Soulstones Session 1: Anniversary Party

“Howdy, Listener! Good time for you to come to town!” Caherill the Hunter raised his mug as an eagle landed only a few feet away and transformed into a tall, gray-haired and bearded man in dark blue-green robes. In a few years, Caherill might be just as gray, but for now his short hair and beard were only flecked with salt and pepper. Above them, the village of Stump swarmed like an overturned anthill, everyone hard at work with preparations for the anniversary party. “Are you going to join in any of the contests this year? There might be one or two to suit you.”

“That sounds like fun,” a passing traveler piped up. “What are these contests.” Caherill gave the elf a long, leisurely measuring-up. He looked young, but elves generally did. With blue eyes and light brown hair, he wasn't particularly distinctive.

“You look to be a wizard type, am I right?” Caherill hazarded.

“I am merely an apprentice.”

“And what might your name be?”

“Most call me Lucha.”

“Nice to meet you, fellow. Well, one of the most popular contests in Chayo the Alchemist's potion testing, That would probably be right up your alley.” Other recently-arrived strangers were also stopping to take in the conversation. Caherill spied another elf, this one with white hair and wearing a tough's leathers. A small but surprisingly impressive halfling in a suit of armor completed the ensemble.

“Where might I find this Chayo?” Lucha asked, all elven formality. “Could you describe him to me, please?”

Caherill chuckled. “Chayo's a lady! If you head on down toward the inn where the food is, you'll see the big stage she has set up. It's the one with all the potions around it. Otherwise, if the potion-testing doesn't suit, we've got musicians, whopper-telling, wrestling, a sawing contest, archery, the canoe race, and a tree-climbing contest.”

Lucha bowed and walked off down the tunnel, followed by the halfling and, sometime later, the other elf. Caherill was about to make another effort at talking to the reticent druid when he, too, followed the other strangers up the main tunnel and into the stump.

The white-haired elf, whose name was Elendol, watched the crowd with great interest. He spotted a tall, skinny human in tattered wizard's robes stuffing his face and, surreptitiously, his pockets, at one of the tables, and sauntered over. “Hello, friend,” Elendol purred. “What brings you to Stump today? The founding party, I'd wager.”

The skinny human jumped and looked around guiltily. “It's free! It's all free! I'm allowed!” Elendol made a slight face as he realized the human stank of the dung heap.

“Slow down, friend. Just chatting.”

“So? Whaddaya want?”

“I'm just looking to make a friend or two. I'm Elendol. I've come for the party, myself, and I wonder if you could tell me more about the town, here.”

The human swallowed heavily. “I'm Daz. I just work here. The old bat pays me to banish the crap around here so the kobolds don't get angry.”

“Kobolds! Why are we trying to keep them happy?”

Daz shrugged, stuffing another piece of fish in his mouth. “Because otherwise they'll ambush our hunters and stuff? I dunno, I just work here. Ask the old lady.”

“And where would I find this old bat?”

Daz shrugged again. “She lives in the nice house at the top of the stump, but you'll probably see her giving a speech later on in the evening when the contests are over.”

Elendol nodded. “Thanks, Daz, I'll be around. Perhaps we'll meet again.” The elf moved off, but he was arrested by a loud dinging noise coming from inside the nearest, well, it wasn't really a building, as it was carved into the giant ironwood tree stump. It wasn't really a cave. Dwelling? He peeked inside, to see a wrinkled old human peering around short-sightedly and a somewhat impatient halfing trying to get the man's attention from behind an oversized counter. Finally, the halfing gave up on the bell and slammed his mace down on his shield, producing a shattering GONG that shook dust out of the rafters. The old man jumped and looked around the counter.

“Oh, THERE you are! You want a room at the inn? One silver a day.”

The halfling frowned. “Too rich for my blood.”

“Sorry, that's the price!” the old man insisted. “You don't want it, dozens do!”

“Need to find some work,” the halfling muttered.

“Me too,” Elendol said. “What about all these contests? Shall we go take a look?”

“Sure, why not.” The mismatched pair wandered up the platform, past the food stalls, to where a middle-aged woman in a fine, acid-green gown was setting up trays of potions. Lucha the wizard walked up to her and tugged on the sleeve of her gown.

“Eh, who's that? Newcomer? Are you here for my little contest? Well the rules are simple. Each tray has two potions on it. One of them is a minor beneficial potion, the other has some obnoxious side effect. Your job is to figure out which is which and drink down the one you think is the good potion. If it's not, we'll all know about it right away, and you won't advance to the next round!”

The apprentice wizard frowned. “Can I smell the contents and so forth?”

“Certainly. This is a contest of skill, not blind luck.”

“And the cost to enter?”

“There's no entrance fee,” Chayo said. “Or you might complain when you drink the wrong potion and something amusing happens!”

Lucha nodded. “I will participate.” He looked around at the crowd, spotting the human druid, the halfling, and the white-haired elf off to one side, looking out of place in the crowd. “Are you joining, too?”

“Just going to watch,” said the druid. The halfling nodded and the elf grinned.

“Cowards the lot of you! Get in and join the fun!”

Chayo handed Lucha a tray. “Your turn!”

Lucha unstoppered both bottles carefully and examined the contents, his nostrils twitching. He poured out a small sample of the liquid onto his palm and smeared it around with a fingertip, then gingerly tasted it. Then, decisively, he picked up the potion on the left side of the tray and downed it in one gulp. Nothing appeared to happen. The large and rather drunk human standing next to him wasn't so lucky and rushed to the edge of the platform, where he began to vomit explosively, to cheers and catcalls from the crowd. People began calling out bets as Chayo prepared the next round of potions.

“I'll bet twelve silver on the elf,” the druid said, producing the coins. Elendol and the halfling continued watching, wondering if it was just luck.

“Is there a prize?” Lucha asked, examining the two new mystery potions.

“Bet you wish you asked that before you started!” Chayo cackled. “But yes, there's a prize. There are three prizes, actually.”

After a thorough testing, Lucha drank the potion on the right. Again, nothing appeared to happen. A tall, burly woman began to sweat profusely and water vapor began to jet from her mouth, nose, and ears. She passed out on the deck amid loud cheering, and someone tossed a bucket of water over her to cool her off. The bet-taker waved at the druid, but he indicated that he wanted to bet again on the apprentice wizard. One of the other competitors chickened out and withdrew, leaving Lucha alone with a hefty fisherman. Once again, Lucha carefully tested both potions. He seemed to hesitate, lifting first one, then the other, then suddenly grabbed up the first potion again and drinking it down with a slight smirk, a bit of showmanship that the crowd heartily approved. The last remaining potion-taster drank his choice and abruptly turned into a frog, emitting a mighty belch.

“Oh dear, that's not supposed to happen!” Chayo yelled. “Stop that frog! I've got to turn him back!”

The crowd erupted into hysterical laughter as the middle-aged alchemist flapped after the frog.

“My prize?!” Lucha called after her. She waved at the table, where a bright green pointed wizard's hat was sitting.

The druid claimed his winnings and reached out to touch the apprentice wizard's arm. “Well done. Take this, you earned it.” He held out a small pile of silver.

“Thank you!” Lucha said. “We should try another contest!”

“I believe the tree-climbing is next,” the druid said. “I am known as Listens to Greenlings.”

“Pleased to meet you, Listens. I'm Lucha.”

The tree-climbing was some distance outside of town, so the strangers hopped the ferry. Rogus the orc was presiding. Some heavy betting was already underway. The druid handed his silver cheerfully to the nearest bookie, walked up to the line of tall trees, and turned into a chimpanzee.

“Is that cheating?” Rogus asked. He frowned. “There isn't any rule against it.”

“I ain't giving you any better odds than 1:2!” the book-maker yelled.

“You should have waited until after they had the bets finalized,” Elendol said.

“That would be cheating,” Listens declared. The competitors lined up and Rogus beat the starting drum. Moving with lazy ease, the chimpanzee nee druid sauntered up the tree and reached the top well ahead of the other laboring competitors. At the top, he transformed into an eagle and flew down to the ground.

“Nice job,” Rogus said, handing the druid a pair of sturdy boots.

“Those are magic,” Lucha said.

“Oh, what do they do?” Listens asked.

“An enchantment of athletic skill. You'll love them.”

They returned to the village, where the musicians were setting up a stage for the next context. The halfling surveyed the instruments and selected a drum, beginning to warm up enthusiastically.

“He sounds good,” Listens remarked, trying to evaluate the competition over the increasing din. “I'll bet eighteen silver on him.”

