A Review of 'The Shadow People' by Margaret St. Clair

This is a book you might have assumed I would have already read. I think its on the 'Appendix N' and is often given as one of the main inspirations for the Underdark and the Drow. It showed up on my prospective research for Veins of the Earth but I only got round to reading it in the last few days.

What a remarkable, strange and interesting book this is.

There are two parts, the part that everyone talks about and the strange prophetic tail dragging after it.

The first part is about the Underdark. We open in the San Francisco of the late 60's (think it was written in 69). There are rats in the walls and scratches from behind the bamboo screens. Our hero wakes up to find his girlfriend gone. They argued the previous night, so that makes sense, but her camera, which she adored, is still there, which does not.

The slow decay into strangeness is very neatly done. The hero does and says all the frightened things we would do or say, police, friends, local haunts. The sense of something being deeply and invisibly off slowly rises with his inner tension.

This matching of the overwhelming strangeness of the world with the psychological state of the protagonist, a classic horror technique, so that the victim/heroes mental state mirrors that of the reader and the incursions into the real are impossible to discern from fear and madness in the head, all of this is very well carried off.

This is also where magic makes its first appearance, in an elegant form and style which carries over to the whole of the first half of the book. Someone advises the hero to scry for his girlfriend. The social milieu of the book (which was probably close to the writers own) is such that this is an entirely reasonable suggestion from the kind of people he hangs out with. He makes the rationalist response and they reply that yes, it probably isn't magic, but the meditation and focus allows the mind to process information it might not otherwise be able to arrange.

He tries scrying in a whisky glass and something happens.

Like the blending of decaying mind state and growing alter-verse, the tension between magic as maybe-real and magic as alternative-paradigm also tracks for the first half. The potential reality of magic grows slowly, rarely breaking out into unquestionably open reality.

A key moment comes where a friend tells him where his partner might be. She can't explain directly, but she can show him the way.

She takes him to the basement of his apartment. They wait, and feel with their faces for a cold breeze and a particular scent. Slowly he becomes aware of it. They follow it.

He finds a black gap just behind the buildings pipes, just large enough for someone to slide through side-on.

He slides through.

He enters another basement. Then finds the breeze again. Another strange gap. he keeps going.

And keeps going. Another basement, a forgotten crawl space, an old industrial space, a warehouse. He climbs. More. Another space. All different, never a clear path, only just accessible. He travels for a day.

He crosses the city, passing through junk yards, back lots, empty sheds. It is this long circuitous path that leads him to the Under-World.

He finds a sword. One of the more interesting swords in fiction. It’s simply been left hanging on a wall in an antechamber to the Underworld and it’s is safe because the people of that world hate Steel. They cannot touch it.

Ultimately, he crosses a water barrier and enters a realm adjacent to myth but always carrying the tantalising strands of possibility.

The logic for the Under-People is similar to that used in 'The Descent' - a pre ice-age hominid divide with one group going underground and staying there, effectively becoming a sub-species, one so sensitive, silent and secret that they border on the supernatural.

We discover stuff about the Under-People. They live on trash and this barley infected with this strange fungus. The fungus is a hallucinogen, so everyone underground is on a constant, eternal drugs loop where they are imagining themselves to be animals (usually), then coming down and feeling utter despair.

At one point the hero remarks that he understands now why the Under-people arch their eyebrows like they do, it’s because they are supporting the weight of imaginary horns.

Dream fades into reality into dream, he fights and kills and decides whilst imagining he is a thousand different animals.

I don't want to spoil the details. Suffice to say that he finds the girl, gets her out but ends up having to spend much longer underground than he expected.

And that is the part of the book you were probably expecting, the part that Gygax was probably drawing from and the part most people are interested in.

In the second part it gets really weird.





Ok, so its three years later and the guy gets back to San Francisco. Except the culture represented feels like a Dark Future Sci Fi story written in 2017.

In the three years he's been gone the culture has become so violent that people are forced to wear ID discs to walk the streets. Robot cops stop you to check your disc. One tries to do this to him (he looks like an insane homeless person and has walked through his shoes) and he wrecks it with the Sword.

Luckily (this is a world with only about five or six people in it and they just re-encounter each other), he runs into the woman who advised him about the underworld previously. She's working for the government bureaucracy and offers to help him with a fake identity. Breakdown;

- The fake I.D. has to have a certain level of rule breaking in it or it looks unnatural to the computers that now run everything.

- The hills of San Francisco are gone. Computer-controlled industrial machinery went wild because of a bug and levelled them in a few days. No-one could stop the machines. The people were paid off and the materials went to make new land in the bay. It's generally assumed that it was a land scam of some kind.

- The woman wants him to live with her. They don't get on and conditions are hard but women almost always want men to live with them 'because it’s safer'. Fears of home invasion and street attacks are now utterly common.

- The guy goes to work at his job and usually sees at least one knife attack and at least one fight. It’s just the new background.

- Food shortages are common. A point later in the book is where the main characters manage to come upon a rural market with no food controls and happily load up on fresh food.

- Hardly anyone goes to the University any more, but the University grounds are 'safe ground', if you can touch the gates whoever is chasing you will usually stop. He asks where this custom developed and is told it just grew on its own.

- The boring boyfriend of a character talks constantly of bombs and how he can make them, what he is willing to do. This is played as just some annoying thing he does. Political extremes are considered normal now.

- A couple go dancing, the music is described in a way that it feels almost like a conservative/ironic regurgitation of an old style that no-one really likes but they have to be careful now. Then someone throws a bomb into the crowd. This is normal now. No reason is ever given for the bomb.


So the rest of the book is him trying to get back the girl he originally saved from the Underdark. This involves some detective stuff, some espionage stuff, and at least one full-on shamanic dream session where he witnesses and channels the power of some extra-dimensional entity.

There are people who know about the Underdark and a guy who it seems is trying to set up some kind of global conspiracy to do with the Underdark powers.

These Elves that live underneath the world feeding on trash and their hallucinogenic barley are strangely powerful above ground. Not directly because they fear light, but like an ever-present low-level threat. You can never be safe. Any crawl space could lead right to the dark underneath the world.

They manage to take out the bad guy, kind of, and he frees his girl, kind of, but the knowledge/addiction of the Underworld is still with her, and with him a bit. Even though it’s the most terrible place imaginable it has this dark consuming power. People just don't leave it.

The 'good guys' kind of win but society is so utterly fucked that it doesn't really matter. They are caught in a riot, which might also be a government assassination attempt (no-one knows who is really working for the government or who really has power, there are assumed to be constant shifts between invisible factions) because they wouldn't give the government the secret to the Elves hallucinogenic fungi.

Fuck this book is strange. Like really no-faking original strange. Margaret St Claire was a unique woman.

Then eventually their old friend, who went back underground to be a Queen, due to the Underdark-addiction, sends them a powerful magic stone which protects them.

And that’s it.

No-one really seems to know what to make of this book. It's not like anything else. I think probably if Margaret St Clair was a man she would be a well know cult author, like maybe Phillip K Dick well known.

If it was just about the origins to the Underdark it would be important. It’s all there, in deep feel at least, the seed of it.

And then there is this whole other half to the book about this doomed future that looks a lot like our present.

And how those two interact and what the whole thing is, well your guess is as good as mine.

