Incognita - 301A Interlude

Incognita - 301A Interlude

There was no sound made save the rustle of leather and cloth.  No halfling feet pittered over the stone, and no voices carried in the desolate dungeon rooms.  Above somewhere, the din of the refugee mob could be heard, the stamping of feet and the shouted voices.  The air above was jubilant, now that the plague had been solved and it looked like the Refugees would be shortly on their way.  The mage had drifted away, slipping silently down the twisting passages, he passed by underfoot unnoticed, subtle machinations of his magic weaved a safe course that ensured he'd never be trod upon or bumped into accidentally.

The door to the dungeons was still half open, and the application of some magical force crafted him a round invisible disc which he rode the stairs down on, leaving no trace of bootprint or otherwise in the dust.  The soldier in him was stoic, but some other part of him, oft forgotten, retched a little.  The stench of old blood was present, if muted.

The room was an array of cells and shackles, rotten straw lay about, refuse and dirt had been swept into corners but never scooped up, and the efflua of the living coalesced in the sewer troughs beneath, never being washed away into the sea for lack of caring.  The disc carried him soundlessly as he appraised the surroundings.  There were no prisoners here now, had not been in some time, except for the now shattered cage at the far end.  But the signs were telling.  Splatters of blood had stained the stone forever, would likely be impossible to clean.

He raised a hand, and a ball of flame formed between his fingers as he continued to drift around.  In his minds eye he could see the people that were once held in these cages, that were shackled to the ground.

Finally the disc came to a rest, half a foot off the ground where he had stood hours ago.  His arms crossed, and he waited, feeling the ebb and pull of magic as it swirled around.  It was difficult to describe to those not in tune with the weavings, but it was a living, if languid thing that pushed and pulled.  He just occasionally reached in and pulled what he wanted from it.

The lightning he had summoned had been draining.  It was still a spell new to him, and perhaps in many ways still outside his expertise.  Any skilled mage would be able to see the lancings which had scored much of the pathway between him and the abberation woman.  It had been a merciful and powerful spell, and he took no pride in its use.

He drifted closer to where she had stood.  There was nothing left of her.  Turned to dust and ash, any chitinous remains had been put to torch, not that there had been more than a handful to begin with.  She had hardly been defenseless, indeed, had she gotten loose there might have been a sense of true chaos for the group.  But he relived those scant moments before the fight over and over, the others had been quick to attack the source of the problem, but he had been unable to bring his magic to bear against the creature.

She had just been protecting her child.

So quickly had she turned to magic as the method of her revenge.

Just like him.

And in her haste, her magic had consumed her.  Her methods just slightly imperfect, her plan undone ever so slightly.

It was a strange thing to think on too deeply.

It would be some hours later when he emerged.  When asked in the dusklight of where he'd been, he would only shrug and point at his spellbook.  If anyone had noticed the stones of the Keep of Watcher's Crag warmed that day, they would not comment on it.  For surely the bluster of many people, rushing to and fro as they made haste to get off the island was the reason for the stifling air and unseasonable warmth.

It wouldn't be for a long time, weeks or months, when finally they forced the heavy wooden door of the dungeon open, it having been inexplicably barred from the inside, that soldiers would discover the dungeon had been completely wasted.  All the iron cages, the shackles, the soot and detritus had been scoured clean and melted to slag.  A rusted, flat iron floor left in its place in the dungeon.  It would be completely unusable, even the sewer drains had been plugged by slag metals, even the bolts that once held restraints had been melted from the walls.

They would stare in wonder then, at the whole floor which while rusted, was covered in unreadable arcane sigils.

And on the walls, they would murmur and speculate as they watched out over the sea.  What the sigils meant, and if they were indeed the work of that strange little halfling, feisty and boisterous who always proclaimed himself "Right".

