Fighting is Really Good Exercise. Therefore, it Can Get Tiring.

I've always loved violence. I know that's an awful thing to say, but I only say it because it's the awful reality. There must be something hereditary about it; it's a vestige of the days when humans were wild, when fighting was closer to necessary. Luckily, there are healthy ways to indulge that craving. One of them is this business I wish to break into.

When I was much younger, I longed for non-stop action; entire episodes of the Ninja Turtles where they did nothing but fight. Ah, to be naive again.

Nowadays, I'm much more appreciative of quick-and-brutal. Something more realistic; violence with perceived meaning. I like a lot of arguing and/or political conflict leading up to a literal battle. Evenly-matched slugfests can be great in small doses, but much more often than you'd expect, a completely one-sided fight can be much more satisfying.

Bounce for me, springman.

I just read an old novel in the Warhammer universe by the name of The Daemon's Curse. It did not work well as a story. It was 'Action Porn' (not a term I'm fond of) in book form, 400+ pages of it. The main character, Malus Darkblade, is a dark elf, a complete dick, and on a quest to become the biggest dick possible. It's the thin adhesive that ties fight after fight against enemy after enemy together, each one trying to give the impression of resistance and near-death experience. Yet after each, I found myself less able to believe that anything could be a real threat to Malus, and that no level of injury he sustained would ever really mean anything.

If I want the protagonist to mow through enemy after enemy, I'll play a video game. There's countless titles where I can do exactly that. I get to behold awesome fighting capability and, better yet, I get to claim some semblance of responsibility for it. To some extent, I'M the guy kicking so much ass! Implausible power and the ability to undo non-lethal wounds through some silly magical mechanic are much more entertaining when I'm the one who possesses such things. If it's some Dark Elf who is incredibly mean to the people he's aligned with, I'm gonna need more than constant exposure to his butchery to keep me entertained.

Heisenberg was a much more interesting evil protagonist. He'd lose in any fair fight, but that only made it better when he won. Breaking Bad had some of the most graphic, brutal, depraved scenes of violence, but because the show spent most of its time weaving its complex story, developing its characters, and tightening its tension, some of those brutal moments are unbelievably cathartic and/or satisfying.

Everything in this show should be considered an example of what NOT to do. Ever.

The video games that resemble The Daemon's Curse and shows like Breaking Bad weren't available when the book was written. But reading it now helped drive a point home: there's no place for this kind of novel format anymore because other mediums do it better. There's (obviously) still  a place for battle in fiction, but that place is much fewer and further between than it was even twenty years ago. To have any prayer of maintaining an audience, we need a whole lot of remarkable content that justifies a little bit of violence, not a whole lot of violence tied together by some flimsy justification.

The "Prologue"

*this version has been replaced by this one. Keeping this for posterity =P*

There's a reason I'm putting "Prologue" in quotes. We'll deal with that another day. For now...

You have two reading options. You can go here and see if this site is easier on the eyes, or you can click the link below to read it on this page. Comment wherever you bloody well feel like it! I'll post some survey questions after the text.

 The "Prologue"

This wasn’t his favorite way to travel. The current carried him faster than any man could swim, run, or ride, but it also made breathing difficult. Worse, in his current state, he could feel the chill, and it wasn’t to his liking. His body shivered uncontrollably, and he found that very unbecoming.

The reward would be worth it, though. If this was going to work, he’d need his pursuer to stick to his assumptions. Any other form of transportation would have defied that purpose. The water was supposed to be his only friend, so he’d act accordingly.

As he neared the shore, the lake pulled him deeper, then threw him skyward. He locked his arms at his sides before breaking the surface, breaching like a dolphin. The grace didn’t last, though. He sheltered his head with his arms and curled his knees into his chest before colliding with the shore, kicking up mud and pebbles as he rolled to a stop.

Groans and curses escaped as he scrabbled to his feet and into a run. Faking haste had rewarded him with cuts and bruises, and though these would help him sell his lies, this level of vulnerability was hard to tolerate.

Anything for the sake of appearances, he reminded himself.

He could only see the beam’s shape for a moment before it blinded him. It was enough to determine the angle, though; from above and behind. Still sightless, he skidded to a stop and covered his stinging eyes. The chase was finally over.

