Sitting bolt upright, his hands clawing at the air, his breath exploded through his throat in a savage cry of despair, fear and sheer agony. His body burnt with the ravages of the poison, yet he lived. Rolling onto his side, he vomited, coughing up black bile, the sour remnants of drink and what little food he had consumed earlier that day.

Heaving he coughed more, spitting the bitter black putrescence from his gaping mouth. His hands scrabbled against the dusty dirt floor, and he tried to push himself to his feet. No sooner had he risen that he fell, a weakness in his body that he could not readily account for. But then it came back, the knife wound in his back, the poison of the child, the smashing of the assassins head into the ground.

Sn’jn crawled to a corner, his hands looking for the safety of his blade as he groped around in the darkness. He did not find it; instead he found the child’s arm, still attached to the cold corpse that he had created. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dark, his breathing, once ragged, began to calm.

Beyond all odds, he was alive, he didn’t know why, or how, but his breath was all that mattered. He was alive. Leaning gingerly against the wall Sn’jn let out a slow breath, closing his eyes, letting the cool wall chill his hot body.  His mind was all shattered thoughts and syrupy memories. Faces washed over him, nothing made sense, even the sounds he could hear seemed to come from far away and through a web of fluid.

Sn’jn was in pain, he was exhausted, and the only two people that could tell him where to find Deogorath were now dead. His body ached with a deep chill in the joints, sick sweat coated his body. Despair clutched his heart, constricted his chest and stole his will. Sn’jn gulped back tears in his raw throat but could not abandon the despair. It was too heavy a thing, crushing his will. Tears spilled from his dark eyes and he sobbed.

“Foolish man fears death, wise man cherishes it.” The rough voice of Gortak drifted through the darkness. “You must put away your pain, Sn’jn, come! The Crusaders and the Hounds come, if they find you here, they will murder you were you weep.”

Gortak’s strong hands gripped Sn’jn with an unexpected gentleness and helped the broken man to his feet. Gortak ducked under Sn’jn’s arm, helping him stand. Quickly they left the ramshackle building and headed down the alleyways of Harranarra. In the distance they could hear the howls of the Hounds.

It was night; heavy clouds covered the starry sky, casting a halo around the moons face when it managed to steal a glimpse at mother earth. The people of Harranarra had retired for the evening and it was quiet. The late hours of night then, thought Sn’jn. Their footsteps echoes against the alley walls, their feet seeming to find each puddle and splashing noisily. Sn’jn and Gortak half-ran through the alleyways, often Sn’jn had to reach for the walls for support. His legs were leaden, his stomach desired escape from his body, and his mind was foggy. Even the fear of being caught by Hounds and Crusaders did little to alleviate his physical ills.

They blundered down an alleyway made of cobble stones flanked by tall buildings made from sandstone and white-washed. Distant howls marked the presence of the Hounds. The alley was not lit, but the main road that they approached held a small flicker of flame, and with it an odd expectation of hope fluttered in Sn’jn’s chest.

Gortak lowered Sn’jn gently to the floor near the entrance of the main road, “Stay here, I will have a look. You had better have deep pockets, Harvester, for this will cost you dear,”

The half-orc grinned, showing wicked canines and disappeared out of the alley. Sn’jn lay against the cool wall of one of a tall building. The stone was rough, yet a constant in his swaying world. The cool of the white-wash and the night air eased the fire of his skin, and his eyes drooped. Breath came in ragged gasps; his back was a corona of pain and his legs like jelly.

Sn’jn waited for what seems like eternity against the stone before Gortak returned. The half-orc helped him stand and they entered into the main road. Every dozen yards a weak oil lamp lit the way, casting pools of light in an otherwise dark night.

Gortak half carried Sn’jn, moving as quickly as they could, they headed deeper into the city. In the distance the howls of the Hounds carried in the still night air. The road was mostly empty of life. A stray dog barked at them as they passed, protecting its filthy meal for the night: a pile of rags and old, rotting meat.

Sn’jn had no idea where they were heading, he was barely conscious, and would not have been able to retrace his steps if pressed to do so. Soon enough, however, they left the main road, Gortak heading for a destination that only he knew, but his footing was sure, and he seemed to know exactly where he was going. They ducked into an alleyway when guards appeared up ahead, then back into the main road when they passed.

Soon Gortak led Sn’jn to a run-down double story building. The stone was old, rough, chipped in places. The white-wash had seen better nights, it sloughed from the stone in large flakes, the windows were shuttered with mouldy boards and a sickly wan light crept through the cracks in the eaves. The building looks haunted, thought Sn’jn, while he tried his best to keep up with Gortak. His legs had regained some of their bones and muscle, but his tendons were still missing. Each step was an exercise in agony and discipline. At the moment Sn’jn would have happily cut his own legs off, lanced his quailing stomach and bled to death content in the cool night air.

Gortak dragged Sn’Jn to the front door and pounded heavily on it. He looked around while Sn’jn tried to figure out if he had any more bile left to vomit up. He managed to wretch, but nothing came out. Gortak turned his back to the door and scanned the alleyways. Sn’jn realised that Gortak was afraid. Perhaps I should be too? Thought Sn’jn, but he was beyond caring about fear now. His mind was trying desperately to calculate his chance of recovery, make sense of the swimming colours and sounds that kept intruding on his thoughts. Everything seemed so muddled. He was having trouble recalling what city he was in.

After what seemed like an eternity of introspection, the door creaked open and a hobbled woman stuck her head out, “What’s this?” She said. Her voice was old, raspy, littered with dry leaves and rattles. Gortak didn’t even speak to her, simply pushed past into the room beyond and placed Sn’jn gingerly on a pallet.

“Gortak Fanguul, you’ve never had a day’s worth of manners beaten into you, have you boy?”

