GSN Theory in 750 Words or Less

If you designed your own rpg system, you've probably heard of GNS Theory.  GNS stands for Gamist, Narrativist and Simulationist, and was developed a little more than fifteen years ago, mostly on a website called The Forge.  We can talk a lot about GNS Theory (particularly if we want to be really geeky about our hobby), but for the most part, the people who developed it have moved on to other models, and the rest of us (including myself) just use it because Gamist, Narrativist and Simulationist are useful terms.  For the players of Ubi Sunt, these terms give us a common language to describe different perspectives on how to play our game.

A quick breakdown:

• The Gamist perspective is best described as "goal-oriented."  You have a goal, you have obstacles, and you're trying to win.  Usually, people focus on mechanics when they discuss gamism (particularly min-maxing), but I personally feel that this is terribly inaccurate: the individual who is rigorously pursuing political goals is just as gamist as the player who creates the world's greatest swordsman and fights a lot of enemies.  Both are pursuing goals as efficiently as they can.  A personal observation: amongst larpers, there seems to be a sense that the gamist perspective is less valid than other perspectives.  I think this is inherently untrue… not only are all perspectives valid, but undermining the gamist perspective ignores the fact that mutually exclusive goals are the primary causes of conflict in larps, and the gamist perspective is vital for in-character conflict.
• The Narrativist perspective focuses on story and character development.  This approach emphasizes internal motivations, and presenting situations where players have internal conflict.  When you write long character backgrounds, set up tragic circumstances, and make "bad decisions" in-character, you're dancing with the narrativist perspective.  While narrativist storytelling is apparently emphasized by most parlor larpers, your intrepid storyteller is extremely dubious of the Narrativist perspective.  Part of my personal reservations about Narrativism is the tendency to privilege "story" above other approaches, without regard for the structure of stories, or how the construction of narratives in a collaborative sense requires strong simulationist and gamist elements.  (Translation of that incredibly pedantic sentence… the difference between writing a story and playing it out in a larp is that a larp requires both strong context and game elements to work when there's multiple people telling the story).
• Your storyteller is a very strong Simulationist, and if you look under the hood, Lloegyr is an incredibly Simulationist game.  The Simulationist is primarily concerned with genre simulation: verisimilitude is the most important aspect.  An vital element, however, is that this is genre simulation, not historical simulation.  (The specific genre we're trying to recreate, by the way, is that of the HBO Game of Thrones series… your play experience should feel like those shows).  A personal opinion: Simulationists are like the middle children of the GNS world… we can easily allow for both games and drama within our construction, as long as the genre is selected to allow for this.  This is not to say we're without problems.  I would argue the individuals who get the most angry with decisions made during a chronicle are Simulationists… all it takes is for one thing to just not make sense and everything is ruined.  If you find yourself hung up on what day it is in character, and travel times, you're probably a Simulationist.  And when the storyteller handwaves travel times and what day it is, you feel vaguely unsatisfied, because the storyteller just muted your genre simulation somewhat.

Note that no player or storyteller is squarely in any of these camps.  Everyone has all three tendencies to some degree.  However, recognizing which tendencies we have, and to what degree, allows us to discuss what we like or dislike about a particular design choice, and also to agree on what sort of game we're playing.

A New Con Larp

I'm about to start writing a one-shot larp for Dundracon, a gaming convention that takes place in the San Francisco Bay Area between the 15th and 18th of February.  If anyone wants to take a California gaming vacation, I highly recommend it.  But since most of you will not see this little corner of Lloegyr, I figured I would tell you what I'm writing.

I'm about to submit Mournful Their Mood, a 25-person one-shot game that can be run in four hours, beginning to end.  It will detail the events of the last generation's Scuttled Ship, where Castus met Maegan, in the company of Burgred and Maela, and a young Jenevra and a still old Caledon.  With a bit of luck, I can spin it so I increase the Lloegyr canon, and produce plot elements for the current monthly game.

If you're interested in knowing more, click on the DDC tag... all my notes for this game will be there.

Spoiler: The Original Epilogue

So, this is a spoiler post, but I don't feel to guilty.  These aren't spoilers for this game.