Philosobaker

The Wapentake of Wirral

No-one knows where the practice of governing England as 'Hundreds' came from, but it was around in the 800's (that's the 800's, not the 1800's) before the Norman conquest and to some degree it just kind of stuck around.

(Few things in British law are ever fully thrown away, they just kind-of, compile.)

The 'Hundred' might at one point have been an actual one-hundred households, but by the beginning of the medieval era its pretty much an area of geography. It's also a court, and an area of administration.

It probably begins as a meeting of local landowners where they get together to deal with legal matters, arguments, debts and so on. Then becomes a form of organisation, a way for the king to summon people to fight and to exert his authority.

Later on, over a thousand years of different kings, other forms of administration are added and they just kind of overlay the old hundreds, eventually making them effectively irrelevant.

But not revoked.

And in parts of England where the Danes had once ruled, the 'hundred' was sometimes called the 'Wapentake', hence 'The Wapentake of Wirral'.

In medieval times, the right to hold a court could be 'farmed out' to various people, they would do the administration and then pay the King his share if any money was claimed, and 'ownership' or right to hold the court could be traded and passed down like land or property.

And that brings us to the 19th century. Specifically, November 16 1819, when the Wapentake of Wirral is advertised for sale by Messrs Potts & Co of Chester. Since they don't expect anyone to be very interested in it, they throw in the rights to " wreck," to "royal fish," and to " treasure trove".

And this means that in 1854 the Wapentake of Wirral falls into the hands of Samual Holland Moreton, and his sinister compatriot Mr Robert Grace.

And Moreton is an intelligent, avaricious, eccentric, evil-minded motherfucker, and he actually reads the stack of ancient crumbling documents that make up 'The Wapentake of Wirral' and he works out what he can do with them, which is a lot.

In fact, "when in 'sociable mood' Moreton would sometimes confess an ignorance of where his own power was limited." The Wapentake is ancient. It's older than any other law on the book.

"Crimes and misdemeanors, felonies or civil actions, trespass, treason, all that was wicked of weak came within his jurisdiction."

He could summon a Court of Wapentake, call a jury, compel attendance of witnesses, try cases civil and criminal.

This means that in the middle of the 19th century, a crazy-ass motherfucker with an ancient document can effectively run his own, private law court in the Wirral and that no-one can stop him. He's legal. He's more legal than legal.

And this means that if you're going past the Tranmere Ferry Hotel some time in 1850-something, and a large man comes towards you and summons you to court, you better go. And if inside you find a drunk-as-fuck Samual Moreton who tells you that you are a juror, or a witness, or any other member of the court, then you are.

Moreton sat off in a fucking pub, running drunken courts, compelling attendance from whomever he wanted, taking cases based simply on spite or just revenge.

In 1855, Thomas Smith of Birkenhead, was pulled, seemingly at random, into the workings of the court. "one day when he was at work in his garden, a man called to him to come at once to the Wapentake Court sitting at the Inn known as the Shrewsbury Arms, Hinderton. He treated the summons as a joke, whereupon  two men were sent and Smith was haled to the Court in his shirt-sleeves. On his arrival he found Moreton, Grace, and others seated at a table spread with food and drink. Grace informed him they were about to fine him 20 for not coming at once, and that it was no joking matter. Smith was appointed one of the "affeerors" to the Court (an honour which he shared with Shakespeare, who held that post at Stratford-on-Avon)."

Moreton and Grace would ride out with the rest of their court in a packed  Omnibus dressed in "shabby black tail or frock coats" and just accost wealthy-looking people, summoning them "to sit as jurors at the nearest public-house, in company with the riff-raff of the neighborhood." A refusal was met by a a fine, which if not paid, lead to the seizure and sale of property.

"In one case a neighbor built a wall for safety round a pond on his property next to the road. He was summoned for encroaching upon the road, and the Court proposed a fine of 20. Smith, as affeeror, objected that this was excessive, to which Grace, the steward, replied, " Nonsense, who is to pay for all this ?" pointing to the spread upon the table."

In 1856 a major embezzler is tried and sent for transportation. As the judgement comes down, Moreton and Grace  take a cab to one of the houses he bought with his stolen money, kick the guys wife out into the road and stay there. The company the man stole from take them to court. In 1860, the court finds for Moreton, because he's Lord of the fucking Wapentake and he has the legal right to a felons goods. He gets not only the house he is squatting in, but most of the other properties bought with the stolen money as well.

Eventually Moreton dies and Grace gets his hands on the Secret Documents. He performs one useful action for Birkenhead, the train lines over the pavement at the Green Bank station are leaking terribly, leaving the road a mess for people to walk through. Grace goes to the owning company and threatens to repossess the train line as Lord of the Wapentake, not willing to test this threat, they fix the leak.

Ultimately, the mad rule of the Wapentake is brought to an end by an act of parliament. Moreton still retains the title of the Lordship of Wirral until his death.

What happened to the ill-gotten (but legally attained) fortune of the 'Lord of Wirral'?

Apparently Moreton falls ill and....

"After the medical man left, the Very Rev. Canon Fisher, a well-known Roman Catholic dignitary, with whom Mr. Moreton had been in frequent communication, was sent for. Upon his arrival he found the old man in extremis ... the rev. gentleman produced a form of will already drawn out, raised Mr. Moreton up in the bed, put on his spectacles, placed a pen in his hand, and, without reading the will over to him, got hold of his hand and guided the fingers of the dying and insensible man to form his signature at the foot of the will .... By this will the whole of Mr. Moreton's property ....  is bequeathed to the Right Rev. Alexander Goss, Bishop of Liverpool, for the benefit of religion as taught by the Roman Catholic Church."

Bootleg Bots of the Unset Strip

This took far too long and I've forgotten why I started. I think Zak wanted there to be more Hip-Hop RPG's so I invented this world but then I decided it needed to be an anime series so I wrote this insane script thing as an opener. It isn't that good but at east its kind of original. Which should be the sub title of this blog




Visual - A world of high technology and optimal human achievement rolls before our eyes. Powered by... ROBOTS! Robots in every shape and size.

Voice Over - We were programmed to protect and aid mankind.

...

Visual - A gigantic disc in space, closer, it is being constructed by robots, a stunning piece of giga technology that could dwarf nations.

Voice Over - The solar collector was mans last chance for cheap energy and a clean world. We built it for them.

...

Visual - In darkened rooms all over the world, ice-white fingers and predatory eyes.

Voice Over - But there was something even we couldn't predict, something we were never programmed to understand.

...

Visual - In a blood-splattered boardroom, the drained body ofa girl slumps to the ground. In the pentagon a naked child runs screaming, in the Vatican a Cardinal places an exsanguinated head upon a plate.

Voice Over - Ancient, immortal, the perfect predators of mankind. The Vampires

...

Visual - Blacked-out shuttles launch from the dark side of the earth, and converge on the gigantic disk, now nearly complete.

Voice Over - They took the solar collector

...

Visual - Earth seen from space, an eclipse-disc of darkness covers the United States, except for a thin sliver of gold on the west coast.

Voice Over - And with it, they blotted out the sun from the American sky.

...

Visual - Crowds flee from burning cities as Vampire armies march

Voice Over - In the unending dark, they took America.

...

Visual - A pale president and a pale senate in a dark and lightless capitol.

Voice Over - Now in these Unlighted States, the President is immortal, he has always been the president and always will be.

...

Visual -  World-leaders pay homage to the Vampire President in a sephurchal United Nations.