The contest began and the halfling tossed off a simple rhythm, growing more and more complex, faster and faster, interweaving complex series of tones. Competitor after competitor washed out. The betting rose to a fever pitch and then . . . disaster. The drumstick shot out of the halfling's left hand and flew across the stage, nailing a flautist square in the nose. Her off-key wail brought the jam session to an abrupt halt. The halfling retired in ignominy, having just missed winning a prize.

Lucha and Listens to Greenlings compared notes. “How much did you lose?” Lucha said, wincing at the druid's all-or-nothing betting style.

“108 silver.”

“Ouch. That's a lot.”

The druid shrugged. “Easy come, easy go. Looks like I'll be watching now.”

“Was that ALL of your money?” Lucha asked.

“Yes, but don't concern yourself, I won't starve.”

“Still.”

The next contest, after the musicians hand been shooed offstage, was the infamous swamp tradition of whopper-telling. Elendol stepped forward and bet five silver on . . . himself.

“You're entering?” Lucha asked, presuming on their mutual elfistry.

“Sure.”

“What story are you going to tell?”

“Watch and find out.”

After considering for a moment, Lucha ventured 10 silver on the white-haired elf, who spun a fanciful tale of a one-legged Orc and a dragon-kicking competition that was well-received by the crowd. “Nice job,” Lucha said as they collected their winnings.

“Competition's heating up,” Elendol said. “I need a better idea for the next one. Say, what do you know about this area? Any juicy history? Big rivalries? Maybe they hate the next town over?”

“Oh, nothing like that,” Lucha said. A human who looked to be roughly eight million years old finished his story of a tornado that drained the swamp and rained frogs and fishes all over a society wedding. “About the only thing I can think of is that they really dislike the Mincor family around here, since the Mincors control the Ironwood franchise in Polis.”

“Human politics. Still, I can work with that.” Elendol sauntered forward to take his turn and produced a raunchy yarn about a Mincor heiress who discovered a little too late that her new husband was a cannibal kobold with a ring of shapechanging. The crowd laughed themselves sick, and when he concluded it took several minutes for them to settle down enough that the next tale-teller could be heard. Elendol took advantage of the distraction to canvass the crowd for his most enthusiastic new supporters and elicit their assistance in padding out his bets. The disgruntled book-maker wanted to give lower odds, but complaints from several burly gentlemen and ladies turned the negotiations. With a sour look, the man accepted Elendol's new bet.

“That was quite clever,” Listens said. Lucha bet twenty silver. It was more than he wanted to lose, but the odds looked pretty good. Elendol's final tale of the wizard who drilled himself into the ground trying to chase a magical tower that kept teleporting behind him received tremendous applause, and he was declared the winner by acclaim. Iddelendo the Factor handed him the prize, a fine hat with a showy peacock-blue plume.

“It's magical,” Lucha told him.

“I figured,” Elendol said, spinning the hat once on his fingertip and then donning it with a flourish.

The visitors wandered over to the next context, which proved to be wrestling. A big burly human who appeared to be Rundell the popular champion stood on the platform, naked to the waist and flexing for the crowd. The bets were flying fast and furious, and they could only shake their heads ruefully over the odds. The champion was favored at 5:1, practically a sure thing.

“I'm going to enter,” said the halfling.

“YOU are?” Lucha asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, you're . . . you're on the small size.” The halfling shrugged. “What's your name?”

“People call me Herald Crash.”

“Well, I suppose you know best.”

“Since I have no coin to bet, I may as well enter, myself,” Listens the Druid said.

“I'd bet on you,” Lucha told him.

The druid didn't have long to wait, he was called first to contest a tall, athletic trapper. It appeared that the point of the contest was to push your opponent over the side of the platform, where they'd fall into the swamp water. The trapper readied for the bell, and Listens transformed into a gorilla. Moments later, the trapper was in the drink and Lucha was collecting his winnings. Next up was Herald, who moved quickly and expertly, but nevertheless managed to get snagged by his opponent and catapulted into the air. Rundell flipped his opponent effortlessly into the water, to enthusiastic cheers. Then Listens was up again. After several moments of intense struggle with neither of them able to gain an advantage, his opponent tripped over his own feet and went over the side. A hush fell as Listens squared up against Rundell, who grinned—or bared his teeth, it was difficult to tell—and lunged forward, nearly ending the contest in one pass. Then Listens transformed into a massive bear, grabbed Rundell around the waist, and gave a mighty heave. The startled fighter yowled as he plummeted.

The crowd hooted and jeered and the book-maker cursed as he dug deep to pay off Lucha's substantial bet, leaving the elf with a respectable chunk of mixed gold and silver. Elendol shook his head quietly. “Look there, see that elven fellow? And the orc? They aren't happy with this outcome. Not happy at all.” The pair that Elendol indicated climbed down to the dock platform to help Rundell out of the water, and the three of them conferred, shooting the occasional dark glance in the direction of the visitors.

Herald Crash dried off and began looking around for the next context, which proved to be the sawing competition. The two-man teams were warming up. Herald surveyed the other visitors. “Anyone want to join me?”

“Do you think you might actually have a chance?” Lucha asked. “You're a bit . . . short.”

“Sure. I just need a partner.”

“I can do that,” Listens said, and turned into a baboon, just about the same size as Herald. They had a few practice swings, getting the rhythm, and then the contest judge called for the teams to be ready. At the starting whistle, the little bard and the druid set to with a will, raising a cloud of sawdust and, as they worked faster and faster, the smell of smoke. “Careful!” the judge yelled, but Herald refused to stop. “HANG ON, BABOON!” he shouted. When the whistle blew again, they'd sawed down the entire length of the log, and were awarded the coveted pair of magical bracers.

“Whew!” Herald said, offering the bracers to Listens, who declined. “What's next?”

“Archery, it looks like.” Rundell and his two friends were lined up, and from the sound of the betting his elven friend was highly favored to win.

Herald frowned. “There's something really off about that elf. I'm going to sit this one out. He might hold a grudge if we won. I'd rather see if one of you want to do the canoe race. If I can pull a saw, I can pull an oar.”

Lucha and Elendol placed modest bets on Thaon the elf, and were rewarded with equally modest winnings as he made a clean sweep of the archery, winning a handsome ironwood bow. Lucha approached him and offered part of the winnings as a reward for his performance. Thaon scowled, but Rundell happily accepted and gave the apprentice wizard a clout on the shoulder that nearly knocked him off his feet. “No hard feelings, let's have a drink later, sport!” The three local friends retired to the drink and food, leaving the visitors to wander down to the canoe race, the final event of the night.

Halfling and chimpanzee paddled furiously, circumnavigating the great ironwood stump, raising an impressive wake for a canoe. They got so far ahead that they rounded the curve and came up behind their opponents and passed them before they reached the finish line, a floating platform.

“Oh, well done!” the judge said, and awarded them the prize—a beautifully crafted ironwood war canoe, capable of seating six people and a quantity of gear. After stowing it at the docks, the visitors headed up to the party, where a vast quantity of food and drink was consumed late into the night. Stuffed as full as they could hold, they staggered back to the inn and got a room together to save cash.

The morning dawned bright and sunny, and the visitors wandered down to the taproom to see Rundell sitting at a table with his two friends and a tall, richly-dressed stranger with bright gold skin, hair, and eyes. He grinned at the visitors, revealing sharp teeth, and gestured for them to come over.

“Well, hello there! I hear you all were big winners in yesterday's festivities.” Rundell also nodded in greeting, but Thaon and the orc, who was called Enthir, merely glared.

“Yep, got a canoe,” Herald Crash said.

“I cheated a bit, but came away broke and it was all in good fun,” Listens said.

Elendol nodded. “I'm sure there are others who did better, you guys have some real skill. We got lucky.”

“I'm Prandwas, by the way. If you're broke, it might just be that I can help with that situation, if you're interested.”

“I guess a little extra wouldn't hurt!” Rundell said with forced joviality. Herald Crash regarded the human silently. He wondered what discussion had already gone on. Listens nudged the halfling and drew his attention to Leeta the barmaid, who was serving breakfast while staying as far as physically possible from Rundell and friends. Rundell seemed inclined to flirt with her, but she shrank away, avoiding a pinch, and hurried into the kitchen.

“There are some nasty rumors about these guys,” Elendol muttered while the visitors were pulling out chairs and seating themselves. “I heard some of them last night while everyone was getting boozed up.”

“So,” Prandwas said, after they were sitting down, “you folks familiar with the Adventurers' Guild?”

“Of course!” Rundell replied immediately, pushing himself forward. Prandwas eyed him but didn't seem that interested.