Instead, these are spoilers for the previous trilogy... the game that I ran before at three conventions between 2006 and 2008.  We have sufficiently departed from the timeline to put them in here.  You won't find too many of your characters (partly because neither Vincia, nor any clan apart from the Onellons, existed in this continuity), and most of the individuals here have not been introduced.  Further, some are so far from their original concept that it's impossible even call them the same character.  But, because I think it's thematically appropriate, I thought I would put it here.

Also, it is slightly edited.  Just saying.

Anyways, spoilers behind the cut.

Soft Places

To shameless steal a term from Neil Gaiman, soft places are places where the boundaries between the Quick (or mortal realm) are less distinct from those of the Twilight Realm or Underworld.  The most common of these are the menhirs that dot the Seaspur Mountains (and are patrolled by various fraternities of Aelic rangers... but that's another entry) and barrows (which are believed to be gateways to the underworld.  However, there's a few very notable areas where the boundary is very faint, and mortals might be unsure of which world they are in.

So far, the campaign has seen two of these.  The first was the Nameless Bay, where the heroes travelled so that the Seven could descend into the Underworld.  Less well known is the Unroofed Vault, deep in the Seaspur Mountains, where it is said Typhon once dwelt.  

The strange thing is that the Viltem have been "spotted" (for lack of a better word) in or around the soft places.  It is said the Viltem walk the Quick, exiled their by the Death Lord, Wraun... and if this is the case, where else in Lloegyr might you meet one of these ancient beings?

House Two Tower

Of particular note in the heartlands is the prominence of House Two Tower, one of the oldest cadet branches of House Lamark, founded the Time of the Dragon Kings by two brothers, Loth and Sent, who travelled north from the Lamark peninsula before Vorgen fought Cullen at the Neck and the Temes clan still held the mouth of the river that now bears their name.  The two brothers fought a series of battles that essentially destroyed the Temes, whose survivors were absorbed into the Muress clan.

Since then, the House Two Tower (the House is named in the Vincian style, and is never properly called the House of Two Tower) has ruled the two cities and the land around them.  Their claim predates the Heorot crown, and one of the scions of House Two Towers, Kent, conquered the King's Woods in the name of Vorgen shortly after the House's formation.  For the last two and a half centuries, the House has ruled three earldoms, and been almost as prestigious as it's parent house.

House Two Tower is uncommon in that it has traditionally been extremely focused on maintaining strong ties, and preventing cadet branches.  Intermarriage between Lothan, Kenton, and Senton is extremely common, and most Earls have married their second or third cousins to ensure that another house does not break off and remove an Earldom from the house.

Recent events, however, have shown the cracks in the foundation of House Tower.  Walder, the late Earl of Lothan, was quite close with the House of Gunter (as was his cousin Oswulf), and served as his steward and mentor to his daughter.  His final wishes have caused the rift between him and his son (Nulte, no friend of the Aels) to affect the entire House, as Nulte used his family ties to bring Kenton to Draught's banner and attack the Aels.  Further, the death of Codder without heir means that Senton is likely to go to another House, ending one of the longest line of Earls in Heurly.

Cities in Lloegyr

I had begun to write about Caerlot, which is the setting for the next series of games and an important setting element.  However, a comment by a player suggested that I need to revisit the idea of "town" and perhaps establish the sort of society that exists in Lleogyr.

One my major struggle when dealing with anachronisms is not actually technological.  It doesn't matter very much to me if you want castles with gatehouses and moats, or stirrups, or heraldry.  You can have all of that.  What I need to maintain is the proper sense of society, and that requires me to maintain a "proto-feudal"society... one that has not yet progressed to manoralism.

At this point in time "feudalism" is little more than a pecking order between very large gangs.  There's a king, and he has lords, but power dynamic is very much determined by individual personalities.  The earls each have a space, and they stay out of each other's territory, and they each obey the king to varying degrees.  However, their influence is primarily martial... how many soldiers can they send to the king.  Likewise, the king's influence is primarily martial... what happens if you disobey him?  Taxes are still in the form of tribute.  There's not a great deal of centralized administration.  Most importantly, Earldoms are not held in the name of the king, and subdivided into regions of smaller administration.

There are Thanes and Reeves, of course, but there's not the sense that every parcel of land is an economic asset, and each parcel has to be used and directly managed.  The Heorots are not that sophisticated (yet... and the Vincian's are, so this will likely happen in a generation or two).  When land is managed in this manner, a noble can only directly manage a relatively small area (about half a day's travel from his manor), and will have to subdivide the land.  When this happens, the lord's manor becomes the center of economic and political life, and has tremendous importance.  This is also when large-scale towns begin to develop.