Voice Over -  as the Vampires control worlds most defensible major nation, they also control the power from the solar collector. They are the lords of world-energy and there is little anyone can do.

...

Visual - Seen from space, the western seaboard looks like the golden flames that rim a burning leaf

Voice Over - Except, here. The shadow of the collector couldn't cover everything at once.

...

Visual - The californian mega-conurbation. A densely-populated city state. On one side the pacific, on the other, a wall of darkness.

Voice Over - This is the Unset Strip a city of eternal light.

...

Visual -  The sun sets in the west of the Unset Strip, falling into the pacific. But as it does, the camera turns up. The rim of the solar collector burns in the night sky like a river of fire.

Voice Over - Thanks to a freak of engineering and orbital dynamics, the sun never really sets.

...

Visual - Montage of wild Unset Strip. Gangs and Robots battle. The Castles of Los Angeles. Byzantine markets. Cop gangs, mutants, sea-people, fusion-engine hotrods, cyborg MMA, skyscraper sniper clans, the remains of the Pacific Fleet at anchor.

Voice Over - The Unlighted States surrenders no sovereignty over this sunlit city, so government will intervene there. But They can't control it either. An ungoverned zone. A realm for the free and the damned. Full of refugee cultures from all over america and the world, banished Vampires, broken or abandoned AI's and technological experiments, genetic engineering, utopian communities, crime gangs, ethnarchies, free thinkers and...

...

Visual - In the wreck of the USS Nimitz, the last president preys to an icon of Washington, surrounded by acolyte senators.

Voice Over - the final remnants of the defeated U.S. government-in-exile. Now, after 35 exiled presidents little more than a semi-religious cult, still dreaming of one day liberating a homeland none of them have ever seen.

...

Visual - In the ruins of vampire-Patrolled New York, a simple maintenance robot goes about its duties, blindly cleaning blood from the streets.

Voice Over - But what about us? The ROBOTS?

...

Visual -  The Robot follows the trail of blood to a crevice in which hides a naked child.

Voice Over - We haven't all forgotten.

...

Visual - Behind the Robot, hunting vampires loom.

...

Visual - The maintenance-bot SWINGS for the Vampires. Its metal fist CRUSHES and immortal skull. Its metal leg SMASHES a vampiric spine. The Vampires scrabble at its metal hide.

...

Visual - The Robot is finally dragged away by Vampires, but as the camera turns the child has fled.

Voice Over - The punishment for rebellion is severe.

...

Visual - At the top of the midnight wall, a Vampire military group seizes robots and flings them over the wall.

Voice Over - Death.

...

Visual - The Robot falls down the Midnight wall, it bounces and smashes against the walls surface, parts fly off, limbs are crushed.

...

Visual - The Robot SMASHES into the scrap field at the bottom of the wall.


...

Visual - The scrap pile glimmers in the eternal sun. In the distance scavenge-tribes gather and advance.

Voice Over - But

...

Visual - A smashed robotic hand reaches forth from the enfolding scrap.

Voice Over - Not all of us die.

...

Visual - A montage of whirring bolts, attaching limbs, hasty repairs.

Voice Over - Some of us survive, adapt..

...

Visual - The scrap-tribe approaches clambering forth over the rubbish pile, tase-lances at the ready.

Voice Over - create and build..

...

Visual - The Robot Burst Forth. Its new hacked togther form of semi-random parts looking glitchy, kind of monstrous yet somehow cool. The Scrap Tribe falls back in awe.

Voice Over - New Bootleg Bodies to survive the Unset Strip

...

Visual - Montage of various exciting things happening, really its nearly eleven here and I've been doing this for far too long

Voice Over - Here, in out new home, we fight to stay alive in the relics of a forgotten word and the madness of the new.

...

Visual - A Robot faces off against some goons who are threatening some kids.

Voice Over - To protect the weak.

...

Visual - Robots heist a blood for money deal leaving a screaming vampire shaking its fist as they escape into the sun.

Voice Over - Steal from the rich

...

Visual - The camera turns towards he midnight wall, and begins to float over it, looking deep into the darkness beyond.

Voice Over - and perhaps, one day

...

Visual - We close in on the Capitol of Bone, and slowly zoom  until we are looking through the white house window, where the president stands.

Voice Over - Even find a way to challenge the immortal President himself, and return the sun to these Unlighted States.

a souffte amblynge pace

Sir Thomas Malory wrote ‘Le Morte D’Arthur’ – the core compilation and central text of the British Arthurian mythos. The speech in this section appears nowhere in Malorys source texts, suggesting it’s probably something he invented and inserted himself.

(All of this is from the Norton Critical edition, edited by Stephen H. A. Shepherd. The line breaks, punctuation, spelling and fonts are as close to that book as I can get them.)

Now turne we to Sir Launcelot that rode with the damsel in a fayre hygheway. “Sir,” seyde the damesall, “here by this way hauntys a knight that dystressis all ladyes and jantylwomen, and at the leste he robbyth them other lyeth by hem.”

“What?” seyde Sir Launcelot, “is he a theff and a knight and a ravyssher of women? He doth shame unto the order of knyghthode, and contrary unto his oth. Hit is pyte that he lyvyth:

“But, fayre damsel, ye shall ryde on before, yourself, and I woll kepe myself in covert; and yf that he trowble yow other dystresse you, I shall be your rescowe and lerne hym to be ruled as a knight.” So thys mayde rode on by the way a souffte amblynge pace –

And within a whyle com oute a knight on horseback owte of the woode, and his page with hym; and there he put the damesell frome hir horse – and than she cryed.

With that com Sir Launcelot as faste as he might tyll he com to the knight sayng, “A, false knight and traytoure unto knyghthode, who dud lerne the to distresse ladyes, damesels and jantyllwomen?”

Whan the knight sy Sir Launcelot thus rebukynge hym, he answered nat but drew his swerde and rode unto Sir Launcelot. And Sir Launcelot threw his spere frome hym and drew his swerde, and strake hym suche a buffette on the helmette that he claffe his hede and necke unto the throte.

“Now haste thou thy payment that longe thou haste deserved!” “That is trouth,” seyde the damesell-

“For lyke as Terquyn wacched to dystresse good knyghtes, so dud this knight attende to destroy and dystresse ladyes, damesels, and jantyllwomen – and his name was Sir Perys de Forest Savage.” “Now, damesell,” seyde Sir Launcelot “woll ye ony more servyse of me?”

“Nay, sir,” she seyde, “at thys tyme, but allmyghty Jesu preserve you wheresomever ye ryde or goo, for the curteyst knight thou arte – and mekyste unto all ladyes and jantylwomen – that now lyvyth:

“But one thing, sir knight, methynkes ye lak-

“Ye that ar a knight wyveles, that ye woll nat love som mayden other jantylwoman. For I cowed never here sey that ever ye loved ony of no maner of degree, and that is grete pyte:

“But hit is noysed that ye love Queue Gwenyvere, and that she hath ordeyned by enchauntemente that ye shall never love none other but hir, nother none other damesall ne lady shall rejoice you – wherefore there be many in this londe, of hyghe astate and lowe, that make grete sorrow.”