“Well, I got a tip that a party from the Guild came down here to this swamp . . . and they've all gone missing. The reward for recovering their stones would be . . . substantial.”

“Gotcha,” Herald Crash replied. “So, if we accept whatever you're planning to offer, I assume you'll tell us what they were sent here after? And are you hiring both teams or just one team?”

“I was planning to leave that up to you. I don't know what they were sent for. I realize this is all a bit of a long shot, but I think it's worth the risk.”

Crash looked at the team of visitors.

“I have no pressing plans, just a princess to save next month, but I might as well fill my time till then,” Elendol said. The other two nodded.

“So, our team is a go, but we're going to need some more information.”

Thaon leaned over and whispered in Rundell's ear, and the three of them stood up, looking thunderous. “I think we've got better things to do,” he said, and they left the inn.

“All right, spill it,” Lucha said after they were gone. “What do you want from us, and what killed everyone else?”

Prandwas shrugged eloquently. “As I said, I purely don't know. Maybe they were stupid. These swamps have a nasty reputation. All I know is, this is a shot to get in the Guild's good books, and I want it.”

“None of us have soulstones,” Herald Crash said. “If it's that dangerous, we'd be risking our lives. Why don't you just run along and fetch them yourself?”

Prandwas grinned. “Let's just say that swamps aren't really my thing, and I wouldn't be adverse to taking a vacation while you use my tip and we split the proceeds. From what I know, there were seven in the party that came this way, so that seems like a nice reward to split. If you're willing to take the risk, I've got 150 gold I can th row into the pot, and a wand that will enable you to locate the stones.”

“I assume that once we return the stones, the Guild will pay all five of us? So, we can do 80/20 since we're doing all the hard work.”

Prandwas frowned. “I was thinking more you get the cash for four of the stones—minus what I'd already paid you--and I'd get the other three. Assuming you recover all of them, of course.”

“What kind of a reward are we talking about,” Lucha asked.

“I don't know, but the Guild's rich as dragons.”

“That doesn't sound fair to you, friend,” Herald said. “If we only find four, then you don't really get a profit. We would have to find at least five.”

“You were just complaining the deal wasn't much in your favor,” Prandwas said. “I'm willing to take that risk if it doesn't mean ruining my wardrobe in some mosquito-infested pit. If I guarantee you get the proceeds from the first four no matter what—assuming you find any, of course—that sound fair to you?”

“Let's say the first five go to our team. The last two will go to you.”

“Deal.”

Elendol plumped down in his chair and everyone jumped, having not realized he was gone. He gave everyone a bland look as Prandwas produced a bag of gold and the promised wand. “A friend of mine made this for me. She's an artificer at the Guild, but she's not up to this kind of long journey.”

“Have you already used a charge to get a general direction? We have a canoe, but may need more depending on how far it is.”

“The range on it isn't THAT big. You'd need to actually travel into the swamp for it to have a chance of working. I'm sure you'll figure it out.” Prandwas headed back to his room. Elendol pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flipped it onto the table.

“Read that,” he said.

Pran,

The Guild is so eager to get those lost fools back that they're offering to attune a Soulstone to a new adventurer for each one you can retrieve. Needless to say, we'll all be extremely disappointed if you don't make this work out for us. DON'T get distracted this time. The girls in that muddy pit can't be worth losing this reward.

Yezmin

“Well, that's certainly interesting,” Crash said after everyone had looked it over.

The 25% Rule

So, this is just thinking out loud, but maybe it has some potential.  There's a problem with platforms like YouTube with big content owners spamming small creators with takedown orders for trivial reasons and the small creators simply don't have any ready means of resisting this abuse.  They don't have the resources to fight back effectively.

So, what if platforms like that instituted what I call "the 25% rule", meaning that to issue a claim against someone, their channel has to be AT LEAST 25% as big as yours.  (In terms of subscribers or followers or whatever metric for "bigness" the platform uses.)  Because, seriously, that guy with 200 subscribers is no conceivable threat to Sony or Nintendo and a frivolous claim may create a serious injury to the little guy.  But, if someone really is stealing a threatening amount of your content and making bank from it, they've GOT to be AT LEAST 25% as big as you are.

This would secure nobodies from harassment while still giving content creators of any size the freedom to protect themselves from actually damaging theft.

Now, why do this at all?  Because big content producers harassing small fry is actually a BIG PROBLEM.  And it's endemic, too. Something like 80% of new patent claims filed are filed by companies that *don't actually make any products*.  Their entire business model is just to acquire patents and make claims.  This is looting of the productive and creative by the nonproductive and noncreative.  Platforms need to stop enabling this crap.

Taboo: 10 Facts You Can't Talk About

So, Regnery Press sent me a free copy of this book by Wilfred Reilly (don't ask me why, I'm no influencer) for me to read and hopefully review.  Overall, I'd say it's worth taking a look at, but it doesn't tread a lot of ground that hasn't been covered by, say, Thomas Sowell or Walter Williams or others.  However, it has the advantage of being more up-to-date and giving a lot of interesting statistical information.

These ideas are not merely economic in scope, but rather tackle common social narratives from a statistical point of view in an effort to get an accurate overview instead of an emotional one.

It starts well, introducing its subject:

"Tackling taboos is difficult, but necessary. Very often--MOST often--they are used not to shield strong and valid ideas from pointless attacks, but rather to protect weak ones from worthwhile criticism. The censor tends not to be an individual fully confident he is right, but rather one who is terrified to the core that he is wrong. Only by ignoring the censor's taboos and beginning to speak can we challenge bad ideas, overcome them, and replace them with better ones."

Taboo #1 (I don't intend to list them all) is "The police aren't murdering black people".  According to Reilly, "The argument that Blacks are being murdered essentially at will by rogue cops--and white vigilantes, but more about that later--is made astonishingly often by serious people."  I have seen this claim, myself, and I have friends who have had regular unpleasant confrontations with cops, but I don't think their anecdotes are any more statistical than mine.  The sad truth that Reilly highlights is that criminal behavior really is distributed differently across groups.  He cites a particular study by Roland G. Fryer, the youngest African-American ever to receive tenure at Harvard, who found that "there are no racial differences in [rate of] officer-involved shootings." and with the relevant variables controlled for (demographics like age), found that " Blacks were 27.4 percent less likely to be shot at by police relative to non-Black, non-Hispanics".

The research here really is stellar, and it's good to have a very straightforward look at these hot-button issues that Reilly believes are so buried in the narrative that they have become "taboo".  However, Reilly shows an unfortunate lack of a principled approach to applying solutions for issues, which becomes especially apparent in the section on immigration, throwing out, as a sort of climax, this notion: "Nations must have the right to choose who their citizens are".  It's not further discussed, as if this was uncontroversial.

The number of collectivist premises hiding behind that apparently innocuous notion staggered me.  Firstly, it outright places the "nation" as the primary actor and decision-maker, as if people exist to serve the nation instead of the nation existing as an organization for the benefit of *people*.  What about individual rights?  And who decides what "the nation" chooses?  You can't walk down to Washington D.C. and talk to "the nation".  Are the majority equal to "the nation"?  What about the other 49% of the populace, then?  And, that aside (as if it's not bad enough), what would this mean in practice?  That the nation can toss out citizens at will?  Where will they go, then?  If the nation can disown you at will, what are you supposed to do?  I can't think of anything more guaranteed to create a perpetual extra-legal underclass.

Statistics are all well and good, but they don't serve you if you forget that people are, first and foremost, individuals.

Why I'm Tired of Hearing About Empathy

There are few things more omnipresent in modern culture than calls for empathy.  It is everywhere, as if it were the panacea of the modern age.  Empathy is held up as a cure for social problems, family problems, health problems, environmental problems, energy problems, the list is virtually endless.  Whenever someone does something unspeakable, the cause is always construed as a lack of empathy.  Whenever someone does something virtuous, they're praised for their empathy.  It's long past the point of bromide and is edging on toward banality.

And, like all quack nostrums and cure-alls, it doesn't do what is promised.  Not even close.

Before I get in to the reasons why I'm fed up with empathy, I'm going to tell you a little bit about me, but in return I want you to do something.  I want you read this and NOT empathize.  Don't even try, in fact, try as hard as you can NOT to empathize, just read the words like you're studying some detached facts about a distant stranger.  If you prize empathy, you're going to find this difficult, but it's important that you at least try, because while this story is important context it is not the point, and if you can't turn your empathy off for five minutes you're going to miss that point completely.  Here we go.

