Notes follow the story.

e was a short man, sitting on a crate, but his eyes saw everything.

On a closer look, Karen noticed that he wasn't sitting, he was squatting.  She felt sure the man would have noticed this about her in his first glance, and scolded herself.  Her inability to pick out the finest details in things was a failing she needed to address, as Sarlman pointed out to her from time to time.

The man they were approaching squatted, leaning back on his heels, his back against the rough brick wall of a tavern. The crate he stood upon was one of dozens stacked against the side of the building, and the man was one of hundreds loitering around the city.  He had quick eyes, but so did most of the other men; quick enough to see if you were unwary, or wore a fat purse.  Karen didn't see why Sarlman had walked over to this one, but she followed the ancient wizard's lead, for though she hated to admit it, he did know his way around the world.

She short man remained motionless, his hands dangling, his wrists resting on the sheathed sword that in turn rested on his knees, but his eyes took in every detail of the three travelers as they left the main rush of the street, and walked over to him.  Sarlman stopped a few feet away, directly in front of the man, and looked him up and down.  Karen stood to his right and back a step.  After her quick perusal of the squatting man, she turned and scanned the area. Amarah stood directly behind Sarlman, her hood pulled forward and her eyes downcast, as usual.

Sarlman was silent for a moment longer, then took another half step towards the man, and spoke. "You are a swordsman." He stated it as a fact.  "I have need of a man with your skills."

Karen was shocked.  Sarlman had shown no indication of adding to their group, and they'd passed by hundreds of far better-equipped warriors than this scruffy, unarmored rogue.  He wore tattered leather armor, hard boiled by the look of it, but offering less protection than even the flimsiest of ring mail.  His helm rested on a crate beside him, and it was a mere skull cap, suitable only to turn aside a glancing blow.  His boots and gloves were scuffed and dusty, and she detected no glow of magical equipment from him at all.  True, she'd never had any magical gear herself prior to meeting Sarlman, but having been out in the wilds for several months since then, wearing and finding enchanted equipment beyond anything she'd ever known existed, she now understood how important such gear was to survival in real combat.  Only the man's sword appeared to be of any quality, though it was hard to judge with it in the scabbard.  The blade was long and thin, and curved slightly.

The man said nothing, and moved not at all, though his restless eyes fixed on the tall Sarlman.

Sarlman reached slowly into his long jacket, and removed a small apple.  He held it out towards the squatting man, and spoke a few words in a language Karen did not understand.

"Kumataise amah lycaraoh."

With that he tossed the apple into the air, towards the squatting man.  Who exploded into motion.

Karen fumbled for her spear and shield, slung across her back beside her long bow, realizing even as she reached for them that it was too late.  The squatting man was too fast.  Impossibly fast.  His blade flashed through the air, leaving a blue streak of light, and before she had even readied her short spear he was still again, though no longer squatting.  He stood before the crate, his sword extended straight towards Sarlman. On the exposed blade rested the apple, sliced into four quarters and caught from the air in the same motion. Three pieces were on their sides, but one was sitting with the outside down, and it rocked slightly on the quivering blade.

Sarlman had not flinched an inch, and he now reached out and brushed the apple from the blade, careful not to touch the sword.  "Kumata amah lycard." He said, and bowed slightly.  The swordman's eyes widened still further, but he withdrew the sword, wiped the blade dry with a cloth produced from his belt, and sheathed it.

"It has been long since I've heard the language of the blade, and I fear I no longer remember it." He said, his face slightly red.  Karen thought the man might actually be blushing?

"A true swordsman speaks with his steel, does he not?" Sarlman said, his voice deep.  "Tell us your name, and speak of your true love, Bladesman."

Karen had never seen or heard anything like this before, but it was clear to her Sarlman was following some sort of ancient code, one that the swordsman knew as well.

"My life is the blade.  My soul, the blade.  I live and die for the blade.  My name is Kamazanya, but in this land I am called Karl." His voice trembled with deep emotion as he spoke, and his eyes were at last still, locked to Sarlman's.  Karen could see the man's entire body was trembling, she thought with excitement, though it could have been rage.  She kept one hand over her shoulder, gripping the haft of her short spear, though she doubted it would be of any use if Karl turned his blade in her direction.