Blinking his eyes back into focus, he was amused to find his hunter facing him with arms crossed sternly, as though he’d been waiting there all along. It was a typical magician’s farce; he wasn’t nearly as composed as he wanted to appear. That type of movement would leave the traveler disoriented upon arrival.

Still, the silly farce and the humble clergyman’s smock weren’t measures of this man’s caliber. The fugitive knew better than to underestimate him.

“Why, Johann?” The pursuer asked.

Johann answered by clasping his hands together. The meager water between his palms used the enclosure to pressurize itself so that when he pointed a finger at his pursuer, a droplet could blast out of the opening and slam into the enemy’s forehead. The technique left his hands numb.

“Must you?” The robed man massaged the sore spot on his brow. “I give you a chance to justify yourself, and you waste it by mocking me? Surely you couldn’t have done all this just to torment me.”

Actually, that’s not far from the truth.

The shot had bought all the time it needed to. The lake had already begun to leech into the ground, and Johann had several angles of attacks to choose from. Now he just needed to force his opponents’ hand…

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have the patience to hear why you waited so long, why you passed on so many better opportunities, why you didn’t target me directly, what wrongs you believe you’ve suffered. You’re still sopping wet, and just like your crime, that displays a complete lack of reason.”

Johann furrowed his brow and lost a precious moment to his confusion. By the time he realized why he should be dry, the ice was already forming. Every nerve screamed in pain and shock, and his knees buckled.

It was genius, really; If he’d been dry, an abrupt loss of heat in the air around him would have been uncomfortable at worst. But the water acted as a catalyst, speeding the onset of hypothermia. Worse, the pain of it freezing to his skin was effectively paralyzing him.

Even on the receiving end, Johann had to applaud this clever workaround for one of the laws of magic. A wizard cannot manipulate another person’s body heat directly, but the water that soaked him was free game.

He had no choice, but it would probably work to his advantage anyway. He asked the earth to soften under the feet of his opponent while begging the wind to buffet them with a long gale of warm air.

It worked; while his startled enemy shuffled away from the sinking spot of land, the ice softened and fell away as he commanded the wind’s heat to transfer into the water. The pain subsided, and Johann regained his feet.

“So you can speak to more than just the waters,” the hunter said with a scowl, once the wind had subsided. “Yet more lies, though I suppose I should respect how well you told them.”

“Consider it a compliment, Priest,” Johann replied with a smirk. He found it fascinating that duties begot surnames in this culture. “I obviously wouldn’t have run if I thought you’d be easy, but I’m capable of besting you in combat. I will, if I must.”

“Your chances would have been better if you’d tried before I knew what you were. Forget it, I’m too spent to argue. If you have a backup plan, you’d best set it in motion. I’m going to start mine.”

“Don’t pretend you knew this would happen, and where it would take us. You couldn’t have prepared a trap here, in this specific place. If you could divine the future, you’d have stopped me beforehand.”

“No, I couldn’t have known. But I have made preparations for general emergencies, and we just so happen to be within range of those preparations.”

Johann’s next taunt was preempted as the world erupted with sound. The wind roared through the surrounding mountains and trees, and the lake began to steam. Dust and clumps of soil pelted Johann as they were ripped from the ground and thrown high into the sky, where Priest’s clouds were beginning to obscure the stars.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Johann bellowed, but doubted he could be heard. It didn’t matter; he had his suspicions, and he couldn’t help smiling at the prospects. Luckily, Priest wouldn’t be able to see it while he was shielding himself from this artificial storm.

He drew a knife from his belt and trudged forward, one arm bent to guard his eyes.  Priest’s ‘preparations’ had tapped an impressive amount of the environment, but there was still enough to make his counter attack seem genuine. There was still a risk that he could kill Priest before the trap could truly spring, but it was a necessary one. Anything for the sake of appearances.

As he hoped, attacking Priest proved futile. Johann unleashed an arsenal of spells from across the elemental spectrum, but Priest countered each with ease. Even when the battle brought them within arm’s reach of each other, Johann’s blade never managed any meaningful cut.

It took several minutes, but in that short time, the storm abated. The night had gone completely black, and the air felt heavy under the weight of their new sky. The time had come.

“This is your plan? You think me afraid of the dark, Priest? I can use the light as well as you!” As if to demonstrate, he altered his vision and saw Priest by the shape of his heat.

