GAME

The Qunari Strike Back, Chapter One

~ Bon Steele ~ 4 Comments
So, probably NOT keeping the title. But, for now it tickles my geek bone.
Additionally, this is only a snippet from the first chapter. I like this story. I am also writing it in my somewhat-less-than-copious spare time.  

Dragon Age is owned by BioWare, David Gaider, Felicia Day (Tallis) etc. etc. All the characters belong to their respective owners. I’m just making them dance like puppets for my own amusement and yours. So, while the world & characters belong to someone else, the action and story are mine.

 

Chapter One

Miriam Hawke rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable sleeping position. Even through the thick bed hangings, she could hear ice as it smashed against the shutters, thrown by screaming wind. An icy storm had clamped around the city two days ago, disrupting trade and travel. Unless otherwise required, most people huddled in their homes, trying to stay dry and warm. On the upside, when she did go out, far fewer people and random ambushes. On the downside, forced into constant contact with one another, the populace had turned murderously ugly. Tempers – already at the breaking point from recent events – flared violently and often. She figured Aveline would be handling at least a dozen knifings from all over the city tomorrow morning. Even Hightown wasn’t immune to the crazy.

Winter in Kirkwall is definitely a trial. Not as cold as home; not by a longshot. But, the constant damp makes it feel worse than it actually is.

The banshee howl of the wind cranked up another octave. Even from where she huddled under the plush velvet of her comforter, she could hear her dog barking at the storm. The mabari’s deep-voiced baying carried perfectly up the stairs to her chamber. Between the noise and her worry for Anders, sleep was damn near impossible. She’d sent every household blanket that could be spared with him to his clinic. Hopefully, it would make a difference. From within her warm cocoon, she heard the shutters rattle as the wind pummeled them again. A cold draft flowed across her toes.

Wait. My toes?

Hawke scrambled up from under the covers. A pretty elf in green leather armor lounged against one of the wooden posts at the foot of the bed. Firelight picked out copper glints in her dark hair. Wide, guileless gray eyes regarded her with mock-solemnity. Hawke glanced down. A throwing dagger propped up the end of the blanket.

“Hi. Did you miss me?”

Hawke sighed. “Hello, Tallis. You want to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand?”

“For one? I doubt you could. For two? I…umm… I might need your help. Again.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and sat up in the bed, drawing the bedspread firmly around her legs. “Shocking.”

“I promise this time that I will tell you everything right up front.” Tallis sat down on the end of the bed.

Hawke snorted in disbelief.

“Please, just listen to me?”

Hawke dropped her head into her hands. “Varric is going to crucify me. If Anders doesn’t beat him to it. What, Tallis? Why have you broken into my home in the middle of the night, in the middle of a winter storm? What could be so blighted important?”

“I’ve,” Tallis stopped. Her head drooped until she stared mournfully at her own hands. “I’ve left the Qun. My role isn’t ‘Tallis’ anymore. I guess you can just call me ‘Tal’ for now.” A bitter smile crossed her features and was gone. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you what it’s short for.”

“Tal-Vashoth.” Sometimes, only Anders’ pungent phrasing was appropriate. “Andraste’s knicker-weasels! What changed? Last we spoke you were completely dedicated to those bastards.”  Hawke’s stomach soured.  “What have you done?”

Buckshot Delivery

~ Bon Steele ~ 3 Comments

∴ Tomorrow is the day: Dental Mayhem. Halcion + two root canals in my lower canines (1 each) = a very, very nervous me.

Thank goodness for amnesiac drugs.1

 

∴  So, this weekend – particularly Saturday – sucked gangrenous donkey sack. I wish I could say that it someone else’s fault.

Saturday was the day that I have my Philosophy class. This Saturday past, I was in class taking a “quiz” that should have taken me all of thirty minutes to complete.

I, in fact, spent two hours with it and STILL did not get it done. Not even close. I was the only one left in the room, struggling with it. Finally, I just gave up and turned it in. Near tears and pretty much hating myself thoroughly, I went home. I spent the better part of the afternoon sobbing. I had not felt so completely and utterly useless/stupid/worthless in a very long while.