My entire life has been hideously colored by a bad case of emotions gone wrong, of chronic depression, anxiety, self-loathing, dread, and self-inflicted misery.  I consider it to be a very good week, indeed, if I make it through without thinking about the best way to commit suicide, and all the very many ways that I'm constantly letting people down.  I struggle to find a reason--not reasons, mind you, a, singular, reason--to care about whether I'm alive tomorrow or not.  I'm currently dealing with serious swelling and infection in my leg that I've had now for over a year.  Everyone I know yells at me to go see a doctor, but I haven't yet managed to get so far as making an appointment.  I've been like this since I was eleven, possibly long before that.  I've never been a happy person.  Mostly, I'm uncomfortable, frustrated, impatient, incredulous, or downright enraged.  I hate how slow, stupid, awkward, and incapable I am at every moment of every day. 

When I was eleven, I saw a movie about the end of the world called The Seventh Sign. It wasn't a particularly memorable movie, but something about that concept of the world ending lodged in my mind.  It sat there, a solid mass, like a black hole so dense that not even light could escape.  And it proceeded to eat my life.  The cobbled-together elements of my identity, my interests, loves, motivation, goals, all vanished, never to be seen again.  I became a scavenger picking through wreckage, struggling to hold together against a relentless pull.

Yeah, it was bad.  Still is, in a lot of ways.  I learned to cope, but the way I learned to cope involved a lot of bad habits that I now also have to fight.  But I also learned something else that's relevant here--I learned that one of the worst things I had to endure wasn't my own personal black hole. It was other people's empathy.

Empathy is no panacea.  It's not a cure for anything, much less everything.  It's just a feeling--the feeling that you're sharing in what I'm feeling.  It's an emotional reaction, and like all emotional reactions it can be a terrible, terrible, liar, but because everyone and everything around you is telling you it's a good thing to feel, you don't judge it.  You don't think about it.  You just wallow in it.  Empathy allows people to indulge in the most useless, self-indulgent, and non-productive emotions and feel good about themselves for doing so.  It's not helpful; it's self-centered.  It doesn't make you more conscious of other people.  It makes you oblivious to them, for the simple reason that you CAN'T feel their emotions.  The only way to truly understand another person's problems is intellectually, not emotionally--to engage your brain, not your feels.  I can sit here and describe my emotional struggles until the end of time, but you will never actually feel what I feel.  I don't want you to feel what I feel, heck, I don't want to feel it, myself!  It's terrible, it's not productive, it's a black hole.  I don't need you in here with me.  I need you out there, with some clarity, some perspective, some distance.

Empathy has its place, but that place is at the age of three or so when your mother is trying to get you to stop hitting your sister.  Children that age are just starting to understand the difference between themselves and other people, who are not yet fully real to them.  Empathy relates the reactions of others back to the child in a way that the child can grasp--by drawing on the self as a model.  It is the beginning, not the end, of social development, a starting point where you can gather information that is later used as a foundation for abstraction.  Without abstraction, you're stuck with only the concrete of the moment.  Only as much information as you can fit into your attention at one time.  As Joseph Stalin famously stated it, "A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic."  No one can deal emotionally, from empathy, with a million deaths, any more than you can mentally picture ten thousand miles or a billion stars.  It blows out every human faculty but one--the intellectual faculty.

This cultural obsession with empathy is a case of arrested development, where people focus on one concrete after another but are absolutely helpless to deal with complex abstractions.  It's a world where virtue (an enormous abstraction) is increasingly being replaced with virtue-signaling (a concrete).  It is, weirdly, increasingly a world where people gush about how much they feel for others and care for others while simultaneously being unable to truly grasp how others might truly be completely different.  A world that celebrates every kind of "diversity" except one, the one that makes us truly human--diversity of thought.

It's time to stop wallowing.

Anthem Next -- What would get me to give it another go?

I think I was one of the relatively few people I know who wasn't especially disappointed with Anthem.  I went in to it with the expectation that it would be something new to play for a couple of weeks while I got a break from other things, and that's *exactly* what it was.

The trouble is that from Bioware and EA's perspective, they weren't trying to MAKE a game that'd be an enjoyable distraction for a couple of weeks.  The amount of money and time they invested were not appropriate to that type of game.  So, now they're talking about a ground-up reboot called "Anthem Next" to try and turn Anthem into the game they wanted it to be.

So, what would it take to get me, the most benevolent and un-disappointed of players, back to play Anthem again?  Here's MY take:

1.  Free-Exploring the map was probably the ONLY part of the experience that was unadulterated fun, however from an exploration perspective the map is TINY.  So, step one of this would be to vastly increase the size of the map, making it as much bigger as conceivably possible.  Making it much more dynamic would be a big thing, as well.  If my beloved Dungeons and Dragons Online on their tiny budget can figure out how to make the PUBLIC AREAS in their MMO have dynamic elements, you can do it.  And, this dynamic freeplay environment actually made playing with other people ENJOYABLE, as opposed to the missions, which were a mess every time even if people were making an effort to cooperate (which most simply did not).  Also, fill the map with constantly-changing terrain dangers.

2.  The "story" stuff was unbelievably expensive garbage.  Considering how immensely expensive all those cut scenes had to be to create, they added nothing to the gameplay experience whatsoever, and actively detracted from it if you wanted to play with other people, because you'd be constantly revisiting missions that had story bits in them, but completely out of any order or context.  If you want a game where people actually play together, enable the players to ACTUALLY COMMUNICATE WITH EACH OTHER.  The idea of a LINEAR story is COMPLETELY OPPOSED to online multiplayer gaming with strangers and *cannot* be integrated with it.  It also has the tremendous fault that you "run out" of content to do because it's all locked behind story that you're not allowed to repeat unless someone in your group is doing it for the first time.  It was especially bad because all of the story was written as if your character was a SINGULAR hero, instead of a member of a TEAM.  So, step two is to throw out the pretensions to story, de-linearize everything.  Ideally, this would integrate with the massive free-roaming map.  There are already quasi-dynamic map events and "dungeons" all over the place.  Expand these, HUGELY, and add such a high degree of randomness that you can play for a very long time and not see all the possible permutations.

3.  Does this mean dumping all story from the game?  No.  You just need to make it non-linear and individualized.  How do you do that?  By turning the story into a COLLECTION, namely, a collection of PEOPLE.  They don't SET you on tasks by giving you defined quests.  You QUEST, and you do things like rescue people who HAPPEN to be there, and add them to your "stable" of people you know.  Then you can bring them things to advance your relationship with them, like weapons, crafting materials, explored map sections, etc.  The idea is that the stuff you do anyway to play the game triggers the story on YOUR terms, instead of the STORY advancement LETTING YOU DO GAME STUFF.  This format also makes it super-easy to add new people (and thus new storylines).  Another big part of this is that every person (and story line) that you can collect HAS to tell you something ABOUT THE WORLD.  I don't care about German Accent Guy's love of fashion.  I do care about German Accent Guy's love of fashion if fashion has some significance IN THE WORLD.  There was so bloody much invested in cosmetics in this game, but they have zero significance other than looking cool.  Well, this is a world where thoughts can influence reality!  And you're telling me that how you feel about your own appearance doesn't matter?!  C'mon!  Also, treating characters as a dynamic collection means that you can have opportunities to absolutely blow up your relationships with people, to the point where they become your *enemy*.  Some character questlines can be exclusive with other character questlines.  You can integrate a choice system with the dynamic world missions where you can complete them in different ways.  You can have a system where you can do a bunch of grinding to recover a blown up relationship.  But the essential dynamic should be the inverse of what it was in the original game:  Instead of people give you mission --> you do stuff, it should be you do stuff --> people react to it. And the reaction doesn't have to be some Shakespearean drama, it can be little stuff like, hey, when you come back they're wearing clean clothes, or they've stopped coughing, or they're eating better, or they've cleared the junk away from their shop location, or they have a neon sign instead of a paper placard, etc. etc. etc.

3.  The tiny number of enemy types was boring in the extreme and the game spams you with absolutely ridiculous numbers of them.  Fewer, more diverse enemies make game gooder.  Every type of foe should have a huge backstory and unique place in the world that you can gradually uncover.