“Fayre damesell,” seyde Sir Launcelot, “I may not warne peple to speke of me what hit pleasyth hem. But for to be a weddyd man, I thynke hit nat, for than I muste couche with hir and leve armys and turnamentis, batellys and adventures. And as for to sey to take my pleasaunce with paramours, that woll I refuse – in prencipall for drede of God, for knyghtes that bene adventures sholde nat be advoutrers nothir lecherous, for than they be nat happy nother fortunate unto the werrys; for other they shall be overcome with a sympler knight than they be himself, other ellys they shall sle by unhappe and hir cursednesse bettir men than they be himself:

And so who that usyth paramours shall be unhappy, and all thynge unhappy that is aboute them.”

[I feel I should translate, even a little, the final paragraph because even for people who might actively enjoy reading old English text it might be difficult to the point of annoyance. My translation is inaccurate as to the exact meaning, as all translations must be:

“Fair damsel,” said Sir Launcelot, “I may not forbid people to speak of me what they please. But for me to be a wedded man, I think it not, for then I must to-bed with and leave arms and tournaments, battles and adventures. And as for to say to take my pleasure with paramours, that well I refuse – in principal for dread of God, for a knight that takes adventures should not be adulterer nor lecherous, for then he be not lucky nor fortunate unto the wars; for either he shall be overcome by a lesser knight than he be, other else he shall slay by mischance and his cursedness better men than he be himself:

And so who that uses paramours shall be unhappy, and all things unhappy that is about them.”]

Malory wrote this in prison. This is what he was in for, again, quotes from the Norton Critical Edition:

“Aug. 23, 1451 Malory is charged at Nuneaton, Warwickshire, in the presence of Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, with the following crimes:

·         Attempted murder of the Duke of Buckingham, by ambush with twenty-six other men, in the Abbot’s woods at Combe, Warwickshire, Jan 4, 1450.

·         “Rape” (raptus) of Joan Smith, at Coventry, May 23, 1450.

·         Extortion of money from two monks of Monks Kirby, Warwickshire, May 31, 1450.

·         Second “rape” of Joan Smith, and theft of £40’s worth of goods from her husband, Aug.6 1450.

·         Extortion of money from another monk of Monks Kirby, Aug. 31 1450.

·         Theft of seven cows, two calves, 335 sheep, and a cart worth £22 at Cosford, Warwickshire, June 4, 1451.

·         Theft of six does and infliction of £500’s worth of damage in the duke of Buckingham’s deer park at Cauldron, Warwickshire, July 20, 1451.

·         Escaping imprisonment at the house of Sheriff Sir William Montford at Coleshill, Warwickshire (Malory swims the moat at night), July 27, 1451.

·         Robbery, with ten accomplices, of £46 in money and £40’s worth of ornaments from Combe Abbey, July 28, 1451.

·         Further robbery at Combe Abbey, with one hundred accomplices, of £40 in money and five rings, a small psalter, two silver bells, three rosaries, and two bows, and three sheaves of arrows.

By Jan. 27, 1452, and until July 1460. Held at various prisons in London (Ludgate, King’s Bench, the Tower of London, and Newgate) awaiting a trial that never happened. During this period Malory is released on bail several times; during two of these periods of temporary freedom he is implicated in further crimes:

·         Theft of four oxen from Lady Katherine Peyton at Sibbertoft, Nottinghamshire.

·         Harbouring another alleged criminal, his servant John, and attempting with him to steal horses in the environs of Great Easton, Essex.

For the latter he is jailed at Colchester, Essex, from whence he escapes, Oct. 30, 1454. He is recaptured and returned to prison in London. Not long after the seizure of London by Yorkist forces in July 1460, Malory is probably freed from prison.”

…

But he ends up back there, and probably dies there.

This is probably the most interesting thing about heroic fiction I have ever read. The Arthurian Myth is a deep dream of harmonious order, written in prison in a time of chaos by a man who was effectively an agent of chaos. A man who was effectively a D&D murder-hobo.

I am only about a third of the way in and this man astonishes me. He feels like a fulcrum at the heart of British, and English identity, this passionate, insanely romantic, violent, dreamy man who was effectively a son of a bitch. Not one but two counts of rape and an attempted assassination.

This, to me, is the most psychologically interesting writer in the English tongue.  

"Ain't we a pair"

Max has to keep getting reincarnated in different realities until he fixes his relationship with the spirit of his wife and son. He has to save both at the same time but never quite pulls it off.

From the perspective of his wife its about her spirit becoming strong enough to re-build the world in a better way, but grappling with her own anger and desire for power.

The child just wants to live. but will protect Max if it can.

In Mad Max I his wife is a weak victim and she and the son die.

In Road Warrior she comes back as a fierce warrior woman to protect both herself and the children, Max doesn't recognise her and she dies on top of the tanker. He does save his son though, in the guise of the Feral Child.

In Thunderdrome the spirit of his wife is angry over her multiple deaths. She has grown in power again and now rules Bartertown, but her urge to power has made her tyrannical. Max doesn't recognise her and pisses her off. She banishes him. He meets the children and ends up saving them, again saving the spirit of his dead son. At the end his wife forgives him, but he has ruined Bartertown and she has to rebuild it.

She does recognise him though before the end:

In Fury Road his wife is Furiosa. She's still angry with him. Again they don't recognise each other. This time he manages to protect her and help her back into power,hopefully creating a less-evil society and repairing the damage he did to Bartertown. The child-spirit guides and protects Max but the only child in the film (Joe's baby) dies.

So Max has to keep going to the next reality to see if he can save both.

Can you BECOME a random generator?

When I was being a big hippy playing story games whenever I needed to generate something and there was no point where dice needed to be rolled and no random table, this is what I would do;

I would look off into the middle distance. I would imagine everything about the game world that I could, try to hold as much of it in my mind at once. I would try to hold it uncategorised, the pieces would not be consciously arranged by type or ordered in hierarchies.

I would try to imagine the active elements, all the people and monsters, but also weather systems and plots and nations, in a state of half-completion.

That is, someone in the middle of getting off their horse, one leg slung over, weight shifted, already almost inevitably on their way down. Not frozen in the action in the same way as a photograph would freeze it, but held, not looping through the same thing but with time stilled.

It sounds complicated when you try to put it into words but when you run it through your mind you realise that you can imagine the essence of a movement without it being like a snapshot in your head, or like a repeating gif, you can just recall the nature of the movement itself.

Anyway, that immanence of something being about to happen but no absolute guarantee as to what is how I would try to imagine the active living things.

Sensual aesthetic things are important too. How would the ash-stained snow feel? What does it smell like, how to boots crunch walking through it.

So I would hold this all in my head as intensely as possible and, this is the important part, for as short a time as possible.

As much as I can, in as much depth as I can, absolutely without forcing it to any particular decision. Something will then rise to the surface. it must be two things, it must have the right fit, and it must be unexpected. It must genuinely surprise me. That shock is important.

It’s a kind of a paradoxical thing, the shock and the rightness. You must think 'of course that would happen' but you must also be surprised.

The whole thing shouldn't take more than 5-15 seconds, if it has gone on too long it has probably failed.

Now obviously, looked at rationally this is not a random generator of any kind. Everything there came from inside my head. There was no outside force.

But it _felt_ random. At the moment of creation it was unexpected.

You can't roll dice inside your head, but all dice really do it bounce about in gravity and air. You could argue that if you knew all the physical forces acting on the dice at the moment of the throw then you could calculate the exact result ever time. You could go further and say that if you knew all the circumstances in which the dice were thrown, with a god-like knowledge, then you could still predict the result.

