Christopher Ashe
10th October 2006, 06:42 AM
So I've been working on the next supplement for CoE and thought I'd post a little snip from the intro for you guys. This is pure intro/fiction. Also, this may not even be the intro I use and is in draft phase, but I thought I'd share it with you anyways.
Also, just to state it for whatever legal purpose, this text is Copyright 2006 Broken Doll Studios, LLC. All rights reserved.
Enjoy.
_________________________________________________
ThereÂ’s something about firelight for stories that always gets me. It has this way of sucking the light out of everything around it, as if drawing it for fuel. Out here in the mountains the effect is exponential. There is a vast blanket of twinkling stars somewhere above, but I canÂ’t see them. I doubt itÂ’s the canopy of the evergreens. ItÂ’s the fire. Red and orange burning in the cold night air, burning into my eyes as my breath comes in foggy wisps, aided by the substance of the Lucky Strike smoke I exhale. The light of the fire cast an eerie glow over the face of the man in front of me. With that disintegration of outside light it makes the face look as if itÂ’s bending out of the present darkness and waving. It reminds me of the high-contrast associated with comic books, maybe Hellboy or Sin City. Even more so is the shock of orange hair flowing off the manÂ’s skull. Not auburn or light red, but orange. It seems to move with the fire. Is he doing that? Perhaps he is. IÂ’ve been in the game long enough to know a few things and if this guy is who the big rat says he is then he probably can do whatever he likes.
Right now the guy is just looking at me. HeÂ’s young, but looks are always deceiving out here. Hell, they are anywhere for that matter. Not more than a month or so ago I was talking with this white-haired kid who had about 20 years on me, and IÂ’m no spring chicken. I should be retired. I should be sitting on a beach in Miami or sitting around some suburban neighborhood drinking iced tea and wondering how the lawn is. At 48 years, I should be worrying about my back or some crap like that up here in the high mountains. But perhaps itÂ’s because IÂ’m involved in all this, and perhaps because IÂ’ve been so long that IÂ’m not worrying about such things. Thing is, IÂ’m a hell of a lot more worried at this present moment about whether or not those big demon things the kids call Ghrannall are going to set on us for a midnight snack.
“They won’t.” His voice comes even, a liquid voice, calm and unworried. It has an aspect that makes me think wisdom, as if the word was written to describe this man.
“Why not?” My voice comes a bit more raspy, the voice of a tough old bastard who should have been dead a long time ago, which I am. You can’t hear much color in my voice, but it’s still there. I’ve never had the voice my father did or my grandfather, thick and southern-black (not African-American, thank you, I’m a black man, plain and simple). Maybe I lost it on the road.
“Is it because of you?”
“You might say that.” He cocks a half-smile with a shrugging-chuckle. In that moment most of my fears about this guy become unjustified. I no longer have the feeling he’s here to hurt me. Also, the stars are out above the canopy now and I can see the trees. The guy’s hair changes from that disquieting orange into a natural, sandy brown. It’s as if the color simply bleeds out of it. The sense of darkness, of sinister things is gone and all of a sudden I’m just an old man sharing a campfire with a man about half my age.
But heÂ’s quite a bit more than that.
“’Raza said you were looking for me.”
‘Raza is short for Kaelraza; the “z” in the word comes out as if it would if you were trying to say the sounds of j and z at the same time. I’ve never really figured it out, though I can understand the language quite well after all these years. This guy pronounces it perfectly. No real surprise there.
Kaelraza was the name of the rat I got the tip from. I guess technically I should say Oraki, but I never got over the fact that theyÂ’re all big rats. Hanging around with those folks is like mixing a bit of Brian Jacques or the rats of N.I.M.H. with the Irish Republican Army, or maybe any Bazaar salesman out of Calcutta. This particular ratÂ’s mode of trade was guns. The rat had a collection that would make Rambo envious, and he could shoot every one of them like an Olympic marksman. I caught up with the rat in this nasty little mining town in northeastern Colorado, and he pointed me into the mountains. Somewhere in this valley IÂ’m enjoying a fire in (enjoying is now an accurate word, though not previously) thereÂ’s a hell of a stronghold for LieaÂ’s folks, but IÂ’m not here for that. IÂ’m here for this guy.