“The only thought I’ve spared for you concerns the manner of your death. I simply can’t allow anyone else to witness this.”

That was exactly what Johann wanted to hear. Best not to let Priest know that, though. “Such conceit. You couldn’t see through my tricks, why pretend you’ve managed to hide any from me?”

“Arguing with reality is a strange way to spend your last moments. Make no mistake, this is the end. If you believe yourself capable of a miracle, perform it.”

Johann would make no such effort. Whatever this was, he would let it happen, would let it hit him, would analyze every nuance. This was the first credible opportunity in his long life. He wouldn’t squander it.

As soon as it appeared, it was clear he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. While his eyes were attuned to see heat, the forest was alive with color; Priest was red, orange, and green, as were the random beasts that were still fleeing the tumult they’d caused. The trees ranged from a sky blue to the richest of purple. The empty spaces seemed black, or they did until the real blackness appeared.

It instantly obscured a fist-sized portion of Priest’s chest and distorted the area around it to deeper colors. Despite its distance from the caster, midway between the two of them, it was somehow leeching heat from Priest – or perhaps it was just capturing the light before it could travel even that trivial distance between them?

It was impossible to tell whether the thing had no heat or if the light couldn’t tell him how hot it was. He began to realize there was no way to tell its real size, either; that black orb could be a solid object, or it could just represent a spherical space around some mystery at its center, an enigma with such a powerful draw that even light couldn’t escape its influence.

Without warning, Johann could no longer tell up from down. The ground no longer held him. The forest floor now seemed like the face of a cliff, and he began to fall along it, as if the whole world had tilted to drop him from its surface. Just like it had with the light, the darkness now pulled him, and he was equally helpless to escape it.

He still wouldn’t fight it, even if he had the option. In fact, he reached for it, stretched his fingers to grasp it even a moment sooner. This was the part that was missing, the component that could make him complete.  

As his hand disappeared into the black, it crumpled. The bones were pulverized, and as easily as the air was forced to conform around the earth, his flesh formed a kind of atmosphere around the core of the darkness.

That split-second of pain was the last thing he experienced. In the time it took for an impulse to fire, his light, his heat, his mind, and his life were sucked from his body, like a diner sucks an oyster from its shell. There was nothing left to feel the pain of his mutilated, frigid vessel being crumpled like a sheet of parchment.

Priest released the spell and exhaled slowly. The remains of his enemy sprinkled down like black snow against the green and blue backdrop of the forest’s heat. The darkness had consumed all the energy from Johann and reduced his flesh and bone to a frigid, uniform powder. It would be too fine to distinguish from the dirt, and he’d done everything he could to obscure his methods. Any hypothetical witness would surely be fooled by his misdirection.

He turned his gaze skyward, as if he could see the barrier he’d used to block the moon- and starlight. Had he really needed to go to such lengths? It had seemed simple while he still needed Johann to die, but he’d arranged the runes to ensure the entire nation would be cloaked in this darkness; now that he had his vengeance, he wasn’t sure he could clean up after himself. Returning light to his people would require focus, and his mind felt so blurry after this exertion…

“Astounding!” Johann exclaimed from behind him, his tone of admiration. “Truly, Priest, you surpassed my expectations.”

Priest whirled to face him, but the face that greeted him was just an orange-red blob. He supposed he didn’t need confirmation anyway. After that evening, part of him knew that he was helpless to alter their course. He’d failed after all.

Priest’s body sagged, and he fell to his knees.

“How did you even manage to come into contact, much less come to understand it? Anyone who can use all seven elements would suspect there was an eighth, but what spark of genius led you to bridge that kind of gap?”

Priest stared at the forest floor in silence.

“Ah, I suppose I wouldn’t have needed to do all this if you’d just tell whoever asked. A straight transaction, then? Information for information?”

There was no way Priest would agree to such a thing. He asked his own question without heeding Johann’s offer. “Was it all a lie from the beginning? Were you deceiving me when we met, all those years ago? Are you even the original Johann?”

“Oh, no. I’ve only assumed this identity for the last few hours. I can’t speak for Johann, certainly not concerning your relationship.”

Then Priest had reason to hope. “Which one of you did it?”

“He did, I’m afraid.”

Hope had died again. At least he hadn’t been wrong about Johann’s magical prowess. That meant he wouldn’t be leaving an insurmountable threat behind.