4.  Fuck loot, leveling, and the game difficulty system.  No, I'm serious about this, insane as it sounds.  Fuck loot upgrades as a concept and make the game skill-based and option-based, not numbers-based.  Bioware is absolutely garbage on the game mechanics side of game design.  They will NEVER, EVER, EVER get this system working, particularly with the concept of scaling so that a level 2 person can play with a level 40 person.  Just drop the entire idiotic idea.  Uniqueness/customization, not power, should be your touchstone in re-designing the "advancement" in this game.  Adopt a "one million builds" model where you can put your suit options together in an enormous number of ways that have very complicated dependencies.  It isn't about finding some piece of junk with 1% better numbers on it, it's about manipulating your loadout to where it complements your style PERFECTLY and you can do incredible stuff.  It's not a race for The Biggest Numbers.  It's about playing a beautiful game.  Which ties in to:

5.  Competition.  No, not PVP where you just shoot at each other and the winner is whoever lives the longest.  Actual competition to complete timed objectives.  Races.  "Capture the flag"-style events.  Turret defense.  Navigating randomized mazes.  Solving puzzles (just not that godawful hot/cold puzzle every damn time).  Be creative.  Also, have awards for "feats", like defeating enemies without taking damage, etc.  Reward SKILL not mere GRINDING.

6.  Money sinks.  (I don't mean cash money, I mean in-game "money" or resources that you earn via gameplay.)  This is supposed to be a game about hardscrabble struggle with a hostile, unforgiving, and constantly changing world.  Make that a part of the gameplay.  Charge people to change their suit loadout.  Charge them for repairs.  Charge for ammo and health drops instead of having enemies poop them randomly.  Charge for short-term consumables.  Have suit fuel/power that needs to be recharged.  Have the game eat their resources like a teenage athlete eats a pizza.  Normally, I wouldn't suggest this as a game mechanic, but Anthem is actually well-suited to this kind of thing, because this IS what the gameplay IS--resource gathering/exploration--and it ties into the meta-story of hanging on the edge of disaster.  Not only would this system create a good, solid, rewarding basic gameplay loop, it would actually be INTEGRATED with the story/world.  And it would make the competition aspect more important, because that's how you'd "get ahead" resources-wise . . . you'd have to actually go after dangerous sources that other people wanted, and struggle for them, instead of just picking the flowers.

Do I expect to get ANY of that?  Not really.  I'm over Anthem except as an intellectual exercise.  From their track record, I'm pretty much expecting that they'll make some modifications that don't address anything truly fundamental, as if you can tune up the engine from a Volkswagon Golf and turn it into a drag racer.

Rise of the Rune Lords Session 28: Thunderbolts and Lightning

Pavander barreled off down the southern passage, the rest of the party not far behind. The badger was double his normal size due to a spell Melissah had cast, and was doing a fine job of clearing the path. He burst into a room full of boiling cauldrons and assorted muck, all overseen by three enormous green-skinned hags. Melissah threw a snowball at the first hag, while Pavander leaped on her, shaking in badger rage and leaving huge gashes in her rubbery green flesh. The hags surrounded the badger, clawing him back, but Foss leaped in and the melee was soon far less one-sided. Two of the hags dropped and the third shrieked and retreated.

“Mercy!” she howled. “Mercy, I beg of you!”

Jori stepped around the corner and dropped a flame strike on the hag, scorching her badly.

“You have two choices,” Foss said, raising an axe. “Spill your guts, or I can spill them for you. Where is Lamatar?”

“In the shrine!” she shrieked, pointing off to the northwest. “Barl gave him to us when he was done with him, to reward us for bringing the rains, but we thought he was spying on us, so he guards the Mother's place!”

“Does that mean he's dead?” Iozua asked.

The hag grinned wickedly. “Not any more.”

Melissah jumped as a shadowy human form shambled up behind her, its hands reaching. It was covered in ice and hideous in undeath.

“Gods,” Iozua said. Nevis cast a hasting spell and the fight was on again, Foss keeping his promise to the remaining hag and Pavander trying to keep the corpse of Lamatar from destroying his druid. Iozua cast grease on the stairs and the wight and badger skidded ungracefully across the floor, winding up at the bottom with Pavander more or less on top and Lamatar in half.

“Poor guy, that sucks,” Melissah remarked, and then kicked Pavander savagely as the badger attempted to roll in the ick.

“Can we salvage the body?” Iozua asked. “Or is this going to be a closed-casket situation?”

“The ghost nymph said she only needed a piece of it,” Nevis said.

“Oh, right, she wanted to reincarnate him?”

Melissah nodded. “Now that his spirit isn't bound to this unholy monstrosity, it should be able to join with a new body. My preference would be to carry the poor man out of here and give him a decent burial, taking only a relic back to the nymph.”

“First everything else in this place dies,” Foss said.

The place pointed to by the hag contained an altar and shrine carved with the image of a monstrous pregnant woman with the head of a three-eyed jackal, Lamashtu, Mother of Monsters. The room was otherwise empty, so the group headed north, where the cavern opened into a massive chamber, open to the sky, that sloped upward between two wide ledges. Statues with angular faces stood above, and the ramp stepped up to the foot of an immense stone throne, where a stone giant was seated. Another giant stood beside him, glaring down at the adventurers.

“So, this does all end in tiers,” Iozua said, deadpan.

“Lidiar con estos ácaros. Ya me han causado suficientes problemas,” the seated giant grated.

“No hablo Gigante,” Iozua snapped back.

“Que lastima! Pendejos Gigantes!” Nevis yelled.

“He said 'deal with these mites, they've caused enough problems for me',” Jori translated. The second giant lumbered forward, roaring. Behind Foss, Melissah finished casting a spell and the cavern shook as lightning struck the attacking giant. The other one stood from the throne and hurled a fireball, scattering the adventurers as they attempted to take cover. Iozua beat at his smoking clothes and made an arcane gesture, a wall of fire blocking the giant wizard's view.

Nevis began to sing, somewhat oddly. “Magnificooooo, no no no no no no no!” Foss charged and Jori cast a ray of searing light at the same moment, dropping the first giant, leaving only the wizard, who stepped through the wall of fire and cast another spell. Foss winced, but managed to shake off the effect. He was not so fortunate as the giant's earthbreaker hammer struck him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Crap,” Jori said, and raced forward with a healing spell in her hands, but the giant struck again, crashing through the arm Foss raised to defend himself and leaving the fighter unconscious in a pool of blood. The backswing cracked against Pavander, who yelped but continued to claw and bite in best badger style. Iozua's force missile struck hard and the giant staggered, coming into range of Jori's knife. She dropped the healing spell, and with a look of concentration, she sank the blade into a stony eye and wrenched. A torrent of dark blood followed and the monster collapsed at last.

“Ohthankthegods,” Iozua breathed, rushing up the steps to see if Foss was still alive. He was, barely, and Jori frantically healed the damage, restoring him to consciousness.

“Hey, look, there's loot!” Nevis said, pointing to the throne. Indeed, there was, but even more valuable than trinkets was a rolled mammoth hide with a message written on it.

“Barl--

“Latest contact with Teraktinus indicates he has narrowed the search—he believes a human town called Sandpoint could hide what my lord seeks. Teraktinus will lead several of the people, as well as the dragon, on a raid into the town soon. When they return, they may be pursued, and I may need your ogre slaves to aid in Teraktinus' retreat to Jorgenfist. Be ready to return at my command!

“--M”

“What the hell did Sandpoint ever do to anyone?” Iozua grumbled, reading the message.

“And what the hells could be so important that we don't even know about it?” Jori asked.

“'M' could be for 'Mokmurian',” Nevis suggested. “That's who Lucrecia said she was working for.”

Iozua nodded. Melissa shook her head. “How big of a dragon are we talking, here?”

“I can't imagine M would bother to include it in this message if it was a tiny one,” Nevis said. She seemed excited at the prospect. Iozua grimaced.

“Probably not,” the wizard grated.

“We should get back to Sandpoint sooner rather than later,” Jori said.

“We still have those trolls at Storval Deep to deal with,” Melissah reminded her.

Iozua shook his head. “I know, but my parents are at Sandpoint.”

Rise of the Rune Lords Session 27: Hook Mountain

Hook Mountain, home of the Kreegs, was a nasty, frozen slab of granite this late in the year. Nearly two miles from summit to peak, it was a grueling climb. The ogres had not made much effort to conceal the entrance to the clanhold, a wide cavern vanishing into the mountainside. Two alert ogre guards stood at the entrance, shielding their eyes from wind and blowing snow. Nevis, Jori, and Iozua hung back while Foss led the way, Pavander tagging at his heels and Melissah not far behind, clutching her spear.

The ogres jeered when they spotted the adventurers, but Pavander was not one to tolerate this disrespect and charged, biting and clawing at anything he could reach. The badger dodged nimbly aside as clubs swept down, and Foss stepped up to engage the second ogre.