“So what’s your name, old timer?” The guy has a funny smile as he says this. He’s setting a brass tea kettle on the fire that looks a lot older than I am.
“Freedman. John William. You can call me Johnny.”
“Sho’ I reck’n yo’ momma tol’ ya all ‘bout wheah that name come from eh theah Johnny?” This is a shock. The man sounds black as night in a heartbeat, bringing up images of my grandfather sitting on the porch in the days long before I knew anything about this. I’d missed the days of Dr. King and most of the turmoil that passed back then, but I’d seen enough. Hearing a man this white speak with that uncanny of a dialect makes me laugh and I’m definitely no longer worried about him.
“Yeah, I reckon I do. But say, friend –“
“Darryl”
“-Darryl, you notice anything odd a moment ago?”
“Well that would be my doing I must confess” Darryl’s voice is back to that easy, liquid calm again, a voice with no accent. “I was interested to see your reaction. There are some folks who can hide who they are, but not from some things. Sometimes being a bit shaky is good for you.” He winks. The tea kettle hisses a bit, but it’s not singing just yet.
“So what can I do for you, Johnny?”
“Well, I’m looking for information mostly. Kaelraza told me you’d be the guy to ask.”
“I know a bit here and there. Been around a ways, you might say.”
I have a feeling thatÂ’s quite the understatement.
“What is it you’re looking for?”
I start talking. The tea kettle sings and he pours. ItÂ’s not quite like anything IÂ’ve ever tasted, this tea, and he tells me itÂ’s from somewhere in the Otherlands, Zaira as they call it. I tell him all IÂ’ve managed to find in my search for who the Other People as some call them are. The elves, the rats, the kids. IÂ’ve always had a fascination with them; where they came from and all that, but IÂ’ve never gotten much more than muddled stories and old fables. IÂ’m not fighting for strongholds any more, I leave that to the younger ones, and IÂ’m not hunting down cults and demons. IÂ’m way too old for all of that now, even as good of shape as IÂ’m in. I probably shouldnÂ’t have lived this long and I always said If I ever survived that raid back in Â’94 that IÂ’d settle down sooner or later and get some questions answered. Maybe this guy is the one who can do it.
He rolls a cigarette. I light another Lucky. ThereÂ’s a long pause as he sits back and smokes, a man who looks in his mid 20s clothed in light leather, deerskin maybe, staring up at the stars without a care in the world. This guy is coolsville, as we used to say, one-hundred percent. With all the hell and pressure the DarkÂ’s bringing down on the world right now youÂ’d think he has nothing to worry about. Hell, maybe he doesnÂ’t.
“It was the Age of Legends.” He says, then nods, as if he finally has caught up to himself thinking. Then again, maybe he was thinking about the weather that whole time. I just can’t tell with this guy.
“Yes. The Age of Legends. That’s where it all starts; with the Irlane, back before the wars began.”
“The Irlane?”
“Yes. The ones who were the Silana before the tribes…”
He begins to talk. The night rolls on into oblivion, seeming to last for days. Maybe it does. IÂ’ve had a feeling since I got into this valley that I wasnÂ’t quite in the Rockies anymore, and after all IÂ’ve seen, ItÂ’s not that far of a stretch. IÂ’d bet my life the rats would give up a litter of children to know what this guy passed onto me about the history of the races. The genocide of the Irlane who became the Silana, the trials and secret sorrows of the Asana-Lea, the evolution of the Oraki. How he knew all of these things I wonÂ’t even wager a guess at. It wasnÂ’t until near the end of that age of a night that he verified actually being an immortal and about them what he had to say was probably the most amusing of all. IÂ’ll probably pass all of this on one day if I can ever put it all together, sometime when my black ass is arthritic and I canÂ’t hold a sword anymore. IÂ’m not sure IÂ’ll ever do it justice. The point is, we just donÂ’t know. Everything us Old World folk know about those that came out of Zaira these days is nothing compared to what really happened. I guess a lot of them donÂ’t even know anymore. Maybe if IÂ’m ever able to put it all together I can shed a little light on the legends and all that.
Maybe I can show all of you who these people really are.
_________________________________________________
As the first chapter moves on, we begin to find out more about the Age of Legends, Age of Sorrows and the early history of Zaira that would shape all the races of the Cycle. Book of Races will include more than just expanded info on the four races covered in CoE; it will also include new races and extended perspectives on some of the races of the Dark.