Or did it? What was this person’s objective?

“Why are you still disguised?”

A pause from the stranger. “Why, indeed?” It laughed. “When you scatter your mind across multiple brains, I suppose this is bound to happen. This is what you call ‘habit,’ maybe?”

Priest watched as its shape changed, its features losing their sculpt, its figure becoming some blank template of a person. Even the colors of its heat changed, deepened to the cooler ones. Whatever this was, it hadn’t originally been human.

“Who – rather, what are you?” Priest managed a moment of wonder, despite his grief and weariness.

“That requires a complicated answer, good Priest.” Its voice, too, had changed, losing its feature and becoming the mere foundation of a human’s. “Besides, I believe a transaction requires a more even flow of information. How did you first contact the darkness?”

Priest narrowed his eyes and stiffened what resolve he had left. “I never agreed to any transaction. You’ve already taken everything from me. Even if I had something left, there’s no way I’d give it to you.”

The stranger sighed with real remorse. It didn’t have a good grasp of the concept of ‘trading,’ but it had to acknowledge that Priest certainly didn’t owe any debt to it. It supposed it could afford to be charitable.

“If you were the only human you’d ever known, what would you call yourself? Would it be ‘human?’”

Priest considered. “I guess not.”

“What, then?”

Priest understood what the stranger was trying to say. “I don’t expect I’d have a purpose to call myself anything.”

“Indeed. It doesn’t serve any purpose, to me. Would my having a title do anything for you?”

“Not anymore. It might help the next guy, though.”

“Then name my kind. I know you don’t know much, but work with what you do. What am I?”

Priest knew the exact term for that, and he hated it. Therefore, it was perfect.

“I mentioned it earlier, I just didn’t expect you’d manage it. You’re a miracle.”

It laughed, and for the first time in its long existence, it was genuine. “Truly, Priest, you’ve exceeded my every expectation.” From that moment on, it would be Miracle.

Several splashes from the lake heralded new arrivals. They waded slowly towards them, lost in the artificial darkness.

“We meant to arrive earlier, but the world’s gone dark. Is it done, Stranger?” Both Priest and Miracle recognized the real Johann’s voice.

Miracle wanted to correct him, now that it had a name, but Priest preempted it. “Done enough.”

“No, Robin!” Johann retorted, his anger surprising everyone present. “That isn’t for you to decide. Nothing is, ever again.”

There was a brief pause before Robin Priest reacted. “What’s it matter? We agree on more than you know.”

“Oh, good,” a corpulent man huffed as he waddled up the shore. “He’s given up. What are you waiting for, Stranger? Finish him.”

“I don’t remember what I did to earn your hatred, Keoni but you needn’t worry. Your arrival is probably the only reason I’m still breathing.”

“Rest easy, brother,” a new voice, the oldest of them. “You don’t deserve this hate; it’s an unfortunate reality that it expedites the necessary, is all. I will remember you fondly, Robin Priest.”

Robin could barely muster the drive to lift his head, and he was unsurprised to see all seven of them. While it was hard to identify them through the shapes of their heat, he knew the entire council was here. All men, all capable, all revered through the nation. He’d failed all of them at some point, though he doubted he’d ever understand each failure.

He surveyed the seven, the majority of his legacy, and hated himself for it.

“I hope you’re right about the devil, Tyrone,” Robin Priest scowled at his fellow clergyman. “And I hope he takes you.”

“I’d forgive you even if that were true, brother.”

“Are you gonna finish it or not, Stranger?” Keoni sounded bored. He even had the audacity to pull a turkey leg from his breast pocket and take a greasy bite. “’Cause if you’re gonna dawdle, you should just let me do it.”

“Do it, you pig!” Robin spat. “Eat my corpse when you’re done, if you like. Just know, my remains will try to choke you as they go down.”

For several long seconds, the woods were as quiet as they were dark. Nobody had ever known Robin to say anything so hateful.

“This has gone too far.” The tallest of them strode forward to stand between the other councilmen and the broken Priest. “He needed to die, but we killed him the wrong way. As much as he was in the way, he was a good, honorable man. He deserved an honorable death.”

“Schizophrenic, Seong.” The smallest man observed. “You need conquest. Rob kept the public from supporting it. If you’re to survive, Rob must die.”