What, you might ask, was this Philosophy quiz over? What was so damn difficult for you? Isn’t there ‘no wrong answer’ in Philosophy?

I have no idea. We hadn’t gotten to the Philosophy portion of the course, yet. Instead, we were covering logic and formal language.

Something like this

These? These are notes taken directly from the board along with an example problem. When this was being explained, I could almost get what was being said. I asked questions, they got answered. And while I was parsing the information that had been told to me – the professor had moved onto another problem, another logic rule.

Don’t get me wrong. I liked my professor. He’s smart, funny, and dedicated to his craft.
I just didn’t grok his teaching style.

 

*SIGH*

I think it’s safe to say that I totally bombed that quiz.

Again – not felt that idiotic in a long while.

 

∴  Sunday was a far superior day. Sunday was game day. I am playing in a DnD 3.5 game. It is light-hearted, silly fun. Totally what I needed after Saturday’s fiasco.
My GM had written to say that we should come to game in costume. I took him at his word. Although, as I said to Mister Man, “He didn’t specify what sort of costume he wanted us to wear.”

You can't see it but I'm wearing a sort of gothy Tank Girl getup.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I felt pretty, the group had a blast and I got home in a fabulous mood. I finished up an essay for Critical Thinking and turned it in. Watched “Heart of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse” for class. Checked on some other grades (5/5 and 5/5 – woot!)

I feel ever so much better, today.

 

∴ — Today is more school and more buses (STANK!) and no eating after midnight and and and.

Today Agenda: Crush my enemies. See them driven before me. And to hear the lamentation of the bibliography. 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

∴  — Yep, I know.
1 – Which is just a horrible thing to say on Valentine’s day. :/
2 – Paraphrasing.  🙂

 

 

The Thane of His Existence: The Game in Story Form

~ Bon Steele ~ 2 Comments

Part One

 

 

ELF

“Well, fuck.” Minozh leaned against the rock wall. Even in the shade, the stone burned through his shirt. His head pounded in heavy counterpoint with his stuttering heart. Impossible colors swirled across his eyes, sickening as they swooped and distorted his vision. Trying to reduce the next day grogginess, he’d halved his dose of Morpheus powders last night. That particular experiment was a spectacular failure. Half a dose meant that you still dreamed. And the sleeping draught ensured that while in the grips of a particularly gruesome nightmare, you couldn’t scream yourself awake. On the plus side, he could tell that that the symptoms were lessening. It was just going to be an extremely long and hard day. In spite of himself, Minozh chuckled. A night of drinking with dwarves produced much the same effect.

“Oy! You lot! Get yer gear together. I’m about to start casting.” Even from 35 feet away, Tim’s voice grated on Minozh’s eardrums. He watched the rest of the camp begin to get ready for the continuation of their journey. The natives, especially that large tattooed fellow, moved quickly about their tasks.

The batras brayed irritation as Galen moved down their row. He was tying blindfolds around their heads. For someone who put on the airs of a green-skinned dandy, he moved with a precise grace. Military training there, Minozh thought. Without realizing he did so, he rubbed a handful of red sand against his left arm, scraping the skin off in shallow arcs. The scars there throbbed and itched.

He pushed himself off the rocks and rose to gather his stuff. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take him very long. He didn’t have much. Eyes still tearing, he made his way back towards the rest of the camp.

 

 

HUMAN

          Tim watched as Minozh made his way back towards the camp. He’d been keeping an eye on his old friend, waiting to see if today was the day he went berserk. What is that silly blighter doing, he wondered when Minozh picked up a handful of the gritty sand. Face dreamy and faraway, Minozh rubbed it against the interwoven scars that twisted around his arm. Tim decided that calling attention to it would only make things worse. To his mage’s sight, those scars glowed with the sullen red and black of tainted magic. The valley elf was close to snapping, he knew. There was only so much sanity to go around Minozh’s head on a good day. The past few weeks had had precious few good days.

“SO!” he boomed. He saw Minozh wince and tried to modulate his tone a bit. “So. I am about to cast a spell; a very handy spell! With sigils and mystic passes, I’ll carve …What is it Shield-Thrust?”