Does a vast number of powerful idea's and potentials colliding in the human mind have more or less potential for a random result than a platonic sold falling through the air?

I would submit that if the dice can genuinely be random then the mind can, in some circumstances, be random as well.

Counter-arguments?

The mind takes in ordered information and all it does is create order. You cannot get randomness from mashing different kinds of order together.

(Maybe you can? The dice analogy again.)

Just because something feels like a surprise that doesn't mean it is one. There are lots of levels operating below your conscious mind and one of them will simply hand you the result it thinks you want.

(Maybe if there are lots of levels and inner factors in the mind, and I bring as many of them into play as possible as quickly as possible, then it gets more random, not less?

If one person works for you in an office and you keep asking them questions the answers will not be random but if a hundred people do and you force them all to leap into unexpected work that is unfamiliar to them without specifying an exact answer and then take the first good result, that must be more random at least.)

The mind creates patterns, it’s impossible for people to generate a bunch of random numbers without there being some pattern to them, that's how codes get broken. If you can't generate simple random numbers what makes you think you can generate more complex structured forms of information and have them be random?

(Numbers are alien to the mind. It is bad at numbers. It is good at complex 3d environments, complex social situations, interesting objects that can be grasped in the hands and highly distinctive living beings. This is the natural programming language of the mind. So using this language will allow you to manipulate and combine much more data than simply using numbers, human processing capacity improves the further from abstract data you get so even though you can’t create a string of purely random numbers your capacity to create a random event, with powerful and energising constraints, in conjunction with the processing capacity of other people who are also doing what their minds are naturally good at, might be much higher.)

I would argue that in the right conditions you can use your mind to generate something at least as random as the throw of a die.

Rashamoron

(Editors note; there are a lot more people in this story than simply those speaking below. I had to cut it down to only the few who had provided a first person narration, which meant that a lot got left out. Chris did a fine one in third person, Rey, I left yours out as it all happened some distance from Joe and Grunion and I didn’’t think it had enough context on its own to be self explanatory. Sorry. If other people add theirs for the same events I will bring it back in. It took hours to arrange as it was. If you were there and want to add your own, let me know.)

Gruntruck:

The northern city of Nornrik is a pitiless place of ice and stone. The trees thin, giving a wide berth to these jagged fortifications at the edge of the world. A suitable home for the contemptible white elves, whose clans are numerous and have names difficult to pronounce with southern tongues.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

    For years I had fled that place and my family with it, wandering deserts to ply my trade under strange stars with but a handful of copper pieces to my name. Now that I have returned, I have reason to wish I had not.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

..somebody here owes me money. Alas, the (somewhat paltry) reward has already been given out, and now the nobleman whose son or nephew or whatever we returned is trying to convince us to kill the queen of this city.

Gruntruck:

 It’s here we found ourselves, being asked to assassinate the Queen of Nornrik by Baron Allrath of House Rath Orlath.

Said queen is a 100 ft tall frost giantess...and known lover(?) of Tizane, saviour and cleric of Vornheim...who was also in our party.

Pete Loudley: (Drunk)

And he’s only offering us 12,000 gold pieces, which is maybe a fifth of what we were paid to fetch a weasel. Admittedly, the weasel turned out to be much more than it appeared, and it was on a separate continent, but still. Market value, yes?

Gruntruck:

So we rejected the offer, and beat feet into the frigid streets of Nornrik, off to see the Queen and inform her of her subject’s treachery.

On the way we encountered a score of elf soldiers, all of them barbaric and drunk, or civilized and drunk. They quickly noticed us.

“You there! Such fat creatures! What’re you doing here being so fat and wide!”

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

   “I am of your house, do you not recognise me?”

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

I won’t be the first amongst you that’s seen a fellah git stabbed by a member of his own family, why, there just about the folks most likely to do it, all things considered.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

I have seen him slay a slaad in a single strike, and stand toe to toe with demons and cannibal mermaids, and he appears to have a strongly enchanted sword; I turn to the nearest bystander and start placing bets.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Ah was anti-chromatic at the time, that is to say, intangible to the eyes. Now old Joe looks kinda like somethin' you'd bang out of a biscuit or feed to an owl, so my ensorcelment was fortunate, visibility-wise, that is. 

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

The fight goes poorly, however. I miss the details, but Malice’s weapon lies on the ground, and Malice himself has been shrunk to a fraction of his usual size.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

So, when I seen this elven gentleman in my acquaintance feuding with his kin on the streets of his own city I say’s to myself;

“Joe” for it’s always been my nature to name myself in my own thoughts to make sure of just whom I’m addressing “Joe “ thinks I “this fools surrounded, shrunk and nowhere near drunk enough to be killin’ a cousin in daytime. Best you do with this like cousin Elwin did with that pig that went wild in the pantry, and occlude the fellow eyes. With delicacy Joe, with delicacy, for these are some fine folks, and use yer best bag too.”

Well that’s just what ah did. And down it goes, now that drunk cousin calmed hisself down right quick, just like that pig did, and it looks like things are lookin real pretty.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

For my own part, I only suffered a few minor scratches and a slight magical reduction in stature.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well that fool Malice only goes and starts that fight right back up. That’s feuding for you.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

At this point I remember all the times I have observed this same Malice fall from great heights, and stumble loudly about when trying to sneak about. A bag has appeared over someone’s head…

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

(I’ll speak frankly and tell you that the issue with the bag weren’t quite the first thing to leap to Joe’s mind. Truth is I tried just about every wild-mule scheme that a fellah can try when he’s invisible and monstrously formed in a city he don’t know with a language he don’t speak. I threw bout’ twenty kinds of bullshit at that issue and just at the end some of it stuck.)

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

..and a voice from the crowd begins shouting about a fire. This understandably concerns some people, but they do not know that a number of my comrades have taken to wandering about invisibly, and are prone to shenanigans.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Came about’s that my boy Malice won that dang duel. (Ah never had a lick of doubt about it.)

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

A duel which certain of  my travelling companions, afraid I would lose, used as an excuse to start a panic in the city by use of invisibility, sacks, and calling out that the house of my ancestors was burning to the ground--after the crowd believed them, and a panic began to spread in a city already much oppressed by both local and foreign intrigues.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

It was about that time that folks about started thinkin’ that they house was burnin down. Might be I had something to do with that.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

The dragoon apologized, and I sent him home with money, a crutch, and my name.  I re-joined my companions and the Witch-Consort before they entered the palace.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well they got fair het up about it, started dashin’ and runnin’ hither and yon. So I thinks to myself;

“Joe, old Fiddlin Joe Cooper” you’ll recall how I address my own self internally, that is to say, in the privacy of mah skull. “Joe why don’t you follow those fellahs runnin’ home and see just what they’re about.”

Gruntruck:

Here the party splits. With the duel concluded, most of the party enters the castle, seeking an audience with Oscula. Meanwhile, Fiddlin’ Joe, Malice, and Grunion make haste to House Aforth Ot with the small mob of elves.

Upon seeing their home safe and unburned, Fiddlin’ Joe invisibly puts a sack on another elf’s head.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

“Now Joe” I  hear you sayin “when you bagged that first fellah, it near almost made sense. That is to say, we could follow yer logic. But now you go baggin another, for no reason? And usin yer last bag  for it too? Old Joe, why you go do a dammn stupid thing like that?”