“Forgiveness, healer, but I bring an urgent application. This human is dying of poison and knife wounds, the Hounds crawl on the streets, and their cursed masters seek blood sport this night.”

“So why bring him here, Fanguul? Let the Crusaders have their meal!”

“He owes me money for saving his life, old hag. Otherwise he would be dead already. I collect my debts.”

The old woman broke a smile that Gortak rather wished she hadn’t. Gortak was not pleasing to look at, but one expected as much from a half-orc. Standing three inches shy of seven feet, grey-green skin the texture of rough stone and enlarged canines, coupled with large white eyes with red pupils, many fled from Gortak before saying “Hello”. The woman was human, if one could believe that a human could live this long, and defy decay. As far as Gortak knew, this healer had been in this house for all of his life, and all the life that his father, and his father’s father had lived. Orc’s did not live long, but three generations still put her close or over one hundred years. That was a long life for any human.

The old woman hobbled over to Sn’jn and poked him with a bony finger. Sn’jn managed a defiant croak, and twitched. The woman rubbed her chin, a gnarled finger rubbing a hairy wart with almost arcane purpose. She paused for a moment, then spat in her hand and rubbed the spittle across Sn’jn’s mouth. Almost immediately Sn’jn began to froth at his mouth.

“Kurd-weed extract. A black poison it is, for black souls. If he sees dawn he will live, if not, you’ll have to sell his things to reclaim your debt, Gortak.”

“There is also a knife in his back.” Said Gortak from the corner he had chosen to use as his resting place, squatting, thick forearms on his knees, staring intently at the woman.

“Why didn’t you take it out?” asked the old woman with a snort of derision.

“Because I have seen blades pulled from bodies that die moments after. The blade keeps the bodies fluid inside, like a cork stopper. I believed that removing it would result in a spout of wine coloured juice that should serve better in the body.”

The old woman cackled, “And you would have saved me from having to wake up, you murderous beast. Oh, what saints and devils do not take comes for that which seeks.”

The woman bent Sn’jn forward, who retched pitifully, and examined the dagger sticking out from his lower back. She pressed on the flesh around the blade and Sn’jn moaned a pitiful, reedy sound. Examining the wound more closely, the woman stumped over to a table filled with an array of roots and pastes, herbs and flowers. She collected several of them, rolled them together and placed them into a small copper brazier. She lit the flame beneath it with flint and tinder, and then went to a cupboard. She pulled two vials out, one black the other clear. While the brazier came to heat, she emptied three drops of the black fluid into the mass and took to work at it with a pestle.

Gortak spat at the foul smell that wafted over to him from where the woman worked. Whatever the healer was busy with, it stank like rank wounds. As the mass within the brazier began to bubble, the woman blew the flame out, and lifted out a large, soggy swathe of the stuff into her hand. She poured the contents of the clear bottle onto Sn’jn’s back, who let out a suitably pathetic whimper, and then applied the black mass around the daggers blade. Once she had completed surrounding the blade, she gripped the handle and pulled the blade out quickly.

Sn’jn jerked, retched, and passed out.

“You’ve killed him!” Gortak said irritably.

“Shut your mouth, beast, he’ll live. The blade blocked the flow of his spirit, shutting off the channel that carried the blood to the legs and guts. It had to be removed. You may want to make a sacrifice to ward off death for your friend, Gortak, it will be close.”

“Sacrifice is worthless, hag. The gods forsook us long ago, and they do not answer our prayers anymore. They left us to be, perhaps as we had asked, and now we suffer for it. There is no grand design or destiny for the mortal races anymore. We turned our eyes to material things, and the gods gave up on us and left. The Crusaders and the Hounds are all that is left of those times.”

“You are foolish, Gortak. The gods did not leave man it is the other way around, man left the gods. They are still there, they still answer prayers, and they guide man to his destiny.”

Gortak gave the woman a flat stare, his red eyes dull. He snorted, and then spat, pushing himself to his feet and stretching out his back.

“You are man, woman. There are no gods.”

He turned to the window looking out. A moment later he moved to the door, “I will return in the morning, to fetch him, or his corpse.”

*             *             *

Gortak snuck to a building several roads down, one that he had known since just a pup. Using hand holds that had been carved into places such that they seemed a natural part of the building, he climbed up the outside and onto the roof. Here, under the shadow of moonlight filtered through clouds, he entered the thieves’ footpath: a secretive network of paths and planks that created a veritable roadway high above the streets of Harranarra.

Moving quickly and high above the patrolling guardsmen, he headed back in the direction that he and Sn’jn had come. He hoped that he would find something of use to his friend and that the Crusaders had not cleansed the place. Gortak considered Sn’jn a friend, even if Sn’jn did not. Gortak saw something in Sn’jn that perhaps Sn’jn did not see in himself: a man driven beyond reason who had managed to keep some small piece of his sanity.

Many times Sn’jn had helped Gortak, even with offers of simple work. More than a few times they had spent drinking the profits away, but it was all worth it to Gortak. Sn’jn did not judge Gortak for his appearance, or for his heredity. To Sn’jn these things did not matter. They mattered to Gortak. He had tried to study the ways of the wise masters, but he could not shake the sense of shame he felt from the nature of his birth, nor the hatred that he knew his mother held for him. The shame, pain and utter horror his visage reminded her of.

Gortak arrived at the scene of the crime a few minutes later. The trip had taken less than half the time it had carrying Sn’jn through the streets. Squatting on the rooftop, Gortak scanned the road below. Even in the pale moonlight, he could see the muddy road had been churned up by heavy booted feet and clawed paws. The street, however, appeared empty, derelict, as if life itself had been stolen away suddenly.

