“Uncertain Futures” (a Star Wars snippet)

“Who was on the comm?”

He glanced toward her and the look on his face told her exactly who’d called.  Her brow furrowed for a few seconds and she chewed on her lower lip.  It felt too soon, but he’d been here for nearly two months.  She’d known he wasn’t going to be able to stay forever, that at some point, he’d be recalled—pulled back to the work that was no longer hers.

The fact that it wasn’t her job anymore came as an odd relief, in fact, but she hadn’t admitted to it.  Not yet.

Watching him, she leaned against the corner where the living room wall met the hallway back toward the ‘fresher and bedrooms.  Her hair hung damp round her face, silver locks curling slightly, barely brushing the collar of her jacket.  How long would it take for it to grow back out again, to the rope of a braid she’d worn back when she was still a pilot, back when everything was shaded in many fewer shades of gray.  His gaze searched hers for a few moments.  She smiled wryly, one corner of her mouth kicking upward even as she knew the grief at his impending departure showed in her eyes, in every other curve and line of her face.

“When do you have to go?” she asked softly.

“Wheels up by 0900,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair.  “They probably would’ve rather I left tonight, but you made reservations.  I wasn’t going to break a date.”

“Bobby, you didn’t have—”

“Yeah, I did.”  He unfolded from the chair, stretching his arms toward the ceiling for a moment before he crossed the space between them.  A knuckle scarred from some long-ago fight brushed against her cheek, lifting hair back from her face.  She smiled at him, reaching up to wrap her hand around his.  His gaze was steady on hers, his smile gentle, not quite sad.  “It’s the least I can do.”

“We both knew that you weren’t going to be able to stay forever,” she said.  “I am honestly shocked that they didn’t call you home sooner.”

He was silent for a second too long.  Her brow lifted.

“How many times did they ask you to come back?”

“Never directly,” he said.  “They never asked me directly to come back, not until just now.  They asked questions like ‘were you able to verify the circumstances’ and ‘is she sure about what happened.’  And then that stopped and they started to hint that they had an actual assignment for me that wasn’t a favor.  That—that wasn’t something I was doing for myself.”

She looked down, down at her stocking feet and the toes of his boots, her stomach twisting into knots.  “You came because Tag asked you.  Because she told you that something happened.”

“She sent me part of the report,” he admitted.  “I guess she thought I should know at least a little bit about what I was walking into.  I don’t know if she or someone else pulled some strings and made it look like an assignment or what, but…but I’m glad.  She asked me to come but as soon as I knew, I think I would’ve come anyway.  I definitely stayed because it was you.”

“Because you owed it to me,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, brow furrowing.  He tucked a knuckle under her chin, lifted her gaze to his.  “No, Kingston, I stayed because I wanted to.  Because I wouldn’t have felt right if I’d just left.”  His lips thinned and he glanced toward the comm for a moment, brow furrowing.  “It still doesn’t feel right to leave.”

“You have a job to do,” she said.  “I’ll be okay, Bobby.  The Empire doesn’t know where I am and no one here’s going to tell them.  If I’m safe anywhere, it’s here.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against hers.  “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.  Tonight, we’ll have dinner, maybe we’ll take a walk, and then in the morning, you’ll go—you’ll report in and go on to the next assignment.  It’s your job.  I know how it goes—it was mine, too.”

“It’s not fair,” he said softly, thumb stroking her cheek, tickling the skin at the corner of her mouth.  She smiled faintly.

“The galaxy isn’t exactly a fair place, is it?  We’ll manage.  You and I will both manage.  I will be fine.  I have to figure out what I’m doing next.  While you’ve been here, I’ve been able to put that off but honestly, I can’t do that forever—and you can’t stop doing what you’re doing.  It’s in your blood.  I see it the same way I see it when I look at Tag.  Pilots once but definitely something else now.”

He choked on a laugh, wrapping both arms around her and drawing her tight against his chest.  “And what about you?”

“A pilot once,” she said, resting her chin on his shoulder.  “Then a spy.  I don’t know.  I guess we’ll see.”

“Guess we will,” he murmured, then kissed her ear.  “What time were reservations?”

“We’ve got another hour before we have to leave.  I have to finish getting ready.”