Lloegyr isn't at this point yet.  Towns do exist, but they are uncommon, because they have yet to become a necessity.  The towns that do exist are generally (with some exceptions in the Heartlands) political and military centers, and have that sort of character.  

This is to say that that there's probably no "tavern" in most towns.  There's a brewer, probably a number of them, and you can go to his home to buy beer, and these are probably social centers.  However, this is still a friend's home.  Similarly, inns are a relatively rare phenomenon, as travelers in small numbers aren't that numerous.  You're not going to have many shops yet.  A town like Caerlot or Senton is a unique thing in that they have a number of establishments, instead of a central market, simply because they have enough trade to support such establishments.  

Now... Caerlot is a large city.  Lothan is larger.  Farpont and Senton are both capable of having these establishments, and Bessex and Kenton are getting there.  Lamark is practically Vincian in this regard.  But apart from these places, there's probably no "Inn of the Prancing Pony," because if there's an inn there, it's just "the Inn."

No More NaNoWriMo

Alas, I did not manage to continue NaNoWriMo this year.  I am generally on top of your email, and thanks to Ephriam, we have a fully functional wiki... lloegyr.com.   Instead of fiction, I think I'm going to focus my efforts here and on the wiki... and of course, on the upcoming game.

Maybe, if I get a chance, I might tell some quick stories from Lloegyr's past... there's any stories you particularly want to hear.

NaNoWriMo Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It never mattered how far from home you were, you were never far from Meagan.  

She was old by most measures, but bore it well.  She had seen forty-five years and three children, and lived long enough to see her mate march off to war while holding her babies in her arms, and then see two of those same babies go off to war across the water, and have all three of them return, mostly.  Her hair was still the same straw color it was when she had met her mate when she was only seventeen, and her breasts and belly hadn't bulged or sagged much.  Instead, she was plump, the possessed of the same sort of pleasant curves that caught Burgred's eye all those years ago.  She looked young, or at least not yet old, and in truth the women of her family typically lived long lives if they didn't die violently.

More notable was he experience.  She was the Priestess of Danna of Clan Muress, and as such the Heorots would call her the high priestess, but they were a foolish lot who rarely used the right word for just about anything, even when they had it in their language.  Burgred, who had been her mate for nearly three decades and raised of their children in the Aelic ways, still made a mess of them.  But it was the way of things.  Aels learned to use the Heorot words in Heorot ways.  Likewise, the Heorots sometimes learned Aelic words, and also used them in Heorot ways.

In the Muress Woods, the difference between the two approaches mattered little.  When Burgred's friend Caston made him the Earl, they agreed that her people's ways would keep the forests, while in the town of Timber, he would host guests in the Southern fashion.  There was no issue, as the only Aels in Timber proper were close to her in blood, and most of the priestesses of the Dunmar-Gog cared little for the place.  And to get a Heorot in the woods would require them to either chase someone or be chased themselves, and in either case, they would exit at the earliest opportunity.

There was one issue, however.  Her spells were not for the Hall.  Burgred never slandered her ways, or begrudged her the incantations she learned from her mother.  He even, after he had his heir, let their second "son" to be taught to use his gifts (although to call a wizard a "son" struck Meagan as odd, even for an Aelic priestess so versed in the Heorot tongue).  But he knew his liege would visit, his companions would visit, and he knew that witchcraft in their sight would bring the entire peace of the Muress Woods crashing down.

In truth, Meagan did not mind.  She didn't much care for the hall anyways, and the offerings were meant for the stars and the sun.  She had her own grove, were few bothered her (for bothering a priestess of Danna is never wise), where she could practice her divinations.  Of course, she did learn something from her Heorot mate, and her grove was quite unlike those of her counterparts in other clans.

For one, Meagan realized that the Heorots despised being wet while they ate and slept, and she realized that she much agreed with them.  So there was a canopy, made by her boys out of canvas and twine, that covered the northern part, so she could be dry but still look out and see the sun.  And there were benches, hewn logs, really, because to sit on a bit of wood made her dresses last longer.  And she wore fine dresses, for Burgred liked to buy them for her, and she liked the way Burgred looked at her in the finery, and although she didn't care to admit it, she had come to admire the way she looked herself.