Truth is, I got no explanation for you. It just seemed the thing to do at the time. I’ve always had a devil in me for mischief. Lookin’ back on things, it might be real lucky for us all that I ran out of bags.

Gruntruck:

Cries of sorcery and panic fill the streets.

“A plague of sacks! Sorcery! All is wrong!”

In the castle, we’re served wine (its description eludes me, but it sounded great).

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

We are received graciously at the palace, which is a remarkably rare occurrence. The wine here is fantastic: I briefly consider the feasibly of exporting it in quantity before remembering the erratic nature of inter-universal travel. Ah well, maybe I can obtain some before we leave...

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

It would be unnecessary, and furthermore impossible, to convey in full detail the splendour of the palace, the sumptuous wine, the titanic beauty of Oscula herself or her voice, which one feels rising within their bones as much as hears through the ears.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

A one hundred foot tall giant whose every step reverberates through the entire palace has just surprised me. I should drink less.

Gruntruck:

Tizane presentes Oscula with numerous gifts of vanquished enemies and pet dinosaurs, while the rest of us explain the situation.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

I am trading shop talk with the Court Alchemist, discovering uses for several bits of monsters we’ve been ghoulishly carting around for just this reason

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Ah grew lonesome and sought out the crew ah came in with. Found em’ just about right where ah expected, takin’ tea with a giant in a palace of ice. “That’s their style right enough Fiddlin Joe’” ah thought to myself, makin’ sure to add mah name at the end there to be certain of who ah was talkin’ to.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

My compatriots, after a brief reflection on the relative value of hundred-foot-tall semi-divine rulers compared to geographically inconvenient mustelids and the obverse proportionality of the sums offered us to acquire or destroy such beings, chose to betray the treasonous acts of a certain Baron Alrath of House Rath Orlath in attempting to hire a band of travelling murderous vagabonds (to wit, ourselves) to remove the head of state.

Gruntruck:

Queen Oscula thanked us, and promised us a reward. She then used her booming voice to call out Allrath to answer for his crimes in a trial by fjord. This gave the party time to mill about, ask questions, and get things done.

Tizane bathed, washing the blood from her numerous presents. Malice sought to contact his family via letter:

“Do you have a salamander?”

“Um...not on my person?”

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

Before preparations for the Trial by Fjord were carried out, word came back that House Rath Orlath had struck down their fortress’ bridges and risen in open rebellion, and that the Queen's soldiers anticipated a long siege.

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

Word comes back that the nobleman is resisting arrest, and has apparently been planning to do so for some time, as his manor is rather effectively turned into a fortress, moat and all. One of our number offers our services to the queen in this matter;

Gruntruck:

“Your large majesty, it would be our pleasure to bring these vile traitors before you. Leave it to us, your tallness!”

Pete Loudly (Drunk)

apparently we’re doing this now, instead of sailing away. My hopes to sail over the edge of this cubic world will have to wait. Metaphors involving cats and herding come to mind.

                                    

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

My compatriots offered their services to bring the traitor to justice, and I rode away to advise my house of the crisis.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Turns out we got ourselves hired! As what, you ask?

LAWMEN.

That’s right, old Joe done turned workin’ for the Pinkertons. Well you can’t say ah don’t have the skills. Mah familiarity with the criminal kind is known and remarked upon.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

After so many years, they greeted me with open arms. After so many years, they still treated me as a child, and ignored my counsel. I asked them to hold their peace. They promised only caution (and delivered less than that.) I left mere minutes after arriving, telling them I would go and observe the siege. They made no attempt to bar my passage. I wonder if I will ever return again?

Gruntruck:

So we set out to the fortified keep of House Rath Orlath, only to find it almost impregnable. A massive ‘poisoned’ moat, archers in the towers, and after a few stray magic missiles, a magical rune barrier!

Still, some progress was made.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

At House Rath Orlath, my associates were already in motion. Invisible wizardss flew overhead, gathering intelligence. An attempt to breach the wall by magic was made, and runes warding it against such attempts discovered.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

The city has a number of canals crisscrossing it, with bridges at several levels. This manor has a sizeable wall, with a door set flush with it, and the lone bridge stops about a dozen feet short. The canal underneath appears to have been tampered with, as well.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Now, there was only one difficulty with this fellow we was arrestin’, that is to say, his castle. An the army inside it. An the moat, (acidic you know?) together with the towers and walls and, oh damn, just about every dang thing a fellah would need if he was dead-set on not getting’ arrested at all.

And it addition to that, that dang place was buttered up with some kind a hoodoo-resistant coating. Ain’t a damn lick of magic could get in or out.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

It was at this point that the descent into calamity began.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well old Joe never did like waitin’ So he asks these two invisible wizardss he knows, Loud Pete and Gaffer Sticks (ah named him that on account of his birdlike legs and extreme age) to just scoop him up and hurl him at that dang wall.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

Fiddlin' Joe, a human-sized cockroach and the bravest of us, volunteered to be flown invisibly atop the walls and vanished, presumably inside the fortress somewhere.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

Notice a woozy feeling pass over me as we fly over the wall, put it down to the drink. In retrospect, I could easily have died; that was an anti-magic barrier, which fortunately did not affect me this time.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

It’s right about now my tendency to avoid over-thinkin starts getting’ in my way. That is to say. To an observer, it might seem that old Joe had no real idea what he was doin’. Well hold on, says I, and we’ll see about that.

Well you’ve probably seen the inside of castles, more often than not they tend towards a state of locked. That is to say, almost designed to impede yer progress.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

We deliberate, again.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

It’s about this time that my state of induced translucency starts coming in right useful. Those damn guards didn’t know what the hell was going on I tell you! Up goes Joe, and down again, dashin all over that place like the bug he is. Seems ah managed to filch a set of keys of one of those mightily confused elves and just like that, in I go!

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

Within minutes, we heard shouting and the familiar sound of crossbow bolts shattering on stone, followed by silence.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well not entirely. I was shot somewhat. Pin-cushioned  to be precise. And beaten somewhat around the head. And captured.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

I had been hesitating, bound by a lack of clarity. The world is all labyrinths, intertwined and obstacle-filled, which must be navigated with cunning and, at times, hewed through with brute force. A maze of stone and blood and thought through which the only sane path leads towards power. Any other course is madness.

    I did not know which side in this conflict would have the upper hand. I did not even know which side I preferred, aesthetically or otherwise. But saving the lives of those I travel with, and having my life saved by them in turn, is both a habit and a professional necessity in our way of life.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

But that ain’t the end for old Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper. Never has been never will be! Turns out by capturing and nearly killing me, these fools had walked right into my hands! They never had a chance I tell you.

Gruntruck:

Growing impatient, Malice considered buying a flatbow to shoot vials of acid at the door, but thought against it.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well old Joes always been a student of what the greeks called Rhetoric. That’s Bullshit to you and I. So I cracks open the old dung-box and gets spreadin’ just about the most extreme example of de-lusional clap-trap that I or anyone has ever heard tell of at all.