Closing his eyes Gortak listened, and listened hard. There were sounds to be heard, but they all seemed far away. For a moment he thought he heard the heavy panting of a Hound, but it vanished on a breath of wind and was gone. Gortak waited several minutes, listening with all his concentration.

Eventually, convinced that there was nothing here, Gortak snuck to the edge of the building, and skittered down between two walls. It made a lot of noise in the eerily quiet alley, but not so much that it would wake anyone soundly asleep. He waited another minute, listening, his eyes scanning the entrances to the alley. Satisfied that there was no-one there, and that he had alerted no-one, he moved to the street and to the door of the building.

Ducking under the cover of its awning, he waited another moment, scanning the street again, being careful to look for the glint of armour that Crusaders wore, or hear the heavy panting of the Hounds. Neither sight nor sound appeared to his senses. Stealing another glance up and down the street, he looked and listened for other dangers of the night: thieves and cut-throats. None appeared to him either.

He turned and lifted the latch on the creaky door. Slipping in, he closed the door behind him and applied the leather thong that acted as a latch. Then he took in the details of the room. It was pitch black, but he had the blood of his father in him, the monstrous orcs. He could see in the dark, needing virtually any light to be able to see as a man in midday. He couldn’t see very far like this, but he could make shapes out: the rickety ladder that went up the floor above, two dark stains on the floor where Sn’jn’s victims had laid, another stain where Sn’jn himself had vomited up his bile. A broken table lay scattered in the far corner a drop of rough cloth covered an entrance to another room to Gortak’s right, and to his left an old cupboard, its doors hanging open on rusted hinges.

Gortak moved quickly, but quietly, his padded boots making virtually no sound on the rough dirt floor. He reached the rickety ladder, jumped up, grabbing the lip of the trap door above and pulled himself up so that only his eyes broke cover. Looking around he saw nothing moving and so pulled himself up into the room above.

Gortak searched the room quickly, never certain that the Crusaders and their Hounds would not return. He tossed the two pallets quickly and carefully, searching through the mouldering straw that acted as a mattress. He tore through the bedding, looking for anything that Sn’jn might be able to use. He found nothing. Cursing quietly, Gortak dropped back down into the common room and padded over to the drop that acted as a door. Looking through, he saw several boxes and barrels. A foul smell also came from the storage room.

He stepped in and looked around. The barrels were filled with stagnant water and rotted foodstuffs, the boxes with moth eaten rags. Gortak let out a sigh. He had searched the place fully and found nothing. Either the Crusaders had taken anything of interest, or there had been nothing to find.

That only left one solution to the information problem: they would have to find a Hexer, and get them to speak to the corpse. Sn’jn would not be pleased.

Not the first time that I am voting, but the first time that I’m writing a blog about it, while standing in the queue, and what a queue.

A wise man once said that a person who votes in his country is a citizen, and a person who does not is a subject. Gareth Cliff quotes this quite often, and it’s very true.

If you have the right to vote and do not, what does that say about yourself and your attitude towards your country?

Often one finds that the individuals who chose not to vote are the ones that complain the loudest, claiming that their vote cannot make a difference.

When it comes to municipal elections, such as it is today, that is entirely untrue. In 1995, I chose not to vote in my municipality, that year the party that I vote for, and the party that I vote against had the same number of votes, a genuine tie.

Turns out, then, that such ties are determined by coin toss. The party I vote against won. I should have voted. Since then I have made every effort to vote.

It is perhaps the one civic duty that should be enforced by law. I believe strongly that every citizen of age should be required to vote.

But what of those that chose not to vote not because of apathy but choice? Rather that they spoil their ballot paper than not vote at all. In my opinion rather.

I believe that any and all South African’s should be allowed to vote. Regardless of where they are or how long they have been out of the country.

I believe that an individual vote can make a difference, and that law should require that all citizens of age must vote!

Follow me on twitter while I keep you updated. @jebb.x1

A single drop of dew fell through the darkness. It glistened with an unknown light, falling, eternally through the vast escape of the hereafter. Its endless fall came to a thunderous end as it clashed against the ragged skin of the bearded man’s face. Sn’jn blinked, and opened his eyes.

Sn’jn lay prostrate on threshed wheat, his arms akimbo and his clothes smelling clean but damp. For a moment Sn’jn though that perhaps he had been caught in a thunder storm. Perhaps he had slipped and struck his head, for he could not recall how he had ended up in this field, and he did remember the pain. More than that, he remembered and echo of pain, as if something had caused his body great harm, but for now could not recall exactly what had harmed him.

Slowly, surprisingly without stiffness, Sn’jn hauled himself to his feat and stretched. Despite the dampness that he felt he was warm and rather at ease. Checking himself over, running his hands over his body, clothes and armour, he was satisfied that everything was where it should be and that nothing appeared broken or harmed. He was, however, without weapon.

Content that he was whole, despite feeling naked without a blade, Sn’jn looked around. He stood deep within a field of golden maize, long fronds gently swaying in the wind. The zephyr was warm and brought a scent of cleanliness to him and a sense of completion to his warring emotions. The field stretched on to the far horizons and even the sky was oddly bright and the colour of tarnished bronze.

There was nothing here. For as far as he could see, Sn’jn realized that there was an utter lack of anything but golden wheat stems set against a burning sky and endless fields. For a moment panic struck him, but he quelled his fear, pushed it down into the same dark place that all his other emotions had fled to, and took a long, shuddering, breath. The fields were all the same length and depth, cared for and cultured. Somewhere there was a farmer, somewhere there was a keeper of the wheat, and therefore, life, other people, sound and voice. Hopefully, there he would also find explanation and direction. Realizing that without road or path that any direction was as good as the next, Sn’jn looked to the burning orb in the sky and headed west, towards the setting sun.