In any case, she was much unlike any other priestess of Danna in any other clan, and the Aels of the Muress clan were, generally speaking, much unlike the Aels of any other clan.  

On this day, it was approaching noon, and it was raining.  It was gray and dismal and already cold for the season.  She sat on her cloak, folded up beneath her bum to keep out the stump's chill, and wore a green and gold cloak, with small bits of green and glass sewn around the bosom.  Burgred had bought it, and so her chest would have been quite prominent if not for the brown scarf wrapped about her head and shoulders.  Meagan didn't like the way Heorots tended to stare at her breasts (she tolerated her husband's attention in this case), and the scarf kept her head dry, so she was relatively comfortable despite the early approach of winter.

She had worked these spells for decades, longer than anyone else since her Queen had died and Jenevra ascended to her place.  Meagan was not without pride; she knew that she had seven more years experience with the World Tale than her Queen, and a decade more than Ma Ricker of Clan Ricker.  And despite the reverence, there was a certain air of familiarity with each spell, each offering, each gesture.  She sipped tea while she said them, respectfully offering praise to each of the Dunmar-Gog in turn, from Danna and her consort, the beautiful Geor, until she reached Parza the Wild and the damned Viltem.  He hands worked a bit of embroidery when they weren't required (it was to be a gift for her daughter, Cordelia, who was to tell the Tale herself soon), and she would hum when she had nothing she had to say.  And at the end, when the incantation was complete, she smothered the fire with the remains of her tea.

Most priestesses used water, pulled from a cold brook and as clear as they could find, but Meagan knew that was rubbish… any water would do, even if it had tea leaves in it.  The gods did not care about such things.

The tea hit the fire before her and she smoothed her gown as it steamed.  And she hollered three invectives, loudly, once against each of the Three Hermits, and made the sign of the Maiden and the Mother.  And the smoke began to dance before, the steam taking shapes, and gaining color.  They began as gray as the sky above them, but they seemed to catch small rainbows in the wet air, and these tiny prisms swirled together to paint pictures.  These were pictures of the wild, of different trees and shrubs, that were also wet and gray.  But there were people there.  There were twenty of them, all wearing the earthen cloaks of Timber, but armed lightly… a bit of boiled leather here and there, and a few were wearing helmets.  They bore bows and arrows and spears and most had daggers, but there was only one with a sword, a woman, and most notably, no horses.  They were obviously Aelic, as much from their dress as the fact that fully half were female.  But there was only one woman… women were always Touched, and there was only priestess there.

Tara, far away, felt Meagan's eyes upon her, and the young priestess of Valda shivered slightly, and looked around.  She always did this, even though she knew she would not see Meagan.  It was what you did though, when you were being watched, and Meagan was always watching.  And though she was far from home, she was never far from Meagan.

Tara spoke, knowing Meagan would hear her.  She listened, even though she knew Meagan could not speak back, but because it seemed to be the respectful thing to do.  "They're beyond the ridge, but not far," she said in hushed tones, looking up over the crest of brush and trees.  "It's the closest that they've come, I think.  Ulten said so, I do not doubt him."

Ulten was one of Tara's warriors, a bit of a brute who knew the woods and would range for them when Meagan's youngest was on one of his journeys.  Tara prefered to work with Ulten anyway, and Meagan knew why, and the reason had very little to do with Ulten.

Tara was Meagan's niece, the daughter of Meagan's sister, Isa, but these were Heorot words that meant relatively little, even to the Aels of the Muress, whose priestesses had learned to mate for life from the Southerners, and who raised their own children exclusively.  It would still be more accurate to say that Tara was a young priestesses, and a champion as befitting a priestess of Valda, and so Meagan cherished her, as was the way of the Aels.  And in battle, she had been trained to lead, and so Meagan deferred to her in such matters.  But Tara had never learned her letters, and Meagan was the sort to want to know everything that occurred as soon as it happened anyway, so she never had Tara bring her a report of what she encountered.  Instead, she would sit in her grove, on her stump and under he canopy, and sip the last of her tea as she watched her niece work.