“Duck!” Iozua called, rushing to the side of the melee, where he unleashed a lightning bolt that struck both ogres, crisping one and leaving the second badly wounded. Foss quickly finished the remaining guard and they moved forward quickly to the mouth of the cave, not wanting to lose the element of surprise.

The cave entrance was lined with massive bones, but they didn't look like giant bones. Iozua frowned and identified them as blue dragon bones. “The coolest of terrible, tyrannical dragonkind,” he said.

“I'm pretty sure white dragons are the coolest,” Melissah corrected. “They breathe cold, after all.”

Nevis began dancing with excitement. “Dragons?! Gosh!”

The entrance hall ended in an alcove with a statue worthy of a giant fortress, a forty-foot-tall giant with black skin covered in fissures and cracks, like the bed of a dried river. He wore majestic armor, gilded and encrusted with gems, and gripped a towering glaive in his armored fists. His full helm bore the sneering visage of a fanged devil, and around his neck hung a familiar seven-pointed star—the Sihedron amulet, mark of the Runelords.

“This thing is everywhere we go any more,” Foss remarked. Melissah grabbed Pavander before he could pee on the statue, but Nevis raced past and began climbing toward the armor.

“I'M GONNA GET MY HANDS ON HIS JEWELS!” she shrieked, and then almost fell laughing at herself.

“How are you even going to carry that armor,” Melissah said. “It's bigger than you are.”

“Uhh . . . dammit. I'll be back for you later, big boy,” Nevis said, and patted the statue on the crotch before sliding back down.

“Giant-chaser,” Iozua remarked.

“I prefer size-queen!”

“Oh, oh, is THAT what people refer to as a size queen?! Now I know,” the wizard looked sad for a moment. “And can't un-know.”

Nevis poked her head around the corner, seeing a deep pit that emitted rank odors of decay. “Ew, butthole,” she added.

Fortunately for everyone's sanity, the next intersection was guarded. “HELP! TROUBLE!” an ogre bellowed. Melissah conjured fire in her hands and threw it at him while Pavander harried his shins. A solid blow landed on Nevis, who squawked, and then the melee was joined, Foss striking with his axes while Iozua threw a fireball over his shoulder, scorching the room. A massive creature, larger than an ogre, hurled a boulder at Foss, who just barely managed to dodge.

The fighting was vicious and bloody. Iozua cast scorching rays at the hill giant, but it kept on coming, smashing the wizard aside with its greatclub before Foss finished it off. Everyone was battered and bleeding, and they could hear the sound of running feet as more ogres ran toward the intersection from deeper within the clanhold.

“Jori, heal us, quickly,” Iozua said, and the Harrower rushed to comply. Several ogres appeared in the eastern passage, and Melissah quickly cast a spell. The ground beneath their feet cracked and a flume of boiling water erupted, filling the hall and blasting the ogres aside. Foss attacked while they were still disoriented, but more ogres continued to spill out of the cavern, forcing him back. Nevis and Iozua rained down spells into the struggling crowd.

Then Pavander dashed forward and abruptly doubled in size. On almost equal footing with the ogres, he clawed and bit while Foss hacked his way forward.

“I want to ride him!” Nevis called as Iozua's spell melted the last ogre's face clean off his skull. Once again, it was quiet.

Pavander sniffed around for something to fight, and pointed deeper into the caverns.

Rise of the Runelords Session 26: Let Me Sum Up

“Barkley, why is there a huge pile of dirt in front of my church?” Maelin Shreed asked. When Barkley looked baffled, the priest pointed helpfully.

“Er, adventurers, yer honor.”

“I'm fairly certain it's a pile of dirt, Barkley, not adventurers. Adventurers tend to be pointier.”

“No, I means the adventurers MADE the pile o' dirt, yer honor.”

“And then they couldn't be bothered to clear it away? How rude!”

“Well, yer honor, they was protecting the church, I think . . .”

With a loud jangle of strings, Nevis the bard appeared in front of the irritated priest. “I'LL explain it!”

“Please do!”

WHANG! The strings resounded. “The rain fell down from the sky! The water arose from the lake! The village was doomed to be drowned! And then there was a big snake!”

“A . . . snake?”

It was too late. Nothing could interrupt now. “The snake had swallowed a child! All was darkness and dread! But then the Foss-man appeared! He whacked the snake on the head!”

“Er . . . good?”

“The snake it was now deceased! But the bad guys weren't ready to quit! From out of the lake came a monster! A worm with the arms of a squid!”

“That don't rhyme,” Barkley observed.

“Yes it does!” WHANG! “The worm attacked the church! Its fury unlikely to flag, yah! It battered upon the walls! The worm's name is Black Magga!”

“Black Magga!? From Storval Deep?”

“STOP interrupting. Ahem. I think I lost my place. Shall I start again?”

“NO!” Both men shouted.

“Well, then, be quiet. Ahem. Where was I? Oh yes. The wizard hurled a fireball! The worm, it started to smoke! But still it attacked undeterred! It thought our spells were a joke!” Nevis eyeballed the men, but they remained silent. “The worm struck at the Foss-man! His flesh was tattered and torn! His mighty axes went hacking! A mighty legend was born!”

“So he defeated it? And who is Fossman? Have we met?”

“I'm NOT FINISHED!!!”

“Oops, er, sorry. Continue.”

“The worm was mightily cleaved! It turned its tail and fled! The heroes won the day! But sadly the worm isn't dead!” Nevis ended with a flourish and bowed. The humans goggled at her. “It's all right, I'm done now, you can talk.”

“It . . . sounds like quite an impressive battle? But what about the pile of dirt?”

“Oh, that was the druid,” Nevis replied dismissively.

“I . . . see.” Maelin did not see, but he didn't want to ask for further clarification in case Nevis actually provided it, and it was even worse than the poetry thus far forthcoming. “So . . . what happens now?”

“Now the heroes are traveling to Hook Mountain to deal with the ogre menace! Should be exciting!”

“What about Black Magga?”

“Oh, the villagers told us that maybe some trolls let her through some kind of gate they have up at Storval Deep? Something like that? Don't worry, we'll take care of that next. Busy busy! Can't stop, off to save the world!”

“Well, er, thank you?” Maelin said as the gnome ran off as quickly as she had appeared.

Rise of the Rune Lords Interlude: The Kids are All Right, part 1

“Is that bird trying to get inside the house?” Teeva asked. Her grandfather, Coralon, squinted, and Teeva pointed helpfully. The shadow of a small duck was poking at the wax paper of the window with its bill, and as they watched it ripped open a substantial hole.

Coralon emitted an enraged old-man shout. “Here, you, get away!” sounding like all one word: heerugiway. He slapped at the wooden sill and the duck retreated, producing a very similar-sounding quack. “Damn birds! Those windows are expensive!”

Teeva bit back a laugh. “It's not like they're glass. Just paper.”

“I'm not made of money! And winter's coming on, too. The roads will be a mess!”

Teeva shook her head. “Relax, I'll fix it. Here!” She made a pass with her hands and the hole vanished. The window paper turned a brilliant chartreuse. Teeva blinked, then immediately attempted to pretend that she'd intended this outcome. Coralon was not impressed.

“Oh, girl, now look what you've done! Haven't you been practicing? What would your mother say?

“I'd probably be glad she didn't set it on fire. At least I know she's getting some real lessons from that miserable old coot.” Bethilde, Teeva's mother, set her packages down on the kitchen table. In contrast to her tall, somewhat skinny daughter, Bethilde was on the short side, and very sturdily build, although only someone who had no further use for their tongue would call her plump. Both women had unremarkable curly brown hair and deep brown skin, but they shared unusual electric-blue eyes. Looking at Coralon's unexceptional brown often left people wondering at their heritage, especially since Coralon had never given any evidence of possessing a wife. In Nybor, though, this was not all that uncommon and it passed without remark, if not entirely without note.

“At least I fixed the hole,” Teeva said, pointing helpfully in case her mother had missed this evidence of Teeva's handiwork. Behind her there was a loud clattering noise and a duck fell down the chimney, into the thankfully-cold fireplace.

“Desna!” Coralon yelped.

“Oh, for pity's sake, Teeva, did you enchant that fool bird?!” Bethilde demanded, stomping over to the hearth and fishing the bewildered duck out of a heap of ashes.

“Not me, mother, but look at it! I bet someone did!” The duck was, indeed, strangely docile. Bethilde gave it a shake and it stuck its foot out, revealing a roll of paper tied to its leg. Bethilde snapped the bindings and broke open the protective coating of wax. When she saw the direction on the letter her lips thinned to a white, hard line.

“What?” Teeva demanded.