All for Now,
- Ashe
Also, just to state it for whatever legal purpose, this text is Copyright 2006 Broken Doll Studios, LLC. All rights reserved.
Enjoy.
_________________________________________________
ThereÂ’s something about firelight for stories that always gets me. It has this way of sucking the light out of everything around it, as if drawing it for fuel. Out here in the mountains the effect is exponential. There is a vast blanket of twinkling stars somewhere above, but I canÂ’t see them. I doubt itÂ’s the canopy of the evergreens. ItÂ’s the fire. Red and orange burning in the cold night air, burning into my eyes as my breath comes in foggy wisps, aided by the substance of the Lucky Strike smoke I exhale. The light of the fire cast an eerie glow over the face of the man in front of me. With that disintegration of outside light it makes the face look as if itÂ’s bending out of the present darkness and waving. It reminds me of the high-contrast associated with comic books, maybe Hellboy or Sin City. Even more so is the shock of orange hair flowing off the manÂ’s skull. Not auburn or light red, but orange. It seems to move with the fire. Is he doing that? Perhaps he is. IÂ’ve been in the game long enough to know a few things and if this guy is who the big rat says he is then he probably can do whatever he likes.
Right now the guy is just looking at me. HeÂ’s young, but looks are always deceiving out here. Hell, they are anywhere for that matter. Not more than a month or so ago I was talking with this white-haired kid who had about 20 years on me, and IÂ’m no spring chicken. I should be retired. I should be sitting on a beach in Miami or sitting around some suburban neighborhood drinking iced tea and wondering how the lawn is. At 48 years, I should be worrying about my back or some crap like that up here in the high mountains. But perhaps itÂ’s because IÂ’m involved in all this, and perhaps because IÂ’ve been so long that IÂ’m not worrying about such things. Thing is, IÂ’m a hell of a lot more worried at this present moment about whether or not those big demon things the kids call Ghrannall are going to set on us for a midnight snack.
“They won’t.” His voice comes even, a liquid voice, calm and unworried. It has an aspect that makes me think wisdom, as if the word was written to describe this man.
“Why not?” My voice comes a bit more raspy, the voice of a tough old bastard who should have been dead a long time ago, which I am. You can’t hear much color in my voice, but it’s still there. I’ve never had the voice my father did or my grandfather, thick and southern-black (not African-American, thank you, I’m a black man, plain and simple). Maybe I lost it on the road.
“Is it because of you?”
“You might say that.” He cocks a half-smile with a shrugging-chuckle. In that moment most of my fears about this guy become unjustified. I no longer have the feeling he’s here to hurt me. Also, the stars are out above the canopy now and I can see the trees. The guy’s hair changes from that disquieting orange into a natural, sandy brown. It’s as if the color simply bleeds out of it. The sense of darkness, of sinister things is gone and all of a sudden I’m just an old man sharing a campfire with a man about half my age.
But heÂ’s quite a bit more than that.
“’Raza said you were looking for me.”
‘Raza is short for Kaelraza; the “z” in the word comes out as if it would if you were trying to say the sounds of j and z at the same time. I’ve never really figured it out, though I can understand the language quite well after all these years. This guy pronounces it perfectly. No real surprise there.
Kaelraza was the name of the rat I got the tip from. I guess technically I should say Oraki, but I never got over the fact that theyÂ’re all big rats. Hanging around with those folks is like mixing a bit of Brian Jacques or the rats of N.I.M.H. with the Irish Republican Army, or maybe any Bazaar salesman out of Calcutta. This particular ratÂ’s mode of trade was guns. The rat had a collection that would make Rambo envious, and he could shoot every one of them like an Olympic marksman. I caught up with the rat in this nasty little mining town in northeastern Colorado, and he pointed me into the mountains. Somewhere in this valley IÂ’m enjoying a fire in (enjoying is now an accurate word, though not previously) thereÂ’s a hell of a stronghold for LieaÂ’s folks, but IÂ’m not here for that. IÂ’m here for this guy.
“So what’s your name, old timer?” The guy has a funny smile as he says this. He’s setting a brass tea kettle on the fire that looks a lot older than I am.
“Freedman. John William. You can call me Johnny.”