Tara, for her part, did not know what to make of it.  She could sense it when it happened, for Valda gave those touched by her a sense of such things, even as she made her voice clear and commanding and her arms strong and quick.  To call Tara a simple creature would be a sort of insult, but it would be accurate to say that she was remarkable lean, in terms of both build and character.  Her personality and interests were as focused in their intent as her body.  She was a warrior, and had received the best training of both worlds, and such a thing leaves marks.  One such mark was an absolute hatred of being watched, but she said nothing of it to Meagan, for another such mark was a near absolute belief that if one suffers, it is best to suffer silently.

She tried to look at where she felt Meagan was, but Meagan wasn't there.  It was the source of her perspective, of course, and it was impressive Tara could find it, but unrewarding, as there was nothing to see there.  Tara motioned that she was going over the hill, and without another word or gesture, three other Aels moved to go with her.

Meagan found that her hands were moving with their needle and thread, which is was good, for it comforted her at this time.  

Tara sprinted over the crest, sword drawn, and into the middle of the Vendol camp.

NaNoWriMo Chapter 2

Burgred didn't like Caldwell, and Caldwell hated Burgred, although only secretly, and in public had never been less than pleasant with him.  In truth, Caldwell didn't like the fact that he hated Burgred, and refused to admit it even to himself, for Burgred was by any honest account a good man and a fine Earl, and if Caldwell didn't take to Burgred, it probably said more about the former than the latter.   Burgred, for his part, didn't actually dislike Caldwell… Caldwell just had a rather grating voice and said some even more grating things, and Burgred far from enjoyed his company.

But both men loved their king, Caston, and both had served him for a very long time.  They had known each other when they were little more than boys, when Castus had become king after the death of his older brother, and he called together all his new earls, who had become so after the deaths of their noble fathers.  At the time, the experience was frightening and bloody, but even more so it was hungry and wet and cold and it smelt like horse shit and still water.  However, that was thirty years ago, and twenty since the last battle, and all either remember of the time is that they would never do anything in the last half of their lives like they achieved in the first, and that creates a sense of nostalgia that only the greatest of men can know.

And there weren't many such men left.  

There was Bert, of course, and he would likely outlive the lot of them, which is ironic since he nearly died during the wars at least three times.  But he was the Earl of Farpont, which was quite appropriately named, and had married a foreigner, a Kraki, so they heard from him very little.  All four of Edwin's boys, along with Kate's husband, had fallen at the Battle of Bruna.  Walder was around, or at least alive, but in ill health.  Which left Caston, Burgred, and Caldwell to reminisce about the marching times, and by now the three of them hadn't a story untold or a boast unbellowed between them.  

And, of course, there was the fact that Caldwell and Burgred didn't like each other very much, if at all.

But Burgred was Earl of Timber, and that was on the River Temesene, as far west as one could go before walking in the Marches, and to see his king, Caston, in his Hall in Caerlot, he had to travel along the New Road.  And the New Road ran through Kenton, and Caldwell was the Earl of Kenton, and so Burgred faced a choice each time he passed through… would he dine and drink with the Earl, when all traditions of hospitality suggested that Caldwell should welcome and feast him?  Or would he pass through, feeding the gossips and fools who now danced about Caston's hall?  

Burgred was an old man, and a loyal one, and he only passed through Kenton twice a year… once on his way to Caerlot, and once on his way back.  And so, twice a year, Caldwell and Burgred went through a rather uncomfortable event where they told the same stories and bellowed the same boasts, and never interrupted each other.

It was late, and the hall was largely empty.  Caldwell, for all his boorish ways, was not a bad man, and he kept decent company and even better food.  He had feasted his guest with duck and pheasant and other game fowl his hunters had back that afternoon, and filled his table with all manner of sweet breads, which Caldwell knew his young wife, Inge, adored.  And he had enough casks of beer and mead to put an army to their beds at night, and so by the time the embers of the fire approached their final moments, both men were drunk.  Inge waited up with them, as appropriate, but apart from the occasional servant and the snoring of Gilder, Caldwell's champion, they were alone.

Burgred, coincidentally, never travelled with his champion, who was a woman and Aelic, but that was not a topic of polite conversation in the halls of the other Earls.

"I heard he clutches his stomach these days, that there is a rot there."  Caldwell doused his bread in gravy as he sopped up the last of it.  Crumbs and stains filled his beard; his mouth few teeth left and his he had trouble chewing.  It did not stop him from eating a prodigious amount, but rather turned the act of feasting into a strange form of entertainment for those around him.