Bethilde held the paper out to her father. “It's for you.”

Coralon took the paper and blinked at it for several moments, moving it forwards and back in front of his eyes in the hopes of getting the blurred letters to focus. Finally, it did, and he smiled. “Oh, I see. Here, Teeva, read it to me, or I'll be all day about it.”

Bethilde snatched the paper back before her daughter could take it. “Teeva, you go outside. I'll read it to you, Father.”

Teeva thought better of protesting. She knew that iron look on her mother's face. This situation called for expert strategy—a diversion, and then a flanking attack. “Yes'm,” she said, and scurried out of the kitchen. Once outside, though, she took a lesson from their visitor and ducked down beside the window to listen.

“It's from Melissah,” Bethilde was saying.

“Don't call your mother that, Tildy, it's disrespectful.”

Teeva could imagine her mother's expression. “She says she's stopping at Fort Rannick . . .”

“And don't summarize, dear, read it out.”

There was a longish pause while Bethilde no doubt skewered her father with a displeased glare, but this was not effective against the patriarch of the family, who was too old, secure, and short-sighted to care. Finally, Bethilde loudly cleared her throat and began to read. “'Dear Coralon, it's been some time since we last communicated, so I hope this missive finds you well.' Hmmph, some time! At your age she's lucky you aren't dead!”

“Thank you, daughter,” Coralon said dryly.

“Ahem. 'My travels have brought me south of the mountains of late, and I came across ill news of animal attacks, floods, the fatal sinking of a pleasure barge, and the disappearance of messages sent to Fort Rannick requesting aid from the Black Arrows. As the townsfolk had no one else to send, I journeyed to Magnimar to ask for aid in approaching these concerns. The Lord-Mayor sent me back with several adventurers and we discovered that Fort Rannick had been captured by Kreeg ogres, the largest portion of the Black Arrows slain.

“'The adventurers were able to oust the ogres with some small aid from myself, but the fort is now all-but-empty. I know that much of our family resides near you in Nybor, and it is my hope that some of the younger generation may have an interest in such an opportunity for travel and work and would be willing to join me at Fort Rannick. If there are any other young persons you would vouch for, they can certainly expect to find a situation here as well. Thank you kindly, and all my love to you and Bethilde, who must be well grown by now and a lady in her own right. Melissah.'” Bethilde choked on the last part. “Well-grown! I'm an old goodwife with eight children!”

“Your mother reckons time differently than we poor humans,” Coralon said, fondly.

“If you mean she can't keep a thought in her head for two seasons together, yes.”

“Now, Tildy--” the old man started.

“Don't 'now, Tildy' me. And don't even think of showing this to Teeva. She's half-trained at best and not ready to go out on her own, whatever she thinks. One look at this and I'll never hear the end of it. 'Mama PLEASE let me go! You never let me go anywhere!” Teeva scowled. She did NOT sound like that. She was an expert maternal-handling strategist, and never resorted to whining. “She's going to stay here and finish her training where it's safe!”

Teeva huffed, indignant. They'd see about that!

XX

“So, what are you doing in the stable at this hour?” Dashell asked. Teeva nearly jumped out of her skin, startling the sleepy pony. Sibling alert!

“SHHHH!” she hissed at her older brother, who stood with his hands on his hips. Dashell grinned, thinking he now held all the cards. “If you must know,” Teeva told him, “I'm going to see cousin Storrik.”

“In the middle of the night? With full saddlebags and a pack half as big as you are? Are you running away finally? Can I have your books?”

“No.”

“No which?”

“No, you cannot have my books.”

“So you ARE running away?”

Teeva gave him a thoughtful look. He hadn't threatened to tell on her yet, so he was angling for something. Annoying as he was, Dashell was a useful sort of fellow, but he needed handling. “Well, kinda,” she allowed.

“Izzat so?” Dashell produced an apple from somewhere and began chewing. He was a picture of a big, healthy farmboy, and was always eating. The only problem was that his family was all tradespeople: Grandpa Cor owned the general store, his mother owned the inn with her husband, and Dashell didn't have much to do other than spend his time hunting and fishing. He had no interest in taking over a business, and with five brothers in need of situations no one considered it worthwhile to argue with him.

“Nanny Bee sent Grandpa Cor a duck--”

“A duck?”

“Yes, with a message!”

“And you know about this how?”

“I was there when it showed up. Anyway, Nanny Bee says that ogres attacked Fort Rannick!”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“And exciting!” Most of the Rangers were killed, so Nanny Bee wanted to know if any of us Meadhouse cousins would like to come help out! Talk about opportunity!” Was that too much? You had to be careful selling things to Dashell, if he started to think you were sugarcoating work he'd get stubborn.

“Opportunity to get killed, maybe,” he grunted. “Have you ever SEEN an ogre?”

“Well . . . no. Not as such. But one of the regulars at the inn is a half-ogre, and he's not so bad.”

“Mm,” Dashell replied, chewing thoughtfully. “And you asked Mother if you could go?”

“Well . . . not as such.”

“So that's why you're overloading that poor pony in the middle of the night. What I still don't understand is what poor cousin Storrik has to do with all of this.”

“Well, I've never been down that way, but everyone knows cousin Storrik is the best woodsman in these parts. If anyone could guide me, he could.”

Dashell rubbed his fuzzy chin, nodding slowly. “I think that about covers everything, then. I can't let you do it.”

“What? C'mon!” Here came the sibling blackmail. Carefully-tuned disappointment was paramount.

“No, it's completely out of the question. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“You take me with you.”

Teeva weighed her options, and went with enthusiastic. Dashell loved to feel older and wiser, even though he was mostly just older. “Really!? You're the best!” She lunged at him for a hug, and he held her off with one hand.

“You also have to follow my instructions, starting with leaving that poor pony alone. You're going to go to bed and get some sleep, and we'll leave in the morning. I'll write a note for Mother that I'm taking you with me to go fishing. She won't expect us back for a couple days at least. Then we can go get Storrik and leave a note with one of his buddies about where we've really gone.”

“Okay, okay! I'm doing it, I'm doing it!” Teeva griped, heading back toward the house. Plan stage one, the unobtrusive exit, was nearly complete.

XX

The Elder Brother Takeover resumed promptly the following morning, and Teeva did her best to keep up the litany of complaints so Dashell didn't get suspicious.

“You can't bring all this,” he lectured. “No, we're not taking the pony. Mother needs him to pull the cart. IF you want to go adventuring, you have to carry your gear. We're not going to Magnimar for the Season. You can't bring all these clothes.”

“Oh, why don't you go do your own packing and leave me in peace!” Teeva declaimed tragically.

“I'm already packed, thanks. I've been on plenty of trips.” Meaning two, that she knew of. Dashell reached under his bunk and produced a surprisingly ancient and battered-loking satchel, which he slung over one shoulder. “Did you eat a good breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use the privy?”

“Yes!”

“Did you pack, you know, girlie stuff?”

“DASHELL!!”

“Right, off we go, then.”

It was a pleasant morning walk downriver to where Storrik had his shack. The weather was chilly but not frigid, and the sun was more-or-less out. The woodsman was sitting outside by the fire, fletching a stack of arrows. One of the eponymous buddies stretched out nearby smoking a pipe. Unlike the brown-skinned, brown-haired siblings, Storrik was very pale, with ashy gray-blond hair. Their only evidence of relation was identical shocking blue eyes.

“Cousin and cousin, greetings,” he said mildly. He also had peculiar, not-quite-human mannerisms—a placid refusal to be hurried. “Share my fire. This is Hogarth.”

Hogarth nodded gravely to them. He was a big fellow, with a broad, heavy skull and an outslung jaw. That, alongside his projecting brow and squashed, upturned nose screamed 'orc'. Half-breeds were quite common in Nybor, which prided itself on toleration.

“Are you out for a jaunt, Dashell? The giant minks are starting to turn their coats. Should be a fine season this year,” Storrik continued.

“We're not out for the hunting, thanks. In fact, we have an exceptional favor to ask.” Ugh, Dashell always got weird and formal when asking people for things.

“Of course.”

“We want you to take us to Fort Rannick!” Teeva burst in before Dashell could take another twenty minutes explaining. Storrik's eyebrows rose.

“Fort Rannick?” he repeated. “That's a goodly way. Why this sudden interest?”

Dashell started to say something but Teeva hurriedly cut him off. “Grandpa Cor got a letter from Nanny Bee saying the Fort needed recruits and asking if we could come!”

Storrik's eyebrows climbed further. “You specifically? That doesn't sound much like Grandmother.”