Charity - Extra Life

Charity - Extra Life

For most of the day I've been on and off watching the Wizards of the Coast DnD Extra Life Marathon.  Basically a large cast of rotating players, with DM Greg Bilsland are playing a 25 hour game or Hoard of the Dragon Queen.  As of the time of this writing, some...I guess 15 hours in? We've raised almost 75 000 dollars for Extra Life just through Wizards of the Coast.  Extra Life is a large, charity streaming event of gamers all across the world playing to raise money for the Children's Miracle Network Hospitals.

Across the entire Extra Life program, we've raised 4.2 million dollars this year so far.

Art - On Death

Art - On Death

I spend a lot of time as an artist thinking about death.  It’s morbid I know, but bear with me for a moment.  It’s a fixation point in most of the artwork I create.  I’m fascinated by grief, and more keenly than death itself, by the loss of possibility.  I obsess over chance and possibility, what people could or do or choose to amount to.  I find it fascinating to observe the decision-making process.  And there is something keen about the onset of death and how it presses on all the people around who observe it.  Whether they are personally connected to the death itself, or are a more casual observer.

I’ve done a tremendous amount of writing about death, and grief, loss and loneliness.  Truthfully I don’t really know why.  Stories about loss and death are my favourite, I write them, draw them, paint them, and make games around those moments.  I know it’s weird.

But for a long time I have struggled to really capture the myriad whirlwind of how humans deal with death.  I was really touched today when I read an article today by William Hughes.  It’s available here.  http://www.avclub.com/article/fake-deaths-cheap-resurrections-and-dealing-real-g-210402.  The article is beautiful, and sad, and raw.  It's raw because it means something, it's not covered in flowers and pretty words, it's harsh and hard, savage and ripping, and angry.  Really angry.  Angry at the possibilities of what might have been.  Angry at the trivialities that creators are taking with death.

It’s hard for us as creators to think about death and grief.  When we are in mindsets of creation, we want to capture pure emotions and reactions. Unfortunately we live in a society that is not obsessed with death like I am, but rather with killing.  I find myself at a strange crossroads where people push me to put the action of killing into my games.  Combat, warfare, weapons and guns. We are intrigued by the possibility of shooting, of pulling the trigger, of ending life.  Killing has become the causality of this strange fantasy we have of power.  We have actually lost sight of the possibility of death.

We rack up tremendous kill scores, ever increasing strange numbers of heads bashed in, limbs chopped off and bullets to the brain.

I’m walking this strange balance these days between designer and artist.  As a designer I understand the fundamentals of a repetitious cycle that reinforces engagement and entertainment.  I want to provide satisfaction, enjoyment and sloped ever-increasing challenges to my audience of players.  As an artist, my heart writhes in boredom.  I want to make games with stories, where there are no guns and no killing.  I want to think about absorbing people in the ideas of what grief really is, where there is only one death, and never another replay.  I’m in love with the game That Dragon Cancer, while my designer brain analyzes every challenge they will eventually face and wonders about how effectively they will overcome it.

These two sides juxtapose themselves against me, and I have no answers.

Well not no answers.  I’m making a game, quietly.  And I don’t know what it means.

Rant - Steps

Rant - Steps

In 1999, a terrible thing happened.  Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold murdered 13 people, including one teacher, and injured another 21 people.  They brought almost 99 explosive devices, firebombs, automatic weapons and shotguns with the express purpose of killing hundreds of students.

In the aftermath that happened, gamers everywhere stood up and decried that their pastime incited the pair to violence.  Numerous studies were commissioned, lawyers stepped up on both sides, psychologists analyzed children, we collectively took steps backwards and forwards in this strange dance around the ideas of interactivity and violence.

Yesterday, someone sent a message that said in opposition a person who wanted to give a talk about feminism in games, that they would actively oppose it with guns and bombs.  That they would make it worse than the "Montreal Massacre".  15 years later, and we are exactly what we fought so hard against, because there is a lunatic out there using games, and gaming as a shield.  15 years later, and a 'gamer' is actively engaged in terrorism.