The golden wheat fronds swept about him, shimmering in the zephyr like an ocean of gold and honey. Still the fresh smell of life and relaxation came to him and endeavoured to gain his trust. Sn’jn fought a drowsy spell, thinking that he must have struck his head, and that the wound sought to bring him to dark sleep again.  Gritting his teeth against the pleasure of rest, he strode on, more determined than before.

Sn’jn marched endlessly it seemed. Had it been hours? Days? Perhaps only minutes? He could not tell, he had even run in mad panic as the endless fields on rolling hills continued before him and around him. No breath burned in his lungs, never did he tire, nor hunger, for all the time that he spent on his journey, nothing of his body betrayed him.

“Am I dead?” Sn’jn asked himself. His voice was loud and unnatural in the silence. Stopping for a moment and looking around he saw nothing different in this small valley than he had seen for the moments, hours, or perhaps long days preceding. After a moment of looking around, wandering aimlessly where he was, he shrugged, and continued his journey. He reached the top of the valley and looking over the hill into the next valley had his breath stolen in a single moment.

Deep in the valley, beyond yet another wide field of golden wheat sat a simple stone farm house with yellow thatch and shuttered windows. A barren chimney spoke no ash, and the pen affixed to the one side of the farm held no livestock.

What caught Sn’jn’s breath was the recognition of the place. The juniper hanging from the eaves, the meticulous etchings around the door offering wards and protections to the spirits of the land for safety and fertility, they all spoke to him, called to him, and his hands ached in recognition of the work he had done to build it. It was his farm, his home, a place that he had fled when it was nought more than a burning husk.

Suddenly without agility, Sn’jn stumbled and fell down the hill towards the farm house, his frantic plunge through the wheat met with an urgency of hope and a denial of truth. The last he had seen this place it had been a charred husk, now it was as the day he had finished it. As he threw himself through the fields of wheat his voice barked loudly calling the name of the woman he loved.

His voice was raw, and unnatural in its exhaustion but the time he arrived at the farm house door. Bursting through the wooden door Sn’jn stormed into the common room of his farm, his home, his life. Again he called to her, his voice aching. There was no reply to his call. The house remained silent and empty, much like his soul. His chin dropped to his chest, his fists curled into balls, and his body shook.

With an aching eternity, his body shuddered, his breath stuttered, and his legs gave out. The mighty warrior, murderer, killer and savage fell to his knees. His eyes squeezed shut he cried out, his face a mask of sorrow and loss. The dark place within his chest shattered and broke, the dam of his emotions flooding his soul. His hands clawed at his face, his hair, the soft earth of his home, tears hot and salty burnt trails down his cheeks as he screamed and wept and shouted and cursed the gods above and below. He slammed his fists into the dirt and swore vengeance, spittle flew from chapped lips and eyes bulged in their sockets, and his heart broke and splattered his gut with hot acid and terrible bereavement.

Finally he turned from the farm towards the door, and there stood a woman. She wore a simple far smock, a bodice with a skirt. Her long golden hair fell about her shoulders framing her face in a halo of light. A juniper wreathe sat about her crown.

“Out of my way, woman, I do not have need for company.” Sn’jn said harshly through a savaged throat.

The woman’s eyes fell upon him much like a smiths hammer and Sn’jn felt the blood in his body echo with resonance at her gaze. Fire burnt from her body, her halo of hair sprang to life about her, and she lifted from the ground, a burning anger within her eyes.

“I am Asherah, goddess of this land and of you and yours. Mine is the dream of life and death, to give or take. None stand before me without fear, all stand before me and love me. I am that which is, which was, which will always be. I am the birth of the world, the moon and the sun, I am the virgin star, the compassionate harlot, the generous courtesan of life. Bow before me and worship me, for I am everything and all, and you are nothing but whim and fancy on my part.”

Sn’jn stared back hard, his body aching and screaming at him. Voices shattered his thoughts begging him to bow his knees and throw himself at the mercy of this goddess. Other voices called for him to throw himself with lust into her waiting arms, others to savage his own throat and tear the breath from his body for the affront on her presence.

Instead he went for his blade.

Surprised to find his hand clasping over the welcome hilt of his sword, he drew the sharp blade in one even motion, the fluidity of his form something mostly remembered. His skill was that of frantic fighting learnt on the battlefield. Practiced motions remembered by muscle and tendon. Technique shaved sharp by the very real death of defeat.

The blade swept out unerringly, levelling with the woman’s throat.

“I bow to none, woman.”

The woman smiled and Sn’jn felt his body enflame with desire and passion for her. He almost dropped his blade at the amazing effect of this woman on his loins.

“Be still thy blade warrior, this is why I have kept you and allowed you an audience, if only to tell you to return to your mortal shell and continue your fight. Something within you burns brighter than any star of the gods, something deep within you is the reason for my mirth. And you do bow, dear Sn’jn Harvester, you did so earlier, when you realized that here you would find nothing of your wife. You bow to her every moment, with every breath, with every beat of your black heart.

“And know this, dear Sn’jn, you will bow before another woman, not me and mine, nor you or yours, but one of you, from you, from your joining with the soul you loved so dearly, so deeply, the soul you forsook and failed when you succumbed to pain and despair.

“You will bow before her in chains, and beg from her nothing but death. You will do this, for it is written in the book of souls, and your life there is etched in eternal stone.”

Sn’jn ground his teeth, and then spat, “I make my own way, nothing will stop me.”

The woman looked away from him and as if marionette strings had been cut Sn’jn collapsed to the dirt floor, the strength of his being ebbed away.

“Yes, Sn’jn, you do make your own way, and that is why the gods despise you. Each time they write your fate in the book, some of it remains, and some of it drops from the page like dust. You are indeed a strange one.” She said.