“He is dead, Rahid.” Seong insisted. “This wretch is no longer the man I knew. I won’t abide any further cruelty.”

“I believe this would be a mercy.” Tyrone was feeling persuasive.

“It doesn’t matter.” Rahid didn’t understand persuasion. “This must be concluded.”

“Not yet,” Miracle finally spoke again. “I need him alive.”

There was another long pause as the council digested its words.

“That violates our contract, Stranger,” Rahid was beginning to sound frantic. “Rules must be obeyed.”

“I realize that,” Miracle conceded. “But I believe there’s room for negotiation.”

“No!” Rahid stamped his foot.

“Stranger, you’ve broken him.” Johann argued. “If he’d been hiding anything, he’d have revealed it before things got this far.”

Miracle considered. No, it hadn’t been the one to break this Priest. These men had been the ones who reduced him to this; it just hadn’t happened immediately. Sure, Miracle was culpable, but their actions were ultimately responsible.

Miracle also noticed that Johann had not realized it had already achieved its original objective. How could he? None of them believed that the eighth element existed, and Robin had gone to great lengths to conceal his ability to use it. Miracle believed he and the Priest were the only entities in this world that were capable of understanding what had happened here, and Miracle could use that fact to his advantage.

While the council had fulfilled their part of the bargain, and Miracle had gotten what it wanted, it would be best not to tell them so. This resource had not been fully tapped.

“This was a delicate procedure, gentlemen. We broke him too hard, too fast. You did. He cracked before I could get what I needed.”

“We performed our part exactly as we agreed,” Johann pointed out. “Surely you were watching.”

“You know how the agreement was worded.” Rahid’s hair was standing on end, a sign that he could barely restrain himself. “Your reward hinged upon Robin’s behavior. It isn’t our fault he didn’t behave as you expected. Your miscalculation does not excuse you from honoring your part of the bargain.”

Miracle doubted it would ever understand humans. Why did they insist that this contract, an object of their own creation, should have so much precedence over its creators’ will? It supposed there was an amusing irony to this confusion.

“Surely we could alter the terms? So long as both parties agree, there should be no issue.”

“That would only be true if Rob’s life had some unforeseen benefit for us,” Rahid insisted. “And Rob’s only use is in death. We’ve fulfilled your conditions for bringing that about. You must uphold your promise.”

“Not if we release him from it,” Seong unsheathed his sword and leveled it at Rahid, though much of the gesture was lost in the darkness. “And I say we’re going to.”

Sparks began marking Rahid’s position as electricity arced across the standing hairs all over his body. His breathing became louder as he fumed at Seong.

“There is an unforeseen benefit!” Miracle insisted, its plan only half-formed. They’d needed Miracle because, even together, they weren’t capable of besting Robin in combat. While Miracle’s proposal might give them enough power to be Robin’s rival, and thereby become threats to Miracle, the risk was lessened by the profit Miracle had already made that night. “You all specialize in different schools of magic, correct?”

“We are the best in our individual schools, thus our position on the council.” One of the two councilmen who had remained silent finally spoke.

“Second best, you mean. This man has exceeded all of your proficiencies in all of these categories,” Miracle continued. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

No correction came.

“I understand your pride. I understand how much you hate to admit his superiority. You hate him, yet you acknowledge him. He can do things you can’t. This means he has knowledge you want. I can help you obtain that knowledge.”

“We’re listening.” The final councilman invited him to continue.

Miracle smiled. They were going to love this. It had won. “I’m going to need to bring more of myself out. Don’t be alarmed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just remember that you’re not in any danger.”

The majority of Miracle had been waiting nearby, and it could feel the councilmen’s fear as its steps sent tremors through the earth. It wasn’t surprised, particularly because the darkness would prevent them from seeing the source. As imposing as his appearance may be, their imaginations were certainly worse.

“What is it, Tyrone?” Rahid asked.

“I know no words for what I see.” Tyrone spoke with reverence.

Perhaps Miracle had overestimated their imaginations. “You do, colleague. I am Miracle.”

It didn’t wait for a response before extending an appendage towards the fallen Priest, shaping it into a hand as it went. The touch of cold stone against his bare scalp pulled him out of his trance.

“Are you finally ending it?” Robin asked. He’d slipped into his grief, and had been deaf to their discussion. “Make sure to do it properly.”