"I do not know, but I have heard the rumors.  And he does clutch his side.  Thank you."  He turned the last words toward Inge as she filled his cup.  The mead had dulled his senses just a bit, and it was getting chilly, so the drink warmed him.  "I think they are…"  He paused, and frowned.  "He is in a great deal of pain."

"In the stomach?" asked Caldwell.

"In the stomach." Burgred reached for more bread, more out of something to do than hunger.

"So Caston's dying, eh?"  He gave just a moment's pause but didn't wait for Burgred's answer. "Asshole.  He survived the war and will die of stomach rot.  And leave you and me behind to clean up the mess."

"The mess?"

"Draught."

Burgred took another drink.  "Draught is to be made the Earl of Bessex.  And he's about that business already."

"And doing quite a good job of it."

"He is his father's son. "

"And his mother's son.  Who is Heorot."

Burgred looked to Inge.  She had the look of a young and worried wife who did not understand the situation.  She was quite good at that look.  She looked at Burgred and managed a polite smile.  He suddenly found himself realizing that he was rather cold, and reached for his fur, which was just far enough from his seat that he couldn't quite reach it.  He grumbled, and spat out an incoherent curse, before Inge stood and brought it closer to his grasp.  "How are your children, my lord?" 

Burgred took the fur and pulled it about his shoulders.  He was a skinny man, small, always smaller than all the others.  Caldwell towered over him, and was a far better warrior, but Burgred had worked very hard to be adequate at fighting and good at battle, and had survived through a bit of cunning where much stronger warriors had failed.  But you couldn't trick the chills or outthink old age, just like Caston couldn't craft a strategy against the rot laying siege to his innards.  "They are well, good lady.  I saw my boy Aldred in Caerlot and he seems most settled in his new service."

"He doesn't fill Hengur's cloak out quite yet."

Burgred reached for his cup.  "It's a hard mantle to bear.  But he is young, and so was Hengur when…"

"Is he going West?"

Burgred's hand stopped short of the cup.  He really did not like Caldwell.  "I do not know.  I did not ask him."

The fire smoldered, and Caldwell coughed and pointed and Inge stood and walked to tend it.  A few servants came forward and she waived them off.  Caldwell called for them to bring him the last of the ducks, which he started to rip apart with greasy fingers.  He looked at the last portions of his meal, Burgred looked straight at him.

Under the furs, Burgred looked relatively small, almost ridiculous.  He kept his beard and hair short, and both were stark white, which made him look somewhat older than his forty-five years.  Caldwell still had dark brown hair, and his curled in long and nasty strands around his fat face.  Caldwell wasn't really fat… he wasn't lean, he was just big, with a big chest and big arms to go with his big stomach… but he always had a fat face.  "If he were really to take the mantle of Justice after Hengur, he should go West, where Hengur died, and finish the job."

"Winter is almost here.  If there's anything out there, it'll be there in the Spring or it'll be gone." 

"It wouldn't matter.  I hear the Beast doesn't eat Aels."

"My son isn't Aelic."

"Then he's not Heorot either, is he?"  There was a moment of silence.  Caldwell looked up to meet Burgred's eyes, and then turned away, a bit surprised.  "I mean, I heard the Beast won't eat one of Aelic blood."

"My son is of the Faith and faithful to the king.  As his sister, my daughter, and his mother, my wife."  Burgred didn't look threatening with his wizened head looking like a dwarf in his heavy fur, but he wasn't exactly trying to be.  Caldwell grimaced and pulled at the strings of meat under his nails.

"How's your other son?"  Caldwell stared at Burgred, and Burgred stared at Caldwell, and Inge looked back from the hearth at them both.  And then they both started laughing… Burgred first, a bit despite himself, and Caldwell a bit more satisfied.  "I heard he killed Sander."

"Oswulf's man?  Aye, he did."

"Your son is a great warrior."

"Oh, I know.  Believe me, I know.  He does too.  And I was once a rich man.  And my son knew that as well."

"What did it cost you?"

"Five horse, with tacts and saddle; one was a Rooster, with its saddle inlaid with bone and gold."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was mine."  Both men laughed again, Caldwell a little more, Burgred a little less.  "You don't believe that Hengur and his men were killed by a monster, do you?"