“Enough for now, you have found once again your reason, and I have told you what I needed to tell you, so awake, live, fight. Now, Sn’jn. Awake!”

Image via Wikipedia

So the last few blog posts have been somewhat depressive and dark and dreary. Can one blame me? Probably. The truth of the matter is that I want something that I cannot have, and in efforts to ward myself from these things I have been having massive pity parties. However, as is in my nature, I am starting to recognise these issues and am in the slow process of correcting these things. Some people, however, are expectant of things being done their way, and not my way. Doing things other people’s ways is half the reason I am as I am. And that is ultimately what I seek to change.

The methodology of change is to corrective assessment with third-party observation. I have realized that I lack the motivation to correct myself, and as such have enlisted the aid of a third-party. I have been given a target of 12 weeks and 26 weeks. The 12 week target addresses certain dietary and health changes whereas the 26 week goal addresses certain other health related tasks, such as maintenance of Hba1c levels and the ilk. These targetswill be addressed by independent contractors and this is going to cost me money, all the more reason to focus on accomplishing them.

The simple truth of the matter is that I have gotten fat, I haven’t been exercising and I have started smoking again, none of which are good things. According to discovery Health my Vitality Age is now sitting at 45. In case you are unaware, I’m 33. Obviously there are issues and at this point, they will be addressed, and addressing them is precisely what I am doing. Firstly, I am going to gym tomorrow. I am not looking forward to it, but I am going to don the takkies and the gym pant and the t-shirt, charge up the mp3 player and grab a towel and try not to kill myself on a bike for 30 minutes. Then I will go and push weights until I haul my arse, knuckles dragging on the floor, to the treadmill where I will walk for 10 minutes as a cool down. I fully intent to be at the gym for an hour. I expect come Wednesday that I shall be unable to function as a human being, reduced, instead, to the capabilities and movements of an amoeba.

Further, I will be addressing the eating issues. I have already started correcting my eating habits, but as I functionally correct one aspect, I appear to be replacing it with an equally poor alternative. I am eating too much chocolate, and yes, there is such an issue as too much chocolate, and yes, I am eating too much of it. Did I mention that I am a diabetic and that I shouldn’t be eating chocolate at the best of times. The net result of my poor eating habits is that my glucose levels are hovering around the 8 mark, which isn’t where I want them to be. My target for my glucose levels is 5.8, because that’s what’s on the box! For the first year and a half, two years of my diabetic state, the doctor was very well pleased with me. Methinks that he will not be quite as amused.

I have more health issues today than I have ever had in my life. This needs to be corrected. Dietary needs are to be addressed, and I’m going to have to have strong words with my house mate who has an insane appetite. Worst is that the 6’3″ fellow weighs less than I do, and eats twice as much. Sometimes I truly believe that there is no fairness in this world, but I suspect that he has worms. A pox on his cast iron super-heated digestive gut! Regardless, however, I need to cut my portions down and stop ordering large pizza’s every Sunday and start looking at getting a standard. In this way I can cheat on poor meals one a week and not twice or three times.

Then onto projects for the month of November: as I did last year, I am again this year growing facial fuzz. Yes. And no, it is not to be a handlebar, but, as last year, a bikers ‘tache! Expect that there will be, as last year, a picture diary of the progress of myself and a few fellows as we grow fur under our noses and test our new french ticklers. Further testing will be required for their filter feeding techniques and an examination of how long they can keep their food fresh for! Of course the purpose of this idiocy and buffoonery is Movember, a cancer awareness movement started in Australia some years back. It has picked up in South Africa and several other countries and is to bring awareness about male cancers. For those of you who do not know, my father died of cancer in 1995. I haven’t been a supporter of such movements, but last year I started, and shall continue to do so.

Finally, the big project for November is NaNoWriMo! And yes, I am taking part this year after having threatened to do so for the last two or three years. Some will wonder why I am spewing out thousand word blog posts instead of writing, but I figure that I can do both equally well. New mindset and all that rot. Anyway, I have created my NaNoWriMo account, I have my storyline, have plotted the first two chapters and hope to write at least half of the first chapter tonight, once I knock of work at around 7:30pm. Which is in an hour. Hooray!

Image via Wikipedia

Reminds me of that statement: “Let’s invade the America‘s! Hurrah!”

Quite. They’re a plucky lot those British gentry fellows.

So that’s the state of Jebb for the month of November. Several work projects are howling at me and the dead line is screaming up towards me, but I feel better this week than last, and better than the week before that, so I would say that I am on the mend. As work piles up, I also look at the roleplaying that is coming. Corvys is running a bi-monthly New World of Darkness: Hunter game, I am running a weekly 4th Edition Dungeons and Dragons Campaign, and will start a bi-monthly Shadowrun game as well.

Lots and Lots and Lots happening, busy as a bee, still feel like a half-stuck pig in my rut, but I can see the lip, and I am climbing out. The big question now is: will I feel like this in the morning.

And will the morning respect me still?

Jebb out!

So here I sit, waiting for work to start. Here I sit with my new gaming machine, not feeling like playing anything, or just wasting the day away doing nothing but gaming. I’ve got projects to do, things that used to stimulate and excite me, that I were once so eager to do, and now they sit, gathering dust. I know that this feeling will pass, it always does. What bothers me, however, is how often I have been feeling like this. I don’t want to go to the doctor and get medication to make me happy, I see that as a failure at life. I know that it isn’t, that it could well be a chemical imbalance and that it needs be addressed, but I have simply just lost the desire to try to be better, which is, itself, bullshit.