We are now at the same place we were at that miserable day that 13 people died.  Our pasttime is under attack because there are unhinged people out there.  I wish it was common sense, but apparently that died a long time ago alongside common decency.

Writing - A Lighthouse Interlude

Writing - A Lighthouse Interlude

Darkness stole around the coast and the fog rolled low. Out amongst the crashing of waves, silence had fallen in the abandoned lighthouse, with embers glimmering in the pit. The stewpot was cooling, and sleep which had been a long time coming to the weary adventuring party had finally seemed to fall.

In the darkness, there was a flicking motion, as though a match had been struck, but no accompanying scent of sulfur. The mage, Flip rose to his feet, finger held out while what could’ve been a wickless candle cast soft glows around the room. Around his bedroll lay belts and pouches filled with various magical components, haphazardly bundled or strewn. His vellum spellbook sat clasped shut still, while the halfling stretched. Reaching for his black leather robes, he donned them in silence and pulled the hood up. Stepping lightly around the other adventurers, he ascended the stairs long and creaking, his flickering magic held before him like a lantern.

He sat among the ruined balcony of the lighthouse for a long while, staring out at the restless tides. Other halflings might have pulled out a pipe and had a pinch of greyweed then, but Flip was not like other halflings. Instead he reached into a pouch in his cloak and pulled free the strange stone mask that the slave had worn.

It was a curious thing, slightly heavy to the touch, emotionless in a slightly strange way, hewn from a single block of stone. The fixings on the side of the mask, where it had once attached to the face of the slave were messed and bloody still, but the past nights work had seen him clear any flesh from the thing. He sat there in the dark, with careful hands applying a steady bit of flame to clean the thing, burning what was left of gore from the fixings. It took an hour while he worked, absent-mindedly reciting spell cantrips and gesturing arcane symbology over and over in his mind while he focused.

Before the moon reached its zenith he was done, a small stream of water from a magically cupped hand erased any ash, sending it cascading into the ocean. For a long while, the mage stared into the mask, for a time he imagined he could see all the slaves whose faces it had adorned through the ages, men and women, faceless and nameless now. It was a kind of falsehood, he had little skill in necromancy or communing with the dead, the mask could have been brand new for all he knew. But it didn’t dilute the rage he felt when he held it.

There was no recourse for it at the moment though but he did hold out his hand and collect a handful of smoking sparks, magically conjured. With a solemn breath, he exhaled and sent them spiraling upwards into the night stars.

I will kill those who did this to you...

Then he padded silently back down the stairs, the mask once again safely concealed somewhere in his robes, lay down and went back to sleep.

Life - First Aid

Life - First Aid

This morning there was an accident right in front of me on Cambie and 41st.  Car ran through a red light (or a realllllly stale yellow) clipped another truck (one of those tiny little gardening-esque ones) and caused it to flip onto its side and skid down the road maybe 20 feet.  There's always that sort of instantaneous moment where everyone freezes, did that actually really happen?  We all watch in tableaux as everything comes to a stand still, a horn blares, people on the street look around to each other, and then...just slowly everything snaps into realtime.

I go rushing across the street to the flipped vehicle, another guy runs along the other intersection to it as well.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl walk to the car and see if that guy was alright, he's pulled to a stop though now on the far side.

We lean in to check on the driver, he's dazed but seems alright, a few cuts to his hands and face where the windows have shattered from hitting the pavement.  We tell him not to move, but he starts pulling at his seatbelt already anyway.  The other guy gets on his cell phone and starts to call 911.  I drop my bag and start rummaging for first aid supplies, a bandage, some alcohol wipes.  I am a stage manager still, I am always prepared.