Gruntruck:

Tizane leveraged the might of Vorn to cancel the magical barrier, but it proved too strong.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

“Fellah” I tells this gent I was sent to arrest “why you aint’ locked in, its them out there that’s locked out. Just cause’ you trapped in a castle with people tryin’ ta kill you, it don’t mean they’re against you. Why that’s just circumstance! Turns out most of those folks out there thinks just the way you do about things. Now, obviously, ahm a hideous creature to your eyes, and a thief to boot, havin’ very clearly just broken in, but think about it fellh’ , can’t you see ahm just about as tied up in this situation as you are? Why its that dang Frost Giant Queen out there’s got both of us buffaloed her an”

I’ll remind you to pay especial attention to this part as it’s here that old Fiddlin’ Joes ever-adaptable genius with the human, and in-human mind comes into play.

“why its that Queen and her hidden Goblin allies.” Says I. “They’s all wrapped up in illusion and soon as you get rid of that, well they whole damn city’l be with you!”

Gruntruck:

 After that, the party spent a while throwing flasks of oil onto the far away door and shooting them with flaming arrows.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well, they bought it. Folks who lock themselves in the house for safety are likely to believe just about anything about the world outside. My old Granny was the same way.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)         

    A rope had been slung from the top of the wall near one of the gates by Grunion, one of the aforementioned invisible wizards. The gap between bridge-end and rope was not too large. I climbed into position, took a running start, slipped, and plummeted several dozen feet through the air into the moat.

Gruntruck:

Gruntruck cast a spell to make his voice more imposing, and then shouted like an idiot, accomplishing nothing.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)       

    I have had a fair bit of practice at falling near-fatal distances, and so it wasn't until the waters of the moat closed over my head and began to dissolve my flesh that I became truly concerned. At the same moment, the hallucinations began.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

I fish a hallucinating Malice out of what is clearly a poisonous acid.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)         

    I remember hauling myself from the moat onto a squirming python, which tried alternately to buck me, strangle me, and bite me with its dripping fangs.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

 (He is one of few people I would bother to do this for, though I muse once more upon his vast swings in competence), narrowly avoiding breathing in the hallucinogen myself.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)            

I remember trying to throw my grappling hook to the far wall, only to discover that it too had become a snake and turned against me. I remember the walls rippling and closing in on me, the world moving farther away somehow, a complete departure of my sense of gravity.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

The end result is a stone door covered in oil and burning desultorily, a rope hung from the top of the wall past the door, and another invisible comrade, this time a fellow arcanist named Grunion, swallowed up by this frustrating manor house. One of the runes has been destroyed, to no apparent weakening of the barrier. Perhaps they merely guide the anti-magic, which is powered from deeper within the residence? Tizane decides to leverage her connections for a catapult.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)         

It is an embarassment to be so often indebted to a human wizard, but a lesser one than being drowned and dissolved in hallucinogenic acid with your own rope tied around your neck, or choking on your own death-froth surrounded by laughing toads (as I found myself mere days before this, but I write too much already.)

    Tizane of Vornheim, the aforementioned Witch-Consort, was able to heal me, and my senses returned shortly. We tried to come up with a new plan of attack--using acid to destroy the antimagic runes? Calling for a catapult?--

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Some folks are always eager to believe in what you might call invisible enemies, that is to say, secrecy and plottin and sucklike. You punch these boys in the nuts and they’ll just send you the doctors bill without a second thought. But you hint that someone out there, hidden away, was plottin and plannin’ to punch em in the nuts…. Well they go loco. And that’s just what this fellah did. He went plum loco.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)       

--and as we did, a voice arose from within the House calling for all elves to rise up against the Usurper, the Tyrant, to restore their dignity, and so forth.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

Presumably our target or his relative, though all of these elves look alike to me. Especially in my condition. He exhorts the city to revolution (doubtless we would have his humble leadership to look forward to), citing the use of siege weapons against the native populace.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)         

Having no patience for speeches, I thought to distract and humiliate the speaker, and fired an arrow tipped with a screaming Akenian flower into his trumpeter's trumpet, where it emitted wailing pleas for death.

Gruntruck:

Let it never be said again that the pitiless white elves of Nornrik are easily vanquished. And now, with panic in the streets, and cries of a “sack epidemic” on their lips, they’re ready to revolt. Subjugation under the frost giantesses has only made them colder and harder; their faces taciturn masks of hate and spite.

They make good wine, though.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)         

    Unfortunately, this served to strengthen his cause, as he began to rant about concealed goblins already active among us. Lamentable paranoiac raving, but--given the epidemic of invisible creatures performing pranks, and the horrible screaming flower--plausible.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

Unfortunately, the House of Afforth Ot, Malice’s own people, heed his words and ride forth. There is fighting in the streets.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

We tried to batter our way into the castle by catapult, as dragoons and infantry clashed in the streets,

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

The catapult stones fall into the acid moat, splashing it everywhere.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

and eventually succeeded in destroying a single door.

Tizane expressed a need to depart, but said she would leave a blessing of Vorn with us to protect us and our troops from the chaos that threatened to engulf us.

   So saying, she surrounded us with a huge whirling circle of rusty man-sized blades, spoke a single word, and vanished.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

I will admit to a small amount of jealousy, but constant obeisance to the whims of another is much too high a price. She then is called away, or simply tires of our antics, and disappears.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

   The blades followed me wherever I went, keeping the same distance, obliterating anything that attempted to cross them. This kept us safe,

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

Unfortunately our soldiers are inside the whirling blades, and moving the spell would dice them finely

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

but also trapped our soldiers and meant that we destroyed buildings before we could enter them.

    It was then that I had the idea…

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

so we have them climb the catapult and jump over. This puts them in danger from the marauding House of Afforth Ot, and fighting breaks out.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

   We ordered the soldiers out of the circle, using our catapult as a makeshift bridge, and when only Pete and I were left I tied myself into a harness of ropes, and had him carry me into the air.

    The blades remained on the ground, following us as your shadow does when the sun is directly above you. It was here, looking down over the city, that I had my vision.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

. Once in the air, though, I must reconsider…

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

    Perhaps it was an aftereffect of the acid.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

I have no particular compunction against bloody destruction,

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

Perhaps it was divine inspiration, directly from Vorn—

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

but to wreak havoc with no purpose, upon friend and foe alike, is not a long term strategy worthy of an intellect such as mine.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

Perhaps it was simply born of stress and confusion and irritation at having no clear way to proceed, no real certainty of which foe it was I should be moving against…

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

Besides, that barrier is still up, preventing spellcasting inside the manor.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

..but until this moment I had never understood what it would mean to wield the power of a god.

Suspended over the city, with the freedom to move and destroy, I saw a battlefield where those who served my family were killing those I had undertaken to serve, and realized that it was within my power to reduce this sorry mass of complications and conflicted loyalties to a simpler geometry of rubble and red ruined corpses; to end it all so suddenly and with such incomparable force that all who saw would be overcome by their awe and dismay.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

We will need warm bodies to feed the gods of war, as none save the monk and Malice are even remotely competent in a clash of arms; my alchemical and mutative abilities are vast, but ill suited to open fighting.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

    We advanced, and the blades of Vorn rent apart the facades of thousand-year-old buildings on either side of the street. Dust kicked up. The melee increased in intensity as each side fought to throw the other towards the spinning blades. I called for surrender, exhorting them not to turn elf against elf at a time when the whole world stands imperilled by Tiamat and Demogorgon.

    My words, well-chosen or ill, were too quiet to be heard over the whirlwind of destruction below. No one listened. And it was here that I made my mistake.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

With reluctance, I convince Malice that we should turn around, and test the might of Tizane’s god upon this barrier instead.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

    I relented. I listened to the drunken mumblings of Pete about this being, "Maybe a bad idea, man." I did not look through the forms of the elves struggling in the street below me to the essential meaninglessness of it all, but was trapped by pathetic sympathy for them. I ordered Pete to turn about, to test the power of the blades against imperfect strength of a damaged anti-magic wall.