“Sho’ I reck’n yo’ momma tol’ ya all ‘bout wheah that name come from eh theah Johnny?” This is a shock. The man sounds black as night in a heartbeat, bringing up images of my grandfather sitting on the porch in the days long before I knew anything about this. I’d missed the days of Dr. King and most of the turmoil that passed back then, but I’d seen enough. Hearing a man this white speak with that uncanny of a dialect makes me laugh and I’m definitely no longer worried about him.
“Yeah, I reckon I do. But say, friend –“
“Darryl”
“-Darryl, you notice anything odd a moment ago?”
“Well that would be my doing I must confess” Darryl’s voice is back to that easy, liquid calm again, a voice with no accent. “I was interested to see your reaction. There are some folks who can hide who they are, but not from some things. Sometimes being a bit shaky is good for you.” He winks. The tea kettle hisses a bit, but it’s not singing just yet.
“So what can I do for you, Johnny?”
“Well, I’m looking for information mostly. Kaelraza told me you’d be the guy to ask.”
“I know a bit here and there. Been around a ways, you might say.”
I have a feeling thatÂ’s quite the understatement.
“What is it you’re looking for?”
I start talking. The tea kettle sings and he pours. ItÂ’s not quite like anything IÂ’ve ever tasted, this tea, and he tells me itÂ’s from somewhere in the Otherlands, Zaira as they call it. I tell him all IÂ’ve managed to find in my search for who the Other People as some call them are. The elves, the rats, the kids. IÂ’ve always had a fascination with them; where they came from and all that, but IÂ’ve never gotten much more than muddled stories and old fables. IÂ’m not fighting for strongholds any more, I leave that to the younger ones, and IÂ’m not hunting down cults and demons. IÂ’m way too old for all of that now, even as good of shape as IÂ’m in. I probably shouldnÂ’t have lived this long and I always said If I ever survived that raid back in Â’94 that IÂ’d settle down sooner or later and get some questions answered. Maybe this guy is the one who can do it.
He rolls a cigarette. I light another Lucky. ThereÂ’s a long pause as he sits back and smokes, a man who looks in his mid 20s clothed in light leather, deerskin maybe, staring up at the stars without a care in the world. This guy is coolsville, as we used to say, one-hundred percent. With all the hell and pressure the DarkÂ’s bringing down on the world right now youÂ’d think he has nothing to worry about. Hell, maybe he doesnÂ’t.
“It was the Age of Legends.” He says, then nods, as if he finally has caught up to himself thinking. Then again, maybe he was thinking about the weather that whole time. I just can’t tell with this guy.
“Yes. The Age of Legends. That’s where it all starts; with the Irlane, back before the wars began.”
“The Irlane?”
“Yes. The ones who were the Silana before the tribes…”
He begins to talk. The night rolls on into oblivion, seeming to last for days. Maybe it does. IÂ’ve had a feeling since I got into this valley that I wasnÂ’t quite in the Rockies anymore, and after all IÂ’ve seen, ItÂ’s not that far of a stretch. IÂ’d bet my life the rats would give up a litter of children to know what this guy passed onto me about the history of the races. The genocide of the Irlane who became the Silana, the trials and secret sorrows of the Asana-Lea, the evolution of the Oraki. How he knew all of these things I wonÂ’t even wager a guess at. It wasnÂ’t until near the end of that age of a night that he verified actually being an immortal and about them what he had to say was probably the most amusing of all. IÂ’ll probably pass all of this on one day if I can ever put it all together, sometime when my black ass is arthritic and I canÂ’t hold a sword anymore. IÂ’m not sure IÂ’ll ever do it justice. The point is, we just donÂ’t know. Everything us Old World folk know about those that came out of Zaira these days is nothing compared to what really happened. I guess a lot of them donÂ’t even know anymore. Maybe if IÂ’m ever able to put it all together I can shed a little light on the legends and all that.
Maybe I can show all of you who these people really are.
_________________________________________________
As the first chapter moves on, we begin to find out more about the Age of Legends, Age of Sorrows and the early history of Zaira that would shape all the races of the Cycle. Book of Races will include more than just expanded info on the four races covered in CoE; it will also include new races and extended perspectives on some of the races of the Dark.
All for Now,
- Ashe