Time slows, I see clearly traffic going east and west slowly begins to inch its way, people gawk from behind their steering wheels.  A young man walks past me, I catch his eyes, he deliberately puts on his headphones.  I see him then, and all around me, these two dozen souls going somewhere on a busy thursday morning.  Late for work, business, making money, open the shop up, places to be, business to do, class to attend.  A a young puts his headphones on.  He closes the world out, he ignores this thing which has impacted his day by minutes.  He puts his headphones on.  In his Reebok sneakers, slightly too tight jeans that aren't cuffed properly, his too-hipster toque and his Beats by Dre headphones.

His smirk.  As he ignores people in need.

He puts his headphones on, deliberately.  And walks on by.

The driver heaves himself out of his seat, time speeds up.  We get him to the grassy meridian and tell him to sit down.  He wants to help, to gather the stuff that has fallen off his truck, we tell him we'll get to it.  I bandage his hands, two cuts on his fingers, just behind the knuckles. One cut on his forehead, it's bleeding down into his eyes.  He tries to get up again, I tell him to wait until I'm done, that help is coming soon, that the three of us can't flip his truck back on its wheels anyway.

He tells me he's grateful, he thanks me, again, again, again.  He tells me that not many others would have stopped.  Not many others would have helped.

I tell him that isn't true.  I think of the young man, and his headphones.  I tell him that isn't true, but the words taste like a strange ash.  I tell him it isn't true, someone would've helped, lots of people saw, people would have helped.  People are helping, right? I think of the young man, and his headphones.

Five brisk minutes later, responders are already on the scene.  A fireman has taken my name and number, I'm walking down the stairs to the train.  I wait on the escalator, delicately brush a small piece of glass out of my jeans.  There's no blood on my fingers, I run a hand through my hair and exhale.

The young man is standing on the platform there.  In his hands is a Starbucks coffee, a small brown bag with some bakery pastry.  I look at him, he looks at me.  He has the good sense to look away almost immediately.  Scuffs his feet, looks down at his shoes. His Reebok sneakers.

Something rushes through me.  I want to scream at him, I want to yell and rage.  I want to ask him if that's what he was so pressed for.  His fucking Venti no-fat latte with fucking cinnamon and pumpkin spice?  His five minutes where he couldn't have even bothered to have asked if more assistance was needed.  His goddamn muffin or whatever is in his damn little bag?  A myriad whirlwind of thoughts goes by. I want him to feel bad, to feel small, to feel abashed and shamed and to question his humanity card. I want him to feel...something.  I close a fist, and then release it.

And then it burns itself out. I realize I'm tired.

I walk past him, as I get in front of him, I hesitate, and look out of the corner of my eye at him.  He stiffens.  I continue on, another ten feet down the platform and lean against the stone wall.  I wait for the train.

There are no answers.  I close my eyes.  Darkness floods in, and the rush of wind heralds a train coming through the tunnel.  I vanish into the people.

Quotes - The Universe and Math

Quotes - The Universe and Math

MORPHEUS: For the longest time, I wouldn't believe it. But then I saw the fields with my own eyes, watched them liquefy the dead so they could be fed intravenously to the living -
NEO (politely): Excuse me, please.
MORPHEUS: Yes, Neo?
NEO: I've kept quiet for as long as I could, but I feel a certain need to speak up at this point. The human body is the most inefficient source of energy you could possibly imagine. The efficiency of a power plant at converting thermal energy into electricity decreases as you run the turbines at lower temperatures. If you had any sort of food humans could eat, it would be more efficient to burn it in a furnace than feed it to humans. And now you're telling me that their food is the bodies of the dead, fed to the living? Haven't you ever heard of the laws of thermodynamics?
MORPHEUS: Where did you hear about the laws of thermodynamics, Neo?
NEO: Anyone who's made it past one science class in high school ought to know about the laws of thermodynamics!
MORPHEUS: Where did you go to high school, Neo?
(Pause.)
NEO: ...in the Matrix.
MORPHEUS: The machines tell elegant lies.
(Pause.)
NEO (in a small voice): Could I please have a real physics textbook?
MORPHEUS: There is no such thing, Neo. The universe doesn't run on math.