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

We veer, mighty blades whirling and sending up chunks of cobblestones, tearing gaping holes in walls where the street narrows. As we reach the moat, a vortex of acid whips up. Metal screams, winds howl, there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. We aim for the precise point where the sigils have been damaged and we deem the barrier to be weakest.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

    We wheeled about in the sky, inscribing half a block of the city with deep-cut spirals, and launched out directly at the impenetrable fortress. The blades whipped into the acid lake, enormous, unstoppable, blasting it upward into a frothing vortex of physical and mental dissolution that pocked the surrounding walls and streets with deep pits.

The blades whirled on, touched the warding surface..

Pete Loudly: (Drunk)

The blades wink out of existence. I hate this place. Why did I stop him? This city deserves bloody ruin.

Malice Afforth-Ot: (White Elf)

     In the next few moments, we were shot several times with crossbow bolts--not too badly, but they served to punctuate the immensity of what had been lost. We made it back out, and stared at the barely-dented fortress, once again reduced to a tiny fraction of an immense circumstance beyond our control.

    I have heard it said that the measure of one's character can be found not only in the analysis of actions, but also in the analysis of regrets. Know, then, that I regret nothing more than not dragging the shadow-halo of Vorn's destruction through the streets of the city I was born in, ripping it apart and destroying all who would stand against me. I regret that I am not more of a monster than I am. Ruthless action has carried me as far as I have come, and I feel that it alone can carry me further.

   The opportunity is lost, the error made. It is better not to dwell upon it--but should another present itself, I swear I will not be so weak.

“Gaffer” Grunion
Captured, cunningly, unwelcome guests were we, the Seeliest Grig and I, the woeful wysard of joy bereft and the jigging joyful waylorn monstrosity veiled both by dwimmer-craft.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well I ain’t been captured but a lick of time and ah’ve just about got the guards convinced that either they, or me, or lord whatshisname is a doggone goblin spy, but who gits dragged in, invisible to boot?

Why it’s good old Gaffer Sticks! The old fellah came in ta help me out!

“Gaffer” Grunion

In an oubliette we languished unseen and forlorn

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well turns out old gaffer has a real good idea. You recall that fellah we brought back after rescuing? They reason we came to the city at all? Well he’s right here!

“Gaffer” Grunion

until in wisdom unparalleled I cried out to our wicked captors and invoked the name of Duke Vaulwraath whose wretched life we had in foolish younger days snatched from terrible paws. A scion of the House was he and inane with credulity beyond the most gullible idiot child.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Now I’ll be frank, this guy ain’t much smarter than his paw is and it aint long before gaffers got him wrapped right around his little finger. (Fact is, we did save the poor boys life, couple of times maybe, and dragged him home half way across the whole world, so he had reason to think we was upstandin’ citizens, specially me.)

“Gaffer” Grunion

He came and lead us forth, through the frozen citadel, babbling like a gowk, showing us here a demon frozen in a sorcerous snare, there an aqueduct of sacred tears, all foulness and depravity, unspeakable blasphemy harnessed by tyrant sorcery.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Turns out these boys got themselves a dang daemon in an ice cube! Well I’ll be! Must be that what’s powrin’ that anti-hoodoo shell they got.

“Gaffer” Grunion

Away and afar, below and beneath in its fastnesses of ragged stone our compatriots in righteousness suffered and died in brutal fight with the wicked white unseelie thralls of frozen hate. For Vorn they bled and wept in a honeycomb of nightmares while the flippant popinjay blathered his blatherings. Their sacrifice was not unnoticed. Their blood fell like rain and their iron sang a hymn of Vorn.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

We’ll this damn deamon’s got some kinda coolant system keepin’ it all chilled out as they say. We’ll what powers that we ask him. He aint shy about showin us neither.

“Gaffer” Grunion

On we went. And it came to pass that we entered the last hallow and looked upon that which none should see, the end of worlds, despicable dark unending and immortal radiance. His eye, in a cage of spines, weeping his truth. 

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

It’s a damn GIANT EYE. ‘What the HELL’ I thinks. And you can tell ah was distressed cause ah neglected to name myself as I do. Now this big weeping eye was bad enough on top of everything else, but, even though I’d never seen anything like it, ah couldn’t shake the feeling like it knew me somehow.

Anyway, that fellah whose life we saved? Reason we ended up here? Pushed him outta window.

“Gaffer” Grunion

To an attic we ushered that giggling abhorrence to an unceremonious defenestration and the swift embrace of stone unyielding. Then quickly to the aid of Him we rushed and five spines did that chitinous apostle of the Truth remove from his sacred flesh.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Ah got real busy bangin spikes outta that eye like chiggers from a boot-hole. Why, seemed just about the only thing to do. Old Gaffer Sticks disappears for a while, then turns up sayin we got elves askin about the fellah they seen fallin outta the window.

“Well get up her boy!” says I “An help me free this dang GOD EYE, less you think you got somethin’ better to do?”

“Gaffer” Grunion

In ages to come, in iron shrines in the northern rain shall those mighty deeds of Yusephus the Fiddler  be in gilded ikons rendered. But the sixth spine that perpetuated his agony was mine to remove. And he was free.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Well the damn thing got free, and no sooner but it goes rollin! That’s spheres for ya. Strange thing is, just as that giant eye rolled towards me, lookin like it about ta crush me ta death, all that goes through old Fiddlin’ Joe’s head is “Not again”. Aint that strange?

“Gaffer” Grunion

 And we touch him and of a sudden we could see, a blissful servitude, a chosen seat among his templars. Far and far the thunder of his silence rolled.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Now it’s about this time that Fiddlin’ Joe goes and gets religion. Rather unexpectedly too.

“Gaffer” Grunion

A sky of fire. Mountains of ice in tumult, dying and born again. To be the servant of a living god is no servitude, nor ignominy, nor shame, but a storm of joy, unspeakable laughter in the rain.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

And we RIDE THAT EYE! Ah tell you we hopped on that there god eye and rode it just like a dung ball from back home! We crushed and murdered just about every sunbitch got in our way and rode that eye right through the walls and off the roof! Praise be ta Vorn!

“Gaffer” Grunion

From his broken cathedral must needs we flee to the lap of his daughter to prostrate ourselves before her, whose wrath will free him and succor his woe. Him who is ever after the master of us and we his beloved slaves.

‘Fiddlin’ Joe Cooper (Hobo)

Turns out we got a friend out there, Nack the Monk, Kung-Fu fellah you know? With the punchin and such? Well Gaffer and I get crushed and shot just about to pieces and I don’t reckon we woulda minded much cause it was a hellofa ride. But that boy Nack hops right over the wall, shrugs off some arrows like they aint nothing but ticks, kicks three boys to death in about twelve seconds (the last one fled you know?), then before we know it he got potions down our throats and away we go!

After all that we’re kinda back where we started, with us outside and them in, cept now instead of invisible we’re fumitory and two-dimensional respectively. That’s adventuring for ya.

Ah still feel kinda bad about that boy we murdered though. But what do ya expect if you go keepin’ a dang GOD EYE in ya house? An’ in the attic too?