"I believe nothing that I do not see, my good friend, but I fear everything I do not, particularly in the West."  Caldwell finished the last of his mead and slammed the cup to the table.  "You do not think there is a monster?  Or are you not afraid of it?"

Burgred drained the last of his wine.  His eyes were heavy and he wanted to pull the fur over his head and sleep.  He wanted to not worry of his son's duties or of what happened in the west.  "On matters of the Marches, I believe what my wife tells me, and truly, these days, I only really fear her."

NaNoWriMo Chapter 1

The ocean doesn't care. The ocean doesn't give a shit.

It does no good to talk about it; the ocean won't listen. It sprays without notice to whether or not its visitors spit in it. It moves, but not in response to anyone else, and when it consumes it does so without pause or mercy, and the moment after its victims disappear and the last of their bubbles crack open, the ocean will resume the same casual undulations that occupied its time yesterday morning, the same ones that occupied its time a thousand years ago. The ocean is unchanging; it was here long before you, it ignores your presence, and won't remember you when you're gone.

The ocean would be the last thing Gisbert would see.

He was propped up against a rock, so that his head and shoulders could look out on the sea. It was the western shore, and if Gisbert did not have other thoughts occupying what little time he had left, he might have been struck by the fact that so few of his people ever saw this side of the ocean, let alone at sunset. But there were only a few hours left before nightfall, and while his circumstances may have caused him to forget the rarity of such an experience, the beauty of it did not escape him, and Gisbert resolved himself to linger a few more minutes to see the sun slip past the ocean.

Next to him, Finley chewed on a bit of jerky, and bounced a bit in a low crouch next to the dying man. Finley was his guide, but if the lean and fair-haired man felt any sorrow for Gisbert, his face did not betray it. He took short, stunted bites of dear meat, chewing thoroughly, and made an absent motion to offer Gisbert some, but Gisbert had a vicious wound that was spilling his innards out, and the thought of food was almost as painful as the wound itself. Gisbert had accepted a bit of his water, and few chewed roots to dull the worst of it, but there wasn't much more that Finley could do. The Beast had ripped his gut open, and it wouldn't be long.

"Will you talk to me?" asked Gisbert.

Finley turned to look at him. He talked with his mouth full of deer jerky. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know." Gisbert frowned. He would have hoped to have something better to say at this point in his life. Finley took a good look at him. Gisbert had been, back in Timber, a stunningly good-looking man, with straight golden hair that looked as though it had been painted on, and a face and body that was the perfect mix of youthful beauty and potential for violence. Even now, stained with dirt and covered in sand from the beach and with his blood and intestines staining his breeches red, he was still strangely handsome. Finley wondered if he would leave such an attractive corpse. Finley often had strange thoughts like that one.

Finley got tired of crouching and sat next to Gisbert to watch the sunset himself. The ass of his trousers got damp with Gisbert's blood, but Finley spent most of his time outdoors and wasn't bothered by such things. "Do you want me to tell your mother anything?"

"I suppose I should."

"She's probably worried about you."

Gisbert took a moment to look at the Northerner. He had met him just south of Timber, near Firsforth, when he realized he had needed a guide to take him into the hinterlands for his hunt. Gisbert was relatively sure that Finley didn't like him, presumably because most Northerners didn't care for Heorots. In fairness, Gisbert didn't particularly like Finley, either. For a final companion, he would have preferred his wife, or perhaps his brother. But there was much about his predicament that Gisbert would have preferred to be different. "You know my mother?" he asked.

"No," said Finley.

"But you know of her?"

"No," Finley shook his head. "But every man has a mother." He finished his last bit of jerky and pulled his waterskin, and offered it to Gisbert. Gisbert shook his head. "You looked young enough that she was still alive. So she must be worried about you."

Finley thought about that for a moment. He was severely uncomfortable, though, and it made it hard to think of anything. Truly, he was in pain, but pain was generally a sudden and overwhelming experience, and this was a more constant experience. The best description was that it was warm and calming, like a blanket on a cold night, only that it was the complete opposite of warm and calming. "I thought this would hurt more."