"Your life for the blade?" Sarlman asked.

"My life for the blade!" Karl replied instantly, and bowed his head low.

"Well, I don't think that will be necessary just yet, Blademan." Sarlman said with a pleased tone to his voice.

With this the formality of their dialogue was ended, and Karl sat back down on the crate, his eyes once again moving all around the area, as if eager to confirm that no one had noticed this strange turn of events.  Karen looked around also, but the street traffic continued to move past them, ten yards to their left, and no one seemed to be paying them any mind.  She noticed that Amarah had moved to the left a foot, giving her a view around Sarlman, but was otherwise unchanged, her head still buried deep within her hood, her hands hidden in the long sleeves of her robe.  Karen knew that Sarlman felt there was great power in the woman, but just what good that power did them when it was locked up deeply within Amarah's tortured psyche was a mystery to Karen.

"I think," spoke Karl, as he looked over Sarlman, "that you are one I might once have been sworn to destroy?"

"You have a wise eye, Bladesman.  But that day was long in the past."

"Some say it will one day come again." Replied Karl.  Karen tightened her grip on the spear once again, as this conversation seemed to be going the wrong way.

Sarlman appeared unperturbed, as confident as always, answering with a half laugh.  "Some do, Bladesman, some do.  Mostly from their graves."

At this Karl laughed as well, and seemed to relax.  Karen was totally confused, but turned her eyes to Karl as his came to rest on her.  He looked her up and down twice, then looked back Sarlman.  "These are not your thralls?"

"Nay, they are of their own minds.  I enslave no living man.  You will accompany us of your own free will."  He spoke it as an order, not a question, and at once Karl picked up his helm, settled it on his head, and stood up, bowing slightly to Karen and Amarah, before kneeling before Sarlman.

From a pocket in his great cloak Sarlman drew forth a plain silver amulet, and placed it over the kneeling man's neck.  Karen saw it gleaming faintly with magic, but she could not recognize the tangled streams of power within it.  She knew that Sarlman could read the enchantments on any piece of equipment at a glance, a skill honed over the decades (centuries?) of his life.  She could but tell magical from non-magical, at this point, though she studied the enchanted items she now possessed every night, trying to memorize the faint patterns of power they radiated.

Karl stood up once the amulet was around his neck, and looked surprised as he felt the magic of it spreading through him. "My life is the blade?" He said, sounding shocked. 

"Yes, yes it is." Sarlman replied in a sad voice as he turned.  He lead them back towards the busy street and Karl fell in to his left.  Amarah continued to walk directly behind Sarlman, and Karen followed to his right, uneasy at this strange addition to their party, and unsure what all of that cryptic talk about "life for the blade" was about.  She would have to try and get some answers from Sarlman when the opportunity presented itself, though she knew from past experience that extracting explantions from the man was like pulling an ogre's teeth.

This is a scene from the long D2 novel I have mostly planned out in my head, but almost not at all transferred to print.  It will be rough draft (as all of the stuff I post on this main page is), and when/if it appears in the story, expect it to be modified somewhat, names changed, and hopefully improved.

It's set in the Diablo world, which is a mythological sword and sorcery sort of place.  The characters are somewhat Diablo II characters, but the game fiction is mostly used (by me) as a background, or a framework.  I never use any specific characters or monsters or events from the actual game story, and my characters are always modified from how they are in the game, as are the world physics.  After all, the game is basically a never-ending slaughter of infinite weak monsters, and that's not much of a story, if you write it like that.

The story will feature an ancient Necromancer (Sarlman) as the main character.  He is joined by a young Amazon (Karen), and eventually a Sorceress (Amarah).  None of them are much like their characters in the game, and I don't want to say too many details about them here, since they'll be revealed in time in the story.  Sarlman is old and wise and very powerful, somewhat mysterious.  Karen was captured by him, and then joined him.  She's young, 20 or so, but very street smart and ruthless.  Amarah is older, 30ish, and has just returned to the world after spending over a decade in a type of captivity; she was basically rescued by Sarlman, and is very withdrawn and quiet, at the time of this event.

