into shape, forming the beginnings of a "J" hook.  Simple implements provided the distraction he needed, and were always in demand around the school grounds. 

He hoped that the noise of the hammer would drive the visions from his mind, but it did not.  He could hear fragments of their voices in the ring of the metal; Ten-Penny's long winded explanations, and Tarts' exclamations over discovering something exotic in the pantries.  The voices changed after a while and were replaced with Bags recounting one of his grand escapades, late night at the local pub, with Mundsie's lilting and distinctly feminine laughter and Crannagh's bass rumble of a chuckle accompanying him.  Just when he thought his friends had left him for good he heard Master Smith Connigh speaking to him.  'You're swinging too hard, not so much force.' she said, as she had many times before when they'd been working in the armory.  He focused on his work; she was right.  He had pounded to iron flat, into a useless mass that was rapidly cooling.

Scaalia muttered to himself and quickly dipped the scrap into water to disipate the remaining heat and then dropped the mostly cool iron into the scrap tin for later use.  He made a warding and supplicating gesture with his hands as he left the small forge, "Barmorean give me strength."  Scaalia let the door bang closed behind him.  He shook his head a little, trying to finally rid himself of the phantoms.  He pointed himself towards the Bloody Knave, "Oi, I need a drink."

Review: The Infernal City

Title: The Infernal City: an Elderscrolls Novel
Author: Greg Keyes
Length: 288pgs
Rating: 4 Stars

I am a fan of the Elder Scrolls, I have been since I played "Arena" back in 1994 (on a side note: Elder Scrolls 1 and 2 are available free for download here released on the 10th and 15th anniversaries of the Elder Scrolls) and I had never herd of Greg Keyes.  I understood the potential for how colossally bad this particular book could be.  Typically novels based on video games tend to fall on the shadier side of quality, but at the very least I knew that my fanatacism for the elderscrolls setting would mean that no matter how mediocre the tale might be I would probably enjoy it.  Even if it was terrible, it was only 288 pages.  Who knows, maybe this Greg Keyes was even an published author, if he was, he might even be decent, maybe even pretty good.  So, with that in mind I shelled out the $10 and went on home.

Upon inspecting the inside of the rear cover when I got home, I discovered that Greg Keyes had indeed previously published books, infact he'd even won some presteigious awards; looks like rings are coming up roses.  So, as I was travelling to Massachucetts I settled down with this little ~300 page gem.  I must say, I am thoroughly impressed.  Keyes' style is suprisingly similar to my own (I think) and it made for a very enjoyable read.  Pacing started out slow, which I believe was quite intentional.  He initially dumps the reader into the new political situation since the fall of the Septim Dynasty as well as the cultures and languages of Tamriel but then gives time for you to catch your breath.  He ramps the action up slowly at first, character development follows a similar pace, initially leading you to believe that you're going to read about a bunch of flatly archetypal characters the whole way through and then begins bleeding in more depth as the plot starts to twist and weave. 

Keyes does a brilliant job translating the setting to paper.  He captures the brutal magesty of The Elder Scrolls very well.  Mystical and fantastic while at the same time being brutally honest.  Yes it is a land where there is magic and spells and elves and all that, but yes people die, sometimes they die horribly, and sometimes thats not the worst thing that happens to them.  The new portion of the setting he has created (or at least brought to life), Umbriel, is like a twisted version of Wonderland and he does a wonderful job of making the people inside of it perfectly real yet simultaneously insane.  This is only compounded by dropping an 'Alice' type normal person into this madness.  These people are not silly, loony, insane. They are a very real and disturbing insane.

I was pleasantly suprised by this book.  It was a great read, and there were some passages where I simply could not put it down. 

Missed Deadline

Last weeks deadline was missed though there was something written.  Impromptu Christmas celebration with my "Family by Choice" as they have been called in Massachusetts.  "Apotheosis" is currently about 1200 words and could be posted, but is not yet finished.  It is sort of at an in between state where one could argue that it is finished, but it would be a weak arguement. Also I believe would be a lot stronger with some more time, thus, it will wait and perhaps shall be posted this week.  I am planning to write a short review of "The Infernal Island: An Elderscrolls Novel" this week as well to make up for lack of posting by Sunday.  It's a heavy week at work though, so we'll see what there is time for.

The Darkest of Days

Over and over, fingers worked to fold pieces of twine into concentric circles winding, around a shimmering bead placed in the center of the coil.  Scaalia and his siblings were busy winding the little sun charms that were traditionally crafted by their clan during this time of year.  This year supplies were short and so the charms they crafted were small but no less complex.  Their size was another reminder that the year had been tough and would only get tougher. 

Soon the snows would come in earnest to blanket the Lostwood.  With luck, the hanging of charms and the ritual prayers would remind the Sun of just how much the denizens missed her presence above the wood.  Hopefully after a time their devotions would warm her heart and she would brave the cold once again and emerge from the great cave that she had hidden herself in to melt the snows and warm the land once again.  It would take time, some years it took longer than others but those of the Lostwood knew that nothing with lasting power came quickly.

With this in mind they prepared for the festival on the darkest of days, when all the families of their clan would gather to celebrate.  It would be a day full of feasting and raucous celebration.  There would be a feast to honor the Sun when it was at its brightest to show their appreciation for the day light.  Following that the stories of their ancestors would be told, epic poems of how their clan had come to be.  As the sun set a great bonfire would be set alight to carry on the light of the sun and ward off the dark.  All around it they would dance and with the sound of their drums and voices they would call to the Sun to return to them, return life to the land, and end the harsh cold of winter.  The spirit of the celebration was most important; not the size of the fire, or the roar of the drums, but the love, and the joy of those who danced and sang.  As such the darkest of days was not so dark, and the light would only grow brighter as the year passed on.

Missed Deadline

No Post last week. My Grandmother passed away and I was attending a funeral and comiserating and re-connecting with family members I have not seen in a few years. There will be a post made in the 4 remaining days of this week.