“Just get on with it. Day’s wasting.”

Tim sighed. The taciturn warrior had no appreciation for the subtleties of showmanship. None.  “Right. I’m going to pull down a cloud and carve out a … a, I suppose you could call it one of your ‘windships’ from it. We’ll be able to travel in style and with speed,” he spared a glare for the Thrall, “to the Library of Jalaad.”  He ended his speech with a flourish and a smallish fireball, off to the west. He couldn’t help it.

 

 

CYMRILLIAN

        Galen watched with a cool expression as the old mage began to chant in a high, sonorous voice. Whatever language he was using, it wasn’t one that the Lyceum taught. Neither Archaen nor Elder nor High or Low Talislantan.  Nothing that he recognized. Further, the magic that Tim commanded – powerful illusions, attack and conjuring spells – were nothing that he recognized.

At first, he had thought the old man was a charlatan of some sort. Maybe a Cryptomancer of some kind, using sleight of hand to conceal his magical runes. Time and diligence had shown that whatever the sage was doing – it worked, and often far better than his own magic.

That? Rankled. Galen Faedraught was no one’s inferior. His family’s wealth had always seen to that. The best of everything: clothing, food, women, liquor and yes, magical schooling. Indeed, he had been granted access to the Lyceum on the basis of his family’s largesse. At first, he had attended mainly out of a desire to advance his family’s standing. Magic moved everything in Cymril. As time progressed, he had begun to enjoy the studies. No one had been more surprised than he had been to find that he had a powerful natural aptitude.

The old man had reached a screeching crescendo. As Galen watched bemused, a single cloud pulled itself free from the sky and drifted down to the ground. Bits of it sloughed off on its downward journey, shaping itself into a large boat. Forgetting himself, Galen found that his mouth was hanging open. Just how in the name of all that was holy had that scraggly man done that?

“Astonishing! I don’t believe that I have ever seen anything quite like that in my not inconsiderable travels.” Dar Motas was striding toward the boat, knapsack in hand. “And you say it will hold our weight?” The sandy-skinned savant ran a dubious hand over the misty side of the vessel.

“Oh, yes. Why the power alone in making that spell work…”  Tim was once again cut off by Shield-Thrust.

“Good.”  With a grunt, the burly Thrall hefted his duffel bag and lesser sack of spears over the railing. “Time to go.”

Galen snapped his mouth shut, hoping that no one had noticed his expression. He decided that he and Tim were going to have a talk. That very evening, if he could manage it. He wanted to know just how in Oblivion Tim was able to do the things he could do. He wanted to know if those things could be taught to him.

 

THRALL

        Magic users. Shield-Thrust rolled his eyes. None of them understood what a schedule was. He glanced at the sky. He knew what a cloud in the desert meant, even if these off-worlders didn’t.

“We should get moving. That cloud likely means a storm on the way. Don’t want to get caught in another, do you?”

He watched with no small amusement as they scrambled to get their gear and the animals on board. Guess they didn’t want to tangle with any more storm demons. Good. Neither did he.

“How fast are going to be going? Should our packs be strapped down? What about the batras?”

Tim stroked his graying beard, considering. “Och, I’d strap everything down for sure. We’ll be moving at quite the brisk pace. Wouldn’t hurt to hunker down, yer ownself, come to think on it.” He moved off, still muttering to himself. Shield-Thrust wondered briefly what an “African swallow” might be before shrugging. Didn’t matter.

Once everything was stowed correctly – the young Cymrillian mage was useful there – Shield-Thrust took position toward the rear of the boat. He wanted to keep an eye out for potential danger coming from that direction. The cloud ship slowly lifted off the ground and then hung there for a moment.

“What is the problem?” he shouted from his station.

“Nothing. Just orienting ourselves so that we are headed in the right direction.” Galen called back.

Shouldn’t they have done that before taking off?    Pfft. Magic users.

 

ELF

            At last. Finally, we are making progress. Not long now, whoever you are. Not long until I lock my hands around your throat and tear the life out of you. When you try to scream? I will whisper her name. Over and over and over. You will pay. 

Happier days: Minozh and Eirel