Expect the names to change in the final story.  I was going to just call them by their class type here, but put in these place-holder names instead.

This is a relatively minor scene that introduces a minor character, a man that joins their party for an adventure.  I've been thinking about it on and off for some time, so this is in lieu of putting it down on my story notes page.

August 22, 2002

Reading over the last excerpt from the novel that I posted here, I was not real impressed.  It wasn't really a novel excerpt, since I wrote it on the spot to post on the page, as it is now.  So it's more like a hypothetical scene from near the middle of the book, that may or may not appear in the actual novel as it was written now.

More than that, it's not a piece of a longer novel.  It's a semi-self contained fragment, with much more exposition and explanation than the book would have at that point.  It's from the PoV of one of the characters, and she's thinking the whole time stuff like:

Karen didn't see why Sarlman had walked over to this one, but she followed the ancient wizard's lead, for though she hated to admit it, he did know his way around the world.

That sucks, frankly.

It's so... how to describe it.  It's common.  It's like every crap fantasy story intro you read.  It reminds me of the voice over narration most every movie trailer is burdened by, with some "Mr. Voice" idiot babbling on about "a group of adventurers making an impossible journey!  They must learn to trust each other, even as they battle the wilderness for survival."  Just cheesy, common, edgeless pabulum.   "She hated to admit it" is just a stupid phrase.

Fortunately, I would never say anything like that in the actual novel, since by the time this scene took place, it would be page 300 or something, and the characters would be established by then. The excerpt I wrote for here is burdened by excessive exposition, mostly in the form of character thoughts. There's another bit about recognizing magical weapons that's equally dumb, and which would equally not be in the final story.

So I guess my point is; while the excerpt doesn't make me happy, it at least doesn't make me despair.  The whole thing needs much improved verve though.  It just feels flat and bland now; the prose I mean, as well as the actual events.

The opening scene is mostly written and it's very good, at least in terms of the plot events.  I have tons of just awesome scenes thought out for the story, but I must go into Stephen King mode and get the goddamn thing done.   And writing slightly less-endless blogs on a daily basis, in the time I might be using to novelize, is probably a good place to start.

My excuse (to myself) is one I used in the past for writing though.  I have to be in the right mood to write fiction.  Some people consider non-fiction to be a higher form of writing, I.E. it's not about made up stuff.  I guess that's a valid PoV, but I don't subscribe to it.  I can write non-fiction any time, anywhere, effortlessly.  You just write about something that happened, or comment on something.  Researching to find out facts to write about is hard and time-consuming, but just typing out a description is so simple.  I do zero editing on 99% of the non-fiction I write, (which goes some distance towards explaining the frequent typos in these blogs) and I write 95% of it as fast as I can type it.

I think part of that is the luxury of no word counts on the Internet. If I were on deadline of time and word length for some newspaper or magazine, I imagine I'd be editing and pruning and trying to get the wording just right, and trying to work in more jokes, or at least amusing comments and metaphors.  But since I'm not, I don't.

Would it be better if I wrote 2/3 as much, and spent 1/3 of the allotted time editing and improving what I did write?  Probably.

Writing fiction, I spend far longer editing and rewriting than I do writing it in the first place, in most cases.  Not so for the short stories I've posted on this page, but a novel takes a lot of editing, not just to spice up the actual prose, but to fix up the structure and time line.  You might decide to present some background info in a flashback, or have two or three parallel story lines going on at once, with the main characters split up into separate groups.  Deciding how much to write of one group before you cut away to the others, or where to put in a short chapter with info about the bad guys, or from a bad guy's PoV, or how much detail you need about a scene; full step by step, or short summary afterwards...  That sort of thing, and you end up writing long sections that don't make it into the book at all, or realizing you need to add five pages of detail and sprinkle them here and there through a 20 page chapter.  You need to be properly-motivated, as well as have the ideas, and the mood.  Well I do anyway.

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