"It's because you're close. It hurts at first because you're still alive, and then as you die, you feel less and less, until you feel nothing." Gisbert looked disturbed at Finley's conjecture; Finley continued, "It's not a bad thing. All the little pains you feel every day? Did the joyful parts account for them? Even if they did... if I could save you right now... you'd never walk, at least not easily. You'd never fight, and never ride a horse. You Heorots like riding horses. Would you want to live like that?" He thought about it for a moment, about his own words. "I suppose you might. If you had something else, but I don't think you do."

Speaking came difficult to Gisbert, but the sun was still a few minutes away from the horizon, and he needed something to cling to. "Why do you say that?"

"If you did you'd be more upset right now."

Gisbert thought about that. It gave him something else to think about. "I suppose that's fair," he said. He suddenly felt the urge to cry. He didn't want to die. He wanted his mother. He wanted to go home. But instead of crying, he choked a bit, and coughed, and that rocked his bowels, and he winced in pain, and he was better at fighting back tears of pain than of despair. He understood that kind of fortitude, and so Gisbert resolved himself to focus on his pain as much as possible, rather than the fact the pain would be over soon. "Do you have my sword?" he asked.

"The Beast flung it into the brush," Finley said. He thought a minute, and said a bit more carefully, "I could probably find it."

"I would like my brother, Berson to have it. He..." Gisbert swallowed, and focused on what he had to say, "he has his own, but I would have him have mine. Tell him to name his son after me, and give it to him." This helped Gisbert, he could do this. "I have a ring, a seal, in my pouch. See it returned to my father, it is his. And to my wife..." he trailed off. It was getting cold now, even though the sun was not quite set. He was tired and almost asleep when he heard Finley's words, waking him.

"What of your wife."

"I should give her something. I... I don't think I did too well by her. I'm not the best husband."

"You weren't."

"I should... I should..." he tried to find the words but they weren't coming.

"I will go through your things, and find something she would carry easily so she might remember you."

He wanted to thank Finley, but could only nod.

The sun was close now. It was red and yellow at the same time, and the sky was black behind them but in front of them, it was every color but blue. The water rippled, cutting dark lines in a perfect reflection of the sunset. For a moment, when the sun first touched the horizon, it was impossible to tell when the sky began and the world ended.

"Stay just a bit longer. You should see it." Finley nudged the dying man. "You have nothing else to do."

"I wanted to kill it," said Gisbert.

"All you Heorots do. I've seen the bodies. Not one of them got this view before they went."

"It doesn't... kill Aels?"

"No," said Finley, "or it hasn't so far."

For a moment, there was anger. A hot flare of emotion directed at the only one who could notice it. Finley should have fought it too, he had seen Finley fight, and knew the Ael to be a better swordsman. It was Finley's fault he would die. It was Ael's fault the Moorstepper came. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't fair.

And then, the anger was gone, and it was just him and Finley and the ocean and the sunset. And the sun was almost gone. It was like quicksand... it was like an hourglass... the last bits went by so quickly, the part he really wanted the most was the part that went by the fastest.

"What about your mother?" Finley asked.

"What?"

"Your mother, what do you want me to tell your mother?"

"I hadn't thought..."

"You Heorots never do." He was looking at the sunset. The sun made his face red and yellow like the sky. For a moment, he almost looked sad, and Gisbert almost thought the man was sad about his death. "I will tell her you died well, and wounded the beast." He paused. "I'll tell her you thought of her."

Gisbert nodded. "Do you think it means anything?" he asked.

"Does what mean anything?" asked Finley?

"The sunset... right now?"

"No," said Finley, "It happens every night."

And then, Gisbert died.

NaNoWriMo

I'm doing NaNoWriMo.

I know, it's very 2006, but in 2006 I got about halfway through a fucked up magical realism story featuring very bad Mormons and maladjusted twins before my friend quit, and I quit in solidarity rather than deal with the consequences of finishing NaNoWriMo when it had been her idea.

But this year, I'm trying it, and writing about Lloegyr, specifically a prequel to the current larp.  I'm changing the names (since I've never been happy with the naming convention I came up with for the game), but it should still be recognizable.

My goal: thirty 1,600 word chapters, each telling its own short story about the events leading up to the original scuttled ship, with a recognizable beginning, middle, and end.  I think this will be about Maela primarily, but I'm not sure yet.

Anyways, I'll post chapters as I have them.  I hope you enjoy them.