He squeezed her again, then let go.  “All right.  I’ve got some calls to make, then, I guess.”

She pecked him on the cheek and stepped back.  “Try not to get too involved, huh?”

“Who me?”  He shot her a lopsided grin more suited to a scoundrel than a senator’s son.  “Never.”

She grinned back, swallowing a sudden flash of pain and worry, then turned back down the hallway to get ready for what felt like it might be their last night together for a long, long time.

June gaming element challenge: “The Night and the Evening Star”

Item Type: Bard’s song

Upon a midnight clear
After twilight’s last dawning
The union of houses is blessed by the stars
Darkness and light are thus wedded.
How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
How is it fate can be so cruel
And destiny let it be?

Brighter than the lights of the world
The light of their love did shine
But for the wrongs of their kin
The young lovers, they would pay.

How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
How is it fate can be so cruel
And destiny let it be?

And from the love of the star and night
A beautiful child was born
Brighter than the sun in the sky
The child’s light did shine.

How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
How is it fate can be so cruel
And destiny let it be?

Love is brief, even when meant to be,
And theirs was no exception.
All life was stolen from the night,
Under the frightened eyes of the star.

How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
How is it fate can be so cruel
And destiny let it be?

The blood of the night thus was spilled
And the wars of the crown raged on.
The son that they had was lost to us,
Lost to you and me.

How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
How is it fate can be so cruel
And destiny let it be?

How can the night love the evening star?
And how can the moon condemn them?
Fate ensures what’s meant to be,
As does destiny.

And so from memory fades their tale,
Of the love of the night and the star.

“In the Grass” (a Star Wars snippet)

“You didn’t come to bed last night.”

She shifted her shoulders, drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The yarn was soft against her fingers as she tangled them through the knots of its pattern, the garment smelling of laundry soap, faintly, Dalsuna’s cologne. The patch of grass between the house and the edge of the water was small, but large enough for them to play with their son without too much fear of him toppling over into the canal. She sat in the center of that grass, her bare toes slowly going numb in the morning damp and chill, watching as the sun slowly crept up over the canal and the parkland beyond. It was a rare sight, that much green on the other side of the canal. How her husband had managed to find it, she wasn’t sure—nor had she ever asked.

She was wise enough now to know when to leave things alone.

Sometimes, at least.

“Tag?”

“I took a walk,” she said, patting a spot in the grass next to her. “I couldn’t sleep—wasn’t going to be able to sleep. I’d meant to clear my head and come back, but I ended up at Mickie’s and then I ended up at the school.”

“You went flying.”

She nodded, staring at the sunrise as he settled next to her. Calloused fingers wrapped around hers, squeezed gently. A faint smile curved her lips and she squeezed back, glancing at him. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Me, worry? Why would I worry? It’s not like my wife isn’t a former intelligence officer who’s probably pissed off more than her share of people on both sides of the not-war-anymore. It’s not like I’ve gotten used to you being there to reassure me when I wake up in a cold sweat at three in the morning after another nightmare.”

She winced. “I’m sorry, Dal.”

He exhaled a long breath, then wrapped his arms around her, resting his cheek against her braided hair as she leaned into his embrace. “It’s okay. It took a couple seconds, but I could still feel you, so that was enough.”

“I should’ve been here,” she murmured into the soft cotton of his shirt. She closed her eyes and breathed in, tension draining from them both with each breath, each beat of their hearts. “I hadn’t meant to be out all night. I thought I was just clearing my head.”

“The old ghosts swam back up, huh?”

She nodded, pressing her face against his shoulder. Her voice came muffled; likely he felt the words more than heard them. “There’s so many. And so much I just—left behind.”

“What brought it on this time? It’s usually not for no reason.”

“A letter from an old friend,” she said softly. “Reassurance that he’s okay. He told me I did the right thing.”

“But you’re still not sure.” He pulled back, peering down at her with a furrowed brow. Those green eyes of his snared her all over again, like they had the first time she’d seen him in the mess hall on a base that didn’t exist anymore a hundred light years away. “Even after all this time.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I did the right thing. But it’s not over. Not yet.”
His frown deepened and he canted his head to one side. “What’s not over?”