There is so much I can do, I can go to gym, get into shape, eat right, learn something new everyday, speak to people, make new friends, explore this beautiful world that we have. Travel, investigate, write, be creative, learn more of this fascinating world and the people and creatures that inhabit it. I am creative, I write, I design, I spend time with friends thinking about this world and the world out there, beyond our borders and beyond the stars. Despite all of this, however, I lack the drive, the motivation, the ambition at this point to bother with it. All because of a girl.

The worst is that despite the knowledge that there are some three billion women out there, I don’t want anybody else. Worse, because of the way that I am, I then spend time questioning myself and asking what if someone else does come along? Will I then simply forget this person and move on? Will I find replacements and then suddenly not care whether she has a boyfriend, or what she is doing, if she is happy? If that is so, what does it say of me? Does it mean that I am simply infatuated and not obsessed? Does it mean that I lack depth of character? Does it mean that what I feel now is purely hormonal and chemical and means nothing in the greater aspect of this existence?

What is this that buries itself into my mind, seeking release? What is this that asks questions of my existence? Why do I sit at night without ambition? Have I given up? What is it about my life that I have lost which has seemingly broken me? Even writing this I find it foolhardy and annoying. I’m whining. I hate that. I’m sharing my darker thoughts. I despise that. My problems are my own and I must solve them, yet here I am pouring out my thoughts to the world and sundry, for everyone with enough time and nothing better to do to read. Why is that?

Why do I lack motivation? Why do I lack energy? Why do I no longer seem to care about waking up in the morning. Why is life becoming progressively more difficult to sustain? What can I do to change these things? Do I even want to change these things? I like where I am, but I seem not to like who I am. What to do? Where to go? What to change? So many questions and not enough effort contained within this mortal shell to bother with changes and fixing.

And it is all because of women. Not a single female. that much I know, although the current feelings of worthlessness is associated directly with a single being. But is this just a phase? Am I obsessed with that which I cannot have, is this why I feel like this? Is this why I feel like giving up, because of one person? Again, this brings questions to my mind of what it says about me. Am I truly this useless a human being that someone can inflict this kind of morose ambivalence upon me? Surely there is something more to it? If not, why am I being so foolish? Why am I allowing myself to feel like this?

I am a strong believer in the concept of the self, and that everything that has happened to us has made us who we are, and that if anything in the past had changed we would not be the person we are today, we could be similar, but ultimately, we would be different. Therefore, I am also a believer in the power of the self, and that through conscious choice and decision we can change who we are and what we are. That the world is ours to take, and that our success or failure in this world is a direct result of our efforts into this world. I am also, however, a realist, and know that the people around us can change who we are and what we become, through action or inaction. Through force or a lack of application.

Is this a catharsis? Did I need to put this to word so that I could get some of the darkness brewing in my mind out of it? Perhaps. Perhaps this is also for my own good, an opportunity to put out the thoughts rambling around my head and get a clearer picture of what they portend. Perhaps I just lack someone to speak to, to share with, and that this is the real problem. I have friends. I have many friends. But do I have close confidants? Do I have individuals to whom I can share my darkest thoughts and desires and know that they will not judge me? Am I too concerned with perception and the need to be viewed as a moral individual?

What do I want from this life that I lead? What of the future? Do I see myself remaining as I am for the remainder of my eternity? Would I be accepting of this life if it were a friends and they had come to me and asked for advice? Why is it easy for me to tell others how they should live? Give them advice on how to grow as an individual, financially, career-wise, and so forth, yet find it so utterly impossible to follow that advice myself? Obviously, something is wrong, I am out of balance, off-centre, running helter-skelter towards nothing. I have to change this.

I know what the first step of this change is, I have to speak to her, explain my feelings, explain myself, get a definitive answer from her as to why, and then address those in my past, both those to whom I have hurt and those who have hurt me, seek closure and understanding. I know the paths to take, yet I lack the motivation and energy to do them. I know that all I need to do is take that first step, and the second will be easier. Perhaps only marginally so, but it will be easier. Life will come right, if I apply myself.

I am intelligent, I am brilliant, I am creative. I know these things. I have proven these things. Yet I sit here and know, also, that it requires an effort in order for me to accomplish my dreams and my goals, my desires and my ambitions. Currently, I lack a source of energy for that effort. But I know, I truly know, that I can, and that I should. I cannot help, however, believe that I require someone to push me. To me, that is a failure in and of itself. I need to be able to stand alone, solitude should envelop me like a cape, build a cavern around me, protect me and provide me with the strength that I need to start my path alone. Perhaps this is an apt metaphor, a cavern, for from the darkness of the cavern the exit is also the brightest light.

My path is lit. I am aware of it. I just do not like the road it has carved. Because I know this journey is not an easy one, I resist. because I know that I have to accept the choices of others, even though they are not what I desire, I resist.

I must stop resisting the truth, and accept, I must open my eyes in the cavern of my consciousness, and seek the light.

Yet I resist.

Dancing on the edge,
Deep Despair,
Hanging on the ledge,
Black Despair.

Look to forever,
Wanting Life,
Feeding the fever,
Nought but strife.

Dark morbid passage,
Bearing down,
Skeletal visage
Death’s black crown.

Night’s Clarion call,
Demanding,
Dark’s eternal fall,
Commanding.

Can I survive this?
Do I want?
Search my soul for bliss,
Never found.

Image via Wikipedia

This last Sunday we finally (finally!) got going with the campaign that I have been planning for an inordinate amount of time. A little bit of back story on the campaign is that it is a continuation of the epic campaign that I ran for 3.5 Dungeons and Dragons, and this new story line, which builds on the world mythology and geography, is based on the 4th edition of Dungeons and Dragons. The game world has been updated in order to accomodate the feel of the 4th Edition, which means that a massive cataclysm has arrived, had a party and left. The world is now trying to recover.