“Why not? She travels all over the place by herself.”

“Yes, but she's a druid and has more experience with travel than all of our cousins put together. It's a poor time of year to travel, too. Maybe in the spring, but I wouldn't risk such a long road I know nothing about at this time of year.”

This was a problem. Storrik was far too level-headed and practical to be badgered into something he thought was unwise.

“Pardon me if I intrude . . .” the half-orc rumbled.

“Not at all, friend Hogarth.”

“I've visited Fort Rannick on several occasions. It's not the easiest road, but not that bad, either. I have friends who would gladly undertake the journey just for your Grandmother's good opinion.”

“Great!” Teeva called out before Dashell or Storrik could protest. “Let's go!”

“Not just yet, if you please,” said Hogarth. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure! I mean, we'd owe you one!” This better not be anything weird. Dashell was looking concerned, and Storrik had on a bemused expression that Teeva couldn't read.

Hogarth turned his pipe over in his hands, considering. “I know a cousin of yours, Polette. We've met only a few times, briefly, but I . . . sensed her mother disapproved. I wonder if you would be willing to carry her a message, from me.”

“Against Aunt Zulah's wishes?” Dashell asked, dryly.

“Yes.”

Dashell drew himself up and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what if we don't approve, either?”

“Then you can run along home, boy, because you'll never make it to Fort Rannick without my help.”

“Dashell, don't be a prig,” Teeva whispered.

“Why not?” he replied aloud. “I don't know him, and I'm not sure I trust him, especially not with my virgin sister.” Teeva kicked him. There was no other response to an older-brother emission like that. “Hey!” Dashell protested. “I'm trying to look after you, here!”

“Virgin sister indeed!” Teeva leaned over to address Hogarth directly. “I'll have you know that Old Man Dash here turns purple and stutters if a pretty girl so much as looks at him. If I'm a virgin, then he's a . . . double virgin!”

“TEEVA!!!” Dashell bellowed, trying to grab her to stifle the stream of embarrassing revelations. Teeva danced out of reach with the skill of long practice, and Dashell almost fell into the fire.

“I assure you, Hogarth's intentions are honorable,” Storrik said when everyone had regained their balance and dusted themselves off. The half-orc looked astonished at this encomium, and Teeva could have sworn he actually blushed.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, and then coughed to clear his throat.

“Well . . . if you vouch for him . . .” Dashell slowly allowed.

“I do. Absolutely.”

“Well . . . all right then.” It wasn't graceful, but Teeva would take it.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Hogarth said, “I believe Madame Meadhouse's objections are rooted less in my appearance than in the state of my purse, something this journey may bring opportunities to improve.”

“You're awfully prosy for a half-orc,” Teeva said. “Er, no offense meant.”

Hogarth hazarded a small smile. “None taken. In fact, my friends are a small company of strolling players, well used to the road. They have helped me refine my speech considerably. Let me just write my note.”

“The fancy talk explains Polette, anyway,” Teeva mused while the half-orc busied himself with scribbling. “Dames love it.”

“Dames like yourself?” Storrik asked, amused.

“Nah, I've got six brothers. I'm, whazzit, in, innik . . .?”

“Innoculated?” Dashell finished for her.

“Yeah, that.”

XX

In the end, Teeva went into town by herself to find Polette, since she was the least likely to arouse suspicion by trying to get in to see her cousin alone. For a little good luck, said cousin was at home studying, and Aunt Zulah was in the market tending her stall. Teeva went around the farmhouse and threw some gravel in her cousin's window.

“What the . . .what are you doing down there?” Polette demanded, sticking her head outside. “You made a mess all over the floor! Wait, Teeva?”

“I got a note from your swain,” Teeva said.

“My . . . what?” That wasn't quite the reaction she'd been expecting.

“Your lovesick swain. Hogarth. He of the gray skin and smushed nose. His heart burns with eternal passion for one touch of your fair hand, et cetera.”

“Desna preserve us, just be quiet and give me the note, thank you very much.”

Teeva wrapped the flimsy paper around a stone and tossed it up. Polette read for some time, then she stepped away from the window. Teeva heard rustling noises, and in a surprisingly short time Polette reappeared dressed in warm, sensible traveling clothes. She tossed a pack out the window and then followed it, hanging from the windowsill before dropping and landing neatly beside Teeva.

“Let's go,” she said, reclaiming her pack. Polette was several years older than Teeva and the acknowledged beauty of the Meadhouse extended clan. She had warm golden skin, long golden hair, and the family crystal-blue eyes. And here she was, running off after a half-orc! It boggled the imagination.

“Hey, where are YOU going!” a painfully-young voice shrilled as they hurried down the lane, and here came Polette's younger brother Kedry. “You're not supposed to be out!”

“Kedry, go inside!” Polette snapped.

“Nuh-uh! You're running away! Mama told you spiffacly not to run away!”

“I'm not doing any such thing! Now go inside before I paddle you!” Teeva shook her head sadly. Polette clearly needed some tutoring on handling younger brothers.

“If you paddle me, I'll scream, and Mama will hear!”

“The whole town would probably hear,” Teeva muttered. “Kedry, if you go away and don't tell Aunt Zulah, I'll give you a silver piece.”

“So Mama can grill me on where I got it? Nuh-uh!”

Ooh. This case of little-brother-itis was clearly far advanced. Teeva hated to do it, because letting them set the terms was always more trouble than it was worth, but someone else could show up at any moment. “What'll it take for you to forget you ever saw us?”

“I want to come, too!”

“Absolutely not!” Polette snapped. “You're far too young. Mama would kill me!”

“She'll kill you anyway, for sneaking off,” Kedry observed accurately.

“You don't have a pack!”

“Yes I do! I hid it down by the pond! I promise I'll be good! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE?”

“He's not THAT young,” Teeva wavered. “Do you want to go or not?”

“All right! But you have to keep up, and if we tell you to do something, you do it! This is a real journey we're going on, not some day trip, understand!”

“I understand!”

They stopped at the pond to retrieve Kedry's pack. Polette made him turn it out to see that he'd actually brought something useful, which he mostly had. While annoying, Kedry was actually quite sensible for his age. Why he'd decided to stash travel kit he refused to explain, but Teeva had a sneaking suspicion he'd been waiting for one of his cousins to run away so that he could follow along. He was quite good at keeping his own counsel and firmly believed that asking forgiveness was superior to obtaining permission.

XX

Storrik looked rather surprised to see the three of them, or as surprised as he ever got at anything, which wasn't much. “Greetings, cousin, cousin, and cousin. Are you all coming?”

“Yes,” said Teeva firmly, hoping to stave off any more arguments.

“It would be best to stay here tonight and start tomorrow,” the woodsman suggested. “You can practice setting up camp in the clearing, there.

“Right,” Teeva said, and started unpacking. The day, it seemed, had one final surprise still in store. Teeva watched Polette collar Hogarth and draw him aside, so she handed her bag to a protesting Kedry and crept along the bushes until she could hear. She didn't want any secrets on this very important journey.

“I'm glad you came,” the half-orc was saying. “I'll do everything in my power to make sure you don't regret it.”

“Er, did you tell Teeva you were my . . . well, my lover?”

“What?! No, no, I never . . . I would never presume! You have my word!” How very odd, Hogarth sounded just like a certain priggish older brother Teeva could name.

“Oh,” Polette said faintly. Did she sound . . . disappointed? Couldn't be. No way.

“Not that you aren't, I mean, that I'm not . . .”

Fortunately, Teeva had extensive experience with these sad cases. She peeked out from behind the bush. Hogarth had his back to her, good, and anyway he was trying to figure out if he could sink into the ground and disappear without the aid of magic. Teeva waved to her cousin to get her attention, then dramatically made the kissy-face. Polette glared. Oh, well, there was no helping some people.

Hogarth's wounded peroration finally stumbled to a halt. Polette reached up and brushed her fingertips against the side of his face. He flinched slightly, but he pressed his face into her palm.

“I . . . I promised your cousin . . .”

“I didn't,” Polette said firmly. She shot one last glare at Teeva, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Teeva nodded in satisfaction at a job well done, then shook her head again as Hogarth tried to figure out how to hold Polette without, you know, actually touching her in any way that could possibly be construed as taking liberties.

All in all, it was a good start to their adventure. All the elements were in place. The fearless leader (Teeva of course), the dumb but strong backup (Dashell), the knowledgeable guide (Storrik), the romance (Hogarth and Polette), and the obnoxious sidekick nevertheless capable of saving the day in a pinch (Kedry).

This was gonna be GOOD.