“Relax, Priest.” For the first time, Miracle spoke from his larger body. The voice was deeper, possessed more gravel. “We need you. You have much to teach us all.”

“What are you doing?” Robin could feel the pattern being imprinted upon his forehead, and being the master he was, he knew what it would do. “It’s futile, I’ll simply never use magic again. You may as well kill me.”

“Won’t you?” Miracle taunted. “Who will bring light back to this nation, then?”

Robin had clearly been too occupied with his grief to consider what might happen if he weren’t around to undo the changes he’d made to the environment. “I- I’ll teach someone I can trust to do it. If you make this mistake, you will regret it.”

“It’s possible.” Miracle withdrew its hand; the design was complete. It grew another arm underneath the first, and began to form the councilmen’s gifts from the material of his first hand. As each completed, they dropped into the newer palm. “I think you’ll find my regret difficult to achieve without sharing some of your wisdom, though.”

As Miracle turned to distribute its promise, Robin began to sob. “Why, Miracle? What did I do to offend you? How did you even come to know of my existence?”

Miracle thumped away without any intent of response, but after several steps, Robin asked a question that was too queer to ignore: “At the very least, can’t you tell me what you people did to me?”

Miracle froze as it pondered. What kind of ridiculous question was that? Had they broken him so completely that he lost his mind? How could he forget that they…

Panic began to well up inside it. What had they done to him? Why could neither of them remember? And why was Miracle so certain that this missing memory was critical?

-Aaaaaaand CUT-

1. Were you entertained?

2. Was there tension/suspense? In other words, did you feel the kind of stress or curiosity that kept you reading Harry Potter/The Da Vinci Code/your favorite books?

3. Did you understand what was going on? Not behind the scenes, mind you; hopefully it's obvious that there are things I'm not going to tell you yet, events that are referenced but not explained. Did you understand what was happening in the present? To put it another way, did you feel like you could follow the action?

4. Did you ever struggle with the language? Was there ever a time you couldn't determine a word's meaning without looking it up? It's fine if you could tell what it meant from the context of the words around it.

5. This one may not be fair, but if you had stumbled upon this post by accident, would you have suspected it was me who wrote it? Was it obviously amateur, or could you believe it was written by a professional?

Simple yes/no answers are welcome, but feel free to elaborate! Take as much liberty as you want in making comments outside the purview of these particular questions, too.

Conflicts Are Interesting, And That's Even Truer When Interests Conflict!

I've been (binge-)watching Breaking Bad. If you've seen it, I doubt you wonder how it might inspire a post like this one. As I keep telling Randall, "I hate this show and everyone in it!"

It's not even remotely true; it's a great show. But it might be if I were a better person. Awful things happen in that show, and every last one of them could be prevented if people weren't so petty, irrational, and/or stubborn.

It's a show about meth, what do I expect? I have to turn my nihilistic side on just to endure it. No surprise, then, when the characters abandon morality at the drop of a hat.

It's entertaining because you know there are going to be a ton of bad decisions interspersed with a few sparks of genius to keep the system sustainable. I'm four seasons in, and almost none of this would have had to happen if Walt had just let his rich friends pay for the cancer treatment like they offered. I've got a season and a half left, so there's still time for the author to prove to me that something positive came out of that rejection. Still, even if he can somehow justify Walt's refusal, it's gonna be difficult to make the argument that the world's a better place after  Walt went underground.

I know, that was never the writer's goal. But I suppose that's my point! The success of the show hinges on people acting against their own best interests. Walt refusing his friends' funding is only one example among many. People often refuse to cooperate with people who slighted them, whether the slight was real or imaginary. People pass on miracle opportunities because they're too proud or stubborn. Catastrophes abound.

It's usually something so bad that the viewer can't imagine the involved characters' relationship will ever recover, but of course, they'll be thrown into a situation where they, again, must cooperate, and their barrier to success will be a history of pettiness.

For a more extreme (in a way) example, consider reality TV. The competition is what allows the genre to survive. Nobody would watch The Biggest Loser if fat people simply got thin. Cooperation doesn't attract an audience. The dice need to be loaded, the system needs to reward betrayal and pit the contestant against one another. The producers fail if the contestants have a healthy relationship with one another when a particular season ends.