So it was that for the first time in about a year or so, possibly even more, I got the opportunity to really run a game. And it brought with it some interesting aspects of running a game that I had not used for a while. Mainly it was hamming it up. Actually taking on the persona of the NPC‘s and going with it. Going strong too. Using gestures, dramatic pauses, intense glares and emphasis on words, proper inflection. It was a but load of fun. I think, however, the most fun came when I had to take two of the players, seperately, into one of the spare rooms and feed them information that they wouldn’t like, and that the other players wouldn’t know.

Here I discovered a something that I am usually reluctant to use but was amazingly effective: touch and the invasion of personal space. One of the players is playing a shifter, and as I stroked his arm and his face, invading his space, he shivered and squirmed and was decidedly uncomfortable, but kept it all in character. Obviously this will not work for everyone, but it was intense, and I do not think that the player will forget about it for a while. Success, I believe. The other player I did not touch, nor invade the personal space of, but it became more of impromptu theatre, we held wine glasses, and looked out the window, speaking urbanely about committing acts of treason and theft, and were well pleased with the deal and the plan (at least I was, the player knew he was getting shafted, and couldn’t do anything about it).

All in all, it was an amazing session on the roleplaying front, and the combats that occured thereafter seemed to be anti-climatic, although they were brutal and somewhat lethal. Two players almost died. Considering the amount of back story that I had written for those characters, I really didn’t want to kill them, but I also realized that the atmosphere and the realism of it required that they realize that everyone is expendable in someway. I look forward to our next session, it’s going to be good, really good!

Image via Wikipedia

The last few months have been chaos, and a fair amount of that still thrives for me currently. On the up side I am getting a little semblance of my life back in order. I have a website to deliver by Saturday. which is going to require the sacrifice of sleep. Further, I am starting a very long overdue campaign for 4th Edition Dungeons and Dragons on Sunday, and need to start planning for my Shadowrun 4th Edition game that will pick up in about eight weeks.

There has been a lot of neglect in my life recently, and I am battling to gain momentum and motivation in my life. Things haven’t been easy. I’m still dealing with certain aspects of the divorce I went through earlier this year, and there are always going to be money problems (at least for another year or so), and then there’s the unbridled infatuation I have for someone I cannot have. Lot’s of suckery and douche baggery abounding throughout.

Regardless of all of this I feel that I am slowly starting to find my feet, and I’m glad that they’re there, right at the end of my legs, because I have simply been existing for the last few months, and that just doesn’t cut it. I’ve cut down on my commitments, and focussing only on a small batch of things, which is perhaps one of my greatest failings. I always say “yes I can” even when it would be far more wise to say “yes I can, but not this month”.

So enough of the empty promises and the unrealistic desires and goals. Time to focus on what I can do, and what I want to do. This means the roleplaying, the website, modulating a thesis for a friend, and then November… NaNoWriMo and Movemeber. Yes. It is time to grow fuzz on the face again. I’m looking forward to it.

In other news, I’ve stumbled across a Canadian Band called The Agonist. It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it is the first time that I have found a death metal band that I like. Which is new. The Agonist is new, they’re young and have a female lead singer. Odd, I know. And did I mention she’s hot in an emo-goth centric way?

Jebb out.

Image via Wikipedia

On Saturday the 22nd of August, Cape Town hosted a Dungeons and Dragons Game Day for the release of the new Dark Sun 4th Edition campaign setting. The day was hosted by the University of Cape Town, in classroom 4H and was scheduled to get underway starting at 13h00. It was my first games day, and my first release of a new campaign setting. It also had my first stint at DM‘ing at a games day. As with most things, there were some good moments and some bad. Let’s start with the bad, shall we?

There are only three issues that I had with the game day: location, attendance and material.

Location was perhaps our largest challenge. While we’re grateful to have been given a location by CLAWS (the gaming society of UCT), we were placed in classroom 4H which is about as out of the way as one can possibly get. From the recreation room, one would need to go past the radio station, up a flight stairs (well, a stairwell actually), down a couple of corridors and finally find themselves in the location, which looked a touch dodgy. Thankfully Magependragon had the foresight to print out some flyers and stuck them up everywhere she could in order to give directions to those looking for us. Still, there were some phone calls to explain exactly where we were. Less than ideal.

Attendance was low; far more people than we would get in East London, where I am from, but barely enough to run two tables. The worst part of this was that we had gotten several responses on the Facebook group saying that they would be there from people who simply didn’t arrive. This, it turns out, may have to do with the politics of the gaming individuals in Cape Town. I’ll be blunt, I don’t get the politics in Cape Town in the gaming groups. I just do not understand it. Coming from East London where one grabs the opportunity to game, because there appear to be so few gamers around, I couldn’t believe that there was such a poor turn out for an actual sanctioned Wizards of the Coast event. More on this later.

Material was a bit of an issue. We were issued an actual game pack from Blowfish, the company that distributed Wizards of the Coast products in South Africa. The issues? We were issued 1 game pack. Just the one. Further, the material was for the new campaign setting, which introduced several new rules as well. However, the rules were never explained. We had to rely on Phaezen (a complete and utter Dark Sun fanboi) to get clarification on some of the new rules. Some he was able to explain, others, he said that he would have to get back to us on for clarification.

Considering that Dungeons and Dragons is the largest roleplaying game in the world, it annoyed me no end that when given an opportunity to celebrate the game and show interest, the politics of the gaming community almost scuttled the whole thing. How can we expect Wizards of the Coast and Blowfish to support these events if the people who play the games do not? From my understanding, the attitude of the gamers in Cape Town is such that they consider Dungeons and Dragons to not be a “real” roleplaying game, and more of a strategic board game. I weep for them, for apparently they lack Dungeon Masters with creativity.