“The war,” she whispered, then leaned into his chest again. “We’ve all just stopped fighting for now. But it’s not over. I don’t know if it ever will be.”

“It is for us,” he said, squeezing her tight and burying his nose in his hair. He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost too quietly to hear, “At least for now.”

She nodded. “Yeah. At least for now.”

They sat there together in the grass as Corel cleared the horizon, its light glittering on the water of the canal and off the metal and glass of the city around them.

June gaming element challenge – The Crownblade of Ameth Tren

Item Type: Artifact

This artifact was created over ten thousand years ago by the legendary Dwarven bladesmith Amos the Red and the elven High Mage Trellian Silvermorn and was bound to the now-lost kingdom of Amath Tren.  The blade was carried by every King and Queen Regnant of the realm until its fall almost two thousand years ago.  Legend says that when the time is right, the Crownblade will call the next ruler of Amath Tren and the reclamation and resurrection of the kingdom will begin.

The weapon itself is a longsword crafted of high-quality steel enchanted to prevent weathering or rusting of the blade and its trappings.  The hilt is poured of rose and white gold with a pattern of the moon and starts along the cross-guard.  The grip is wrapped with silver-gray sharkskin and wired in white gold.  A cabochon of polished labradorite caps the pommel. Other enchantments on the blade include a binding to the kingdom of Amath Tren, a binding to the royal bloodline of Amath Tren, and the ability to call a storm of ball lightning in the form of small stars once per day.  The storm will last 2d10 minutes and must be channeled throughout in order to be maintained.  The damage of the ball lightning scales based on the overall skill of the blade’s wielder.

On nerd love and challenges

I’d meant to write this post yesterday, but instead here I am, in the post-Kenobi glow, writing it at 6:30 in the morning, halfway through a cup of coffee, listening to birds outside, the traffic on 4 Mile and Alpine, and the morning news. After two days of unseasonable heat, the weather’s broken and if I had the wherewithal, I could clean my patio table and chair and work outside for a bit this morning.

It is wherewithal that I do not think I possess this morning, nor would my cats appreciate it very much, since they’ve grown very used to cuddling me while I work.

None of this is what I intended to write about today, of course.
Anyone who has known me for any span of time knows that I am, at least on some level, a nerd, a geeky girl, however you’d like to describe it. I came to it early (thanks Mom, for some long-forgotten day when there was a Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon on TV and you were doing my hair for something—I don’t know what it was, but it was at the old house and I remember it) and it kind of evolved from there. Star Trek was definitely my first nerd love, but others came behind it—and, in the case of Star Wars, quickly surpassed it.

I don’t remember seeing Star Wars until I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. We got the boxed set of movies at I think Birch Run one year. I remember sitting on the couch in the house I grew up in, watching it for the first time. I was maybe thirteen, maybe a little older. This was before the special editions, before sequels. It was even the early years of the EU—what’s now become the Star Wars Legends line. The first Star Wars book in our house wasn’t even mine, it was allegedly my brother’s, but you can probably guess where that book is now.
That’s right. On my bookshelf, tattered and worn, the blue-covered trade paperback of Heir to the Empire. After the X-Wing novels, the trilogy that started with that book is probably among the most-read books in my collection.

Star Wars is a nerd love that led me to another, one that defines me as equally as several others—it made me a gamer.

Historian. Writer. Gamer.

Yup, that’s me.

Really, this post was meant to be about gaming less than Star Wars, but understanding that nerd love—my many, many nerd loves, but that one in particular—really helps set up the challenge hinted at in this post’s title.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been considering issuing a challenge to myself with regard to blogging. At first, I thought maybe I’d do a month-long run of writing prompts—I did get a new camera, and it could be fun to do interesting image prompts. Slowly, though, as I continued to think, that idea was discarded, at least for now. It’s not to say I might not do it later, I’m just not going to do it right now.

No, I think that this month, in June, I challenge myself in a different way: playing around with something I’d long abandoned, which is developing things for tabletop RPGs. There was barely a night between 2000 and 2005 when I didn’t have a standing game to either run or play—the only nights excluded were either in the summer or reserved for a club meeting (and even then, sometimes there would be a game after a meeting).