Maybe it says something good about society that we have to turn to television to indulge in this kind of drama, that we don't live in a society that's as dog-eat-dog as the competition in the looky-box? More likely, it says something bad about us that we like to indulge in such shadenfruede at all.

Luckily, my point doesn't involve passing judgment. Let's face it, I'm out to capitalize on keeping an audience entertained. I need to be able to create this kind of tension between my characters. A phrase I hear tossed around by a lot of writers involves "murdering one's babies." It refers to when a passages needs cutting, and those passages often feel like the best writing you've ever done, It's valuable advice, but I'm beginning to think the phrase deserves a spinoff.

"Make your babies murder each other." If you create characters you care about, your audience is likely to care too. But nothing will attract an audience like a conflict between two characters they love. So as we start fleshing out clannies, we need to make sure to include some features that will put them at (repeated) odds with their closest friends.

Believe it or not, I'm not entirely sadistic. I've come to realize one of the morals I want to emphasize in Arbiter is the 'be the bigger (wo-)man' one. Part of the protagonists' development should include their ability to cooperate, to come to understand when petty stubbornness won't be worth the consequences, to showcase the power of cooperation when people stop assigning blame or demanding credit. To do that, though, we need to demonstrate why blame and credit are worthless. We're gonna need to include a whole lot of infighting over credit and blame, then, before they're abandoned.

So, help me practice. What fiction (TV's probably easiest here, but feel free to branch out) can you think of that's driven entirely by conflict between friends, family, or even enemies aligned against a common cause?

Wanna innovate? Follow the formula!

Didja detect a contradiction in that title? Good for you! Unfortunately, it's not the sort of conflict of interests we can ignore.

"It's all been done before." - a debatable statement. For every Elvis that "creates a new genre," there's a cadre of musicians who actually did all the work for him. Elvis may have brought it to the mainstream, but his inspiration came from other rivers, which in turn came from even more obscure tributaries, which were created by countless (but almost insignificant, on their own) drops of rain. Attributing rock and roll's creation to a single individual is a ridiculous proposition, but Elvis's success marks a clear turning point for its popularity, so we do it anyway.

The desire for credit, to feel competent, is within all of us. Ask B. F. Skinner! Glory's my favorite word for it. It's an urge as natural as the one to pee. And just like peeing, it's in our best interest to consciously control our need to Glourinate.

Any given person is probably good at something. There's a great chance that other people have given them recognition for it. That's no excuse to whip your talent out and demonstrate in public. Nobody* wants to see that.

*except the kinky minority, perhaps.

Glory serves its purpose. It motivates us to perform. It's a good reward after we've been holding it in for the whole road trip. But the second you indulge in public, somebody's gonna resent you for it, then you're gonna counter-resent them, and then you're wasting everyone's time with an unhealthy diversion. Keep it private, you'll get back to performing quicker, and then you'll find more opportunities to indulge in your private glory.

Yeah, I could stand to follow my own advice =P. Let's pretend all of that was a monologue into a mirror. What's this got to do with Arbiter and writing, though?

Well, we just went to Salt Lake Comic Con 2014. Brandons Sanderson and Mull were there! I've never read either of them. I know enough to know they're kind and charming in public. I know their fans adore them. I know people who aren't their fans think the adoration isn't deserved, and that often translates into some pretty intense criticism.

It's easy to look at their work and find room for improvement. Detractors do exactly that, and spin the absence of perfection as perfection that the authors SHOULD have attained. They don't often provide a methodology, however, and there's a good reason for that.

I wanna marry the things we talked about in this post. I wanna accept the fact that everything has been done before, to some extend. I wanna use that to preempt any potential public Glourination on my part, should I ever succeed in creating something 'innovative.' Because I want to embrace the tried and true methods of making art popular so I can put my own unique spin on those methods in order to attach a message I believe the masses need to hear. 

One of the repeated messages in the Comic Con panels was 'a safe mixture for science fiction and fantasy is 50% familiar and 50% exotic.' So even if I think a particular naive tween gives Brandon Mull too much credit for Fablehaven, I'm not going to refuse to enjoy that franchise because I've forever associated it with that one annoying tween. I'm going to approach the novels as objectively as I can, weigh the positives and negatives as objectively as I can, and then be ready to use his good techniques in any scenario where they're appropriate. 