Now, that may come as a surprise to some of the readers of this blog, as they are well aware that I originally harboured no love for the 4th Edition of Dungeons and Dragons. Alas, for I am slowly and surely falling in deep fanboi love with the game, and I hang my head in shame for that statement. I have berated the system, often, and it still does rub me up the wrong way from time to time, but it is exciting, and it is evocative and it is amazingly quick to play. It has many merits.

Image via Wikipedia

The Good: Shiny material, good people, awesome game, and an epic final encounter!

For the first time, Magependragon actually got gaming material from Blowfish. This included the actual adventure, several sheets of tokens, and large poster maps for the encounters. Further, there were a couple of postcard sized flyers which were also handed out. It was great to see actual product instead of just photostats for a change. Further, Phaezen, one of the other people heavily involved in the game days, brought his second edition Dark Sun products, which he displayed on a table for an awesome showcase of what the world had been. Brom is still by far the best artist that Wizards of the Coast ever got, and his epic art style personified Dark Sun in the second edition.

The people who did come to the game day were great. Friendly (if a little grotty and, in one case, addle-brained), approachable and enthusiastic about the game. We had sufficient players to seat one full table, and then I ran the second table for the DM’s and the organizers. It was my first bash at running a 4th edition table and my first time running for Cape Town players. The table had both Magependragon and Phaezen in it, as well as Davor, who played two characters.

First, let us talk about the actual module.

Image via Wikipedia

The module is entitled The Lost Cisterns of Aravek and is designed as a heroic tier adventure for characters of 4th level. The presentation of the adventure is like most 4th Edition products; large branding on the top, cool artwork for the cover, and an explanatory band on the bottom. The artwork for the cover is by Wayne Renolds, who has also done a fair bit of work for Paizo and their Pathfinder game (3.5 thrives!). As is usual with WotC adventures, a fair bit of background and story hooks are presented, allowing the Dungeon Master to drop this adventure into an existing campaign without too much alteration.

The basis of the adventure is a true reflection of the world of Dark Sun. An ancient preserver had created a magical location that drew water from the very air. As one can imagine, water, on a world like Athas, where the majority of the land is desert, is a very precious commodity. As such everyone wants it. The hooks for the players reflect this and fully five different hooks are presented, ranging from greed to political power and even an appeal to the players’ good side.

Because this was a games day, and the entire adventure needed to be presented and played through in three to four hours, the DM’s were recommended to pick one and present that. I chose the liberated slave hook, and after a bit of a sob story to the players sent them on their merry way to the Ringing Mountains, where the cistern was rumoured to be located. This leads directly into a skill challenge, which I have virtually no experience with. As such the running of the challenge wasn’t great, too much dice rolling and insufficient knowledge on my part on how to describe and tell the story of the effects of their dice rolling.

Some poor rolling on the party’s part led to the first encounter, in an oasis, and here was my chance to find out how lethal these adventures could be, and in return, how lethal the players were. Turns out that they were pretty damned lethal all round. Some interesting mechanics were also played. Being Dark Sun, there is a psion in the party. This led to a brief discussion on how the psionics aspects work in 4th Edition, further, the weapon breakage rules were also brought to the fore, ultimately, however, we decided not to use them to dearly.

Having passed the encounter, the players headed on to the cistern proper itself. Arriving there they had an encounter with some githyanki, which in all honesty, they beat the snot out of. A bit more meandering around then led them into the cistern lower portions where they had their final encounter with a truly devious monster called a Tembo. This combat was the epic one, with players falling down, being healed up only to fall down again. When they finally slew the terrible beat, the party cheered and high fived each other. It was great, and as I had expected that I was not doing a very good job of DM’ing, I was surprised, and then elated.

Ultimately the players enjoyed the game, even though I made many, many mistakes (such as dealing damage from the Tembo’s aura on each of its turns instead of dealing the damage on each players turn). The game day was a success as far as I was concerned, and I managed to get some swag out of it as those that DM’ed got to take the poster maps and tokens with them. I left with the same level of positivity and drive to write my own adventures for the conventions here in South Africa as I did when I finished up at ICON 2010. I also now have a desire to run a Dungeons and Dragons Game Day here in East London during the month of September.

Image via Wikipedia

But we’ll see how that goes.

Jebb X Out.

Related Articles

• D&D Encounters Dark Sun (Week 7) from Dungeon’s Master (dungeonsmaster.com)
• Dark Sun Ushers in a World of Fun from Ben’s RPG Pile (bensrpgpile.com)
• Looking Forward to Dark Sun from Wrathofzombie’s Blog ” Role-playing (wrathofzombie.wordpress.com)
• Dark Sun Heats Up from Critical Hits ” RPG (critical-hits.com)
• Dark Sun Is Deadly from Dungeon’s Master (dungeonsmaster.com)
• Dark Sun Campaign Setting Review from Points of Light (daegames.blogspot.com)
• An Intarwub Primer to Dark Sun from My Girlfriend is a DM (mygirlfriendisadm.wordpress.com)
• Old-School Unboxing: Dark Sun from Troll in the Corner ” Role Playing Games (trollitc.com)
• Review of Dark Sun Campaign Setting by Wizards of the Coast from NEUROGLYPH Games (neuroglyphgames.com)

Ever wish you had a blogging assistant who helped you write posts that are full of great links, photos, and tags? Wish no more: We've partnered with the folks at Zemanta to give you a hand at quickly jazzing up your posts. Once you've activated Zemanta, you'll see several new widgets on your edit screen that let you quickly add recommended links, photos, tags, and articles. With just a few clicks your post goes from simple to snazzy. Here's a qui … Read More

via WordPress.com News