I ran a few campaigns myself over the years. One was a large D&D game in my own homebrewed setting, two Forgotten Realms campaigns that became one, and a Star Wars campaign that lasted for more than a year. Those are probably the games I ran that I look back on the most fondly: Forgotten Realms and Star Wars.

Now, as I prepare to possibly run Star Wars for the first time in forever—and trust me, there is so much about my Star Wars gaming experience that didn’t make it into this post (like the 12 years I spent writing Star Wars online with some folks that I appreciate more and more the older I get, especially because they put up with me back in the day)—I’ve decided to also challenge myself to create characters, to create settings, to write adventures and post them for folks to do with what they will. Some of them, of course, will be set in my various writing worlds. Others will simply exist.

So, wish me luck. I’m getting back to my nerd loves, and challenging myself to try something a little new and a little daring and a lot ambitious.

We’ll see how this turns out.

Oh, by the way. Happy Pride.

Vignette – “The tragic tale of Ghaund and Amarestine”

This little vignette is a roughed out legend for my 3.x D&D/Pathfinder/Swashbuckling Adventures game in the original world Maraeternum.  The story is meant to explain (in part) the development of a certain type of nasty thing in the world (amongst others, I suppose…).

The tragic tale of Ghaund and Amarestine

            Once upon a time, in the uncounted centuries before the fall of the Basilica del Mare, on the shore of a great island lived the sorcerer Ghaund.  He once had been a great man, though as he grew in powers arcane, he had forgotten how to care for other living things.  His beloved lady, the prophetess Amarestine, had foreseen this and left when she could bear his growing coldness no longer, retreating to a cave at the far end of the fair isle that had been their home through all of their years.
            Ghaund came to be beside himself with pain at the loss of his beloved Amarestine and begged for her to return.  She refused him sadly, warning that she could not love a man who had forgotten how to care.
            “But you are the light of my heart, my reason for breathing!”  Ghaund protested.
            “Would that you remembered the emotions that could birth those words, my love,” replied Amarestine, for she could see in his eyes that there was no love there, only the pale memory of real feeling.  “I can only return when you have remembered how to love me and all others, as you once did.”
            And so she left him on the walls surrounding the tower they had once shared and retreated to the far end of the isle, through the villages there, over streams and across the woodlands, and abided in a cave on the shore.
            Ghaund fretted and seethed, thought and plotted, consumed by his inexplicable need to have his lady returned to him.  Though he could not remember how to feel, he knew at his core that he needed her at his side, though he knew not why.  Nothing would stop him in his quest to return her to him—not even Amarestine herself.
            For a time, he sought to remember how to feel, though her words made no sense to him.  He could cut himself, and he would bleed, and it would hurt, though it would heal in time.  He felt no pleasure from the healing, only the pain of the cut.  He felt no gladness when he gazed upon her portrait, only sadness eating away at his soul.  There was no reason to feel, no reason to care.  There was no joy in giving to others, only loss.  His heart grew cold, his heart grew hard, and all he knew was that his magic soothed the only things left he could feel—pain for the loss of his lady, ambition for the power to retrieve her, and anger for his inability to have her as he wished.
            And so he began to plot, to work, to scheme.  He read a thousand books, wrote to a thousand scholars, spent a thousand sleepless nights at work to find a way to bring her back to him until he finally found a way.
            He had created from kelp and ambergris, gelatin and water, magic and alchemy, creatures malleable and yet man-formed.  He shaped them, he honed them, and he imbued them with powerful magics and even more powerful compulsions.  These creatures—his great triumph among triumphs—would surely be able to return his Amarestine to him!  And so he sent them forth, oozing, slipping, running across rocks and cobbles, through woods and water, until they reached the cave in which Amarestine made her abode.
            The prophetess was not startled to see these strange creatures, man but not, liquid yet solid.
            “O Ghaund!”  She despaired.  “Oh, my love, what have you done?”
            The creatures fell upon her then and carried her back to their master, who felt no joy at the return of his beloved.  He looked upon her and sighed, feeling nothing.  He touched her and though his blood raced, he knew not why, kissed her and felt light-headed, knew her and yet pleasure did not truly reach him.
            And so he kept her there, in the tower, guarded by his creations, until all the days of their lives were utterly spent, and learned nothing at all.