They say to reach the sky, you've gotta shoot for the moon. I'm not positive that's entirely true. Sometimes I think we need to carefully measure the force with which we propel ourselves, because even if we're half as good as we want to believe we are, we might accidentally cause our own deaths by launching ourselves unprotected into the cold vacuum of orbit. 

Like Maynard and Tool, like Blizzard Entertainment, like J. K. Rowling and Harry Potter, we've got to temper our innovation with that mediocre mainstream flavor. Even if we don't always measure it properly, that displays cognizance that even the most prodigious of us isn't always smarter than the masses, and that we have the capacity to be wrong. Too far, and our experiment seems extreme, foreign, threatening. Too little, and we're plagiarizing some other artist. 

Comic Con again succeeded in motivating me, though perhaps not as radically as the last couple times. It reminded me of a valuable lesson, too: be able to recognize the bits of any tradition that made it worth passing to the next generation while replacing the dead weight with new components to make the whole craft more efficient. It's not a surefire method for success, but it'll help me load the dice in my favor!

Sloppy again. Weeeeeeeee...

The Dawnless Woods! Assuaging Some Curiosity.

Full (albeit pointless!) disclosure: the concept was inspired by one of those countless drives from Ogden to work when I was doing that. I was coming down that hill on 89 south of the Chevron on a moonless fall night and was overcome with just how dark it was. Reminded me of being tiny and panicking when it was completely black, running around the corner and up the stairs as fast as I could to get to a safe, light place. Twas an uncomfortable and embarrassing memory, but at the same time, it provided contrast to the present, and how comfortable, serene, and safe this darkness seemed.

All of this is pure cheese, but writing involves embracing cheese. My imagination immediately wondered how people might react if that kind of pure darkness were suddenly permanent, and eventually, we came to this concept.

The Dawnless Woods became dawnless through artificial means. When the current grandparents were grandchildren, or perhaps it happened when their grandparents were children, a small and prosperous city-state was nestled in a certain woodlands, surrounded by larger and more militaristic neighbors on every side.

One citizen of that country, a prominent member of the local priesthood, was born with a natural affinity for magic. While priests in this culture become priests because they are able to wield Light magic, this one was famous for being able to use 'all' seven elements; in fact, he was so prodigious, he 'discovered' (it was known to other cultures, but not to his nation or the neighboring ones) the eight element: Darkness. This element carried new and dangerous implications, however, and the priest decided it was best to keep his discovery hidden.

Over a very long lifetime, the man became wise, and though the nation as a whole never quite engaged in a real war, the priest came to realize there may come a day when his precious countrymen would face an enemy they couldn't defeat. After all, should any one of their neighbors become enemies, the lone city would likely be crushed. Though he'd never been beyond those neighbors' borders, he was certain there was a wide world of potential threats out there, and no guarantees that those threats would never find their way to his homeland.

 The priest prepared for such contingencies by etching an enormous rune over the landscape, disguising the task as a pilgrimage throughout the nation's borders. Throughout the journey, he marked the landscape in the written language of magic. Should he ever give the signal, the environment would rearrange itself and become something new, allowing him to wield the Darkness without revealing the weapon to any potential witnesses.

One day, the rest of the world woke to find that dawn hadn't come to their inner neighbor. The trees had become tall and thick enough to pierce the thick roof of clouds above them, a ceiling that the wind refused to disperse. Sunlight could not penetrate this new canopy, and to this day, nobody from the outside world knows what changed in that final night. Naturally, rumors and legends were born to explain the change away, but none of the stories mentioned a priest, his preparations for an unknown emergency, or what may have inspired him to put that plan in motion.

It matters little now.  A nation disappeared, the world shrugged, and life went on. The Dawnless Woods exist, the world has adapted to them, and the clan thrives at its edge. Their livelihood is defined by what they harvest from the 'monsters' within the woods, and the horrible rumors about what happens in the Dawnless Woods protects the clan from the 'monsters' that inspired them to seek refuge at the forest's edge.

That reads a little closer to an actual story, but try to forgive how rough this is. Comic Con is happening later this week, and it's Labor Day, and I can't motivate myself to give this the editor's treatment it deserves. Thus, it's stuck between blog-speak and actual prose. Anyhoo, feel free to share any thoughts or questions you might have about this little piece of fantasy geography and history, and feel especially free to contribute any "oh, I bet/it would be so cool if *this* was happening in that place!" you may be feeling!