Whether I'm coding, writing, playing games, or pissing people off, it all boils down to pushing buttons.
June 12, 2009
I Write Sometimes
It's been really busy as of late. I've been spending a lot of my free time studying for my Microsoft Certified Professional Developer: Web certification. There are three exams, and I'm about halfway done studying for the first one. Needless to say, this has limited what spare time I have to do other things, so I won't be writing as often as I should.
Fear not, though, for Ficly has finally opened its doors. This is the spiritual successor to Ficlets, a short fiction site I used to write on before AOL sent it to the Land of Wind and Ghosts.1 I've moved some of my favorite old Ficlets over to the new site, and I've also written a new one. You can see my stories here. The link is also in the sidebar under "Me on the Intertubes" if you would like to follow me on the site.
The great thing about Ficly (and Ficlets before it) is that you are limited to only 1024 characters to write a section of story. With such limited space, every word (indeed, every character) counts, so it forces you to refine what you write so that what you create still gets across what you want to convey. It also means you don't have to spend hours and hours writing something. Even better, you (or anyone else) can write prequels and sequels to your stories, so they can go off in tons of different directions you never would have expected. If you think that sounds interesting, I highly recommend you check it out.
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If you've talked to my wife at all recently, you are probably aware of the laptop issues she has been having recently. I ordered some RAM for it to boost performance, but I ended up ordering the wrong kind. This is because the model number that is printed on the laptop below the monitor is wrong. It says it's a dv1000, but it's actually a dv1300 CTO. This explains why the RAM that is currently in the laptop is not the kind that I ordered. Awesome. I am sending back the incorrect RAM today and have already ordered the (hopefully) correct kind.
In addition to performance issues caused by insufficient RAM, her wireless internet stopped working. It would connect to the router for like two seconds and then drop it and try to reconnect again. Repeat ad infinitum. I spent several hours last night trying to figure out what is wrong with the thing, and I came to the conclusion that the hardware is dying. Luckily I was able to put in a Dell PCMCIA wireless card and force it to work with the HP. Though technically not compatible, they seem to be working okay together for now. Hopefully we can get another year or two out of this thing before buying a new one.
Yay, it's Friday! That's all I got for now.
1Reference stolen from Wil Wheaton, who stole it from the Simpsons.
"Forgive me, Intertubes, for I have sinned. It has been eleven days since my last blog post."
"Greetings, my son. Why so long?"
"Well, I... I just haven't had the time. Like most people, I have a full time job that takes up most of my day. I also have a longer commute than most."
"What about the evenings?"
"I'm sorry, Intertubes, but when I get home from work I generally don't have the energy to write. Sometimes I'm able to do it, but most nights... Does this make me a bad person?"
"No one is perfect, my son."
"I know, but I just feel so guilty. I started an interactive story that some people like to read (though, inexplicably, most do not vote), and I feel obligated to continue it. But I've just been so busy lately. Even weekday nights are full sometimes. We had a bunch of people over on Monday to watch the season finale of 24 (which was a bit anticlimactic, I must say), and I go to church every Wednesday night for choir rehearsal. I'm also trying to keep on track to read the entire Bible this year, and so far I'm on target."
"Perhaps you might find some time on the weekends..."
"I try to, Intertubes, but even the weekends have been busy of late. We had friends visit us from Blacksburg this past weekend, and we spent all of our time with them. We went to see Angels and Demons (which was entertaining enough), and we played a bunch of board games with them. We introduced them to Acquire, Scotland Yard, Pandemic, and Carcassonne, and we just had so much fun that time went by so fast. I was only able to get online for a few minutes at a time to check email or the weather."
"I see. Well, my son, it sounds to me like your heart is in the right place. You just need to try harder. Have faith, and you will be able to find the time that you need. For your penance, say five Our Routers and ten Hail Tim Berners-Lees.
"O my Internet, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just packet routing, but most of all because they offend Thee, my Internet, who art all-good and deserving of all my bandwidth. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy TCP/IP protocol, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of downloading a virus. In the name of Tim Berners-Lee, and of Robert Cailliau, and of the Holy Google. Amen."
"Tim Berners-Lee, the Father of the World Wide Web, through the death and resurrection of IPv6 has reconciled the internet to Himself and sent the Holy Google among us for the forgiveness of sins; Through the ministry of the W3C may the Internet give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of Tim Berners-Lee, and of Robert Cailliau, and of the Holy Google."
Those who live the blessed life of peace will reap what they sow sevenfold, but those who abide by the sword will only drown in the blood they spill. ~ Stephan the Wise
From the moment Quinn first picked up a bow, he knew he was destined for greatness. His father had given him his first bow for his eighth birthday, and he'd killed a rabbit by sundown. He could remember his father's face like it had happened yesterday, that knowing smile and shake of the head as he'd walked proudly up the porch and presented his kill. His mother had made a delicious rabbit stew for dinner, and from that day on his life was different. He became inseparable from his bow, taking it everywhere and propping it beside his bed when he slept; it was a part of him, as much as his arm or his leg.
He spent the majority of his life perfecting his skill. In his teenage years and early adulthood, he had worked as a hunter for his hometown of Briarwood. After he had joined the ranks of the hunters, no one in that village had gone hungry - in fact, he was so good that they were able to stockpile a surplus of cured meats that they could sell to neighboring towns. For many years life was good, and he was loved and respected in Briarwood and the surrounding land. But after a time he grew restless; hunting game no longer held any challenge for him, and he began to grow dissatisfied with the simple life in the village. He became irritable and hostile, alienating his family and friends, resenting the people of his town even as they praised him.
Then fate handed him a way out. It was the year of the Great Winter, and times were hard. Food was scarce for most of the villages, but Briarwood was not one of them. Quinn and the rest of the hunters had amassed a record surplus in the fall, and the Great Winter had descended upon the town before they could travel to surrounding cities to sell their extra supply. This turned out to be a blessing as well as a curse. The people of the town had more than enough supplies to get them through the winter, but this also made Briarwood a target for thieves and brigands. That's when Quinn started hunting for bigger game.
Bounty hunting paid much, much better than killing animals, and it also provided him the challenge he craved. He made good coin that winter, and as the long season's grasp began to slip from the land, fate saw fit to grant him yet another opportunity. A herald from Lionsridge stopped in Briarwood on his way around the kingdom, posting announcements about the Tournament of Roses, which was to begin three weeks after the thaw. Quinn smiled broadly when he saw that one of the competitions was archery. He knew the moment he read those words that he was destined to win, and he thanked the gods for opening this door.
And now, here he was standing in the Inn of the Black Stag with his knife to a knight's throat, that new door perilously close to slamming shut in his face. He hadn't meant for it to go this far; it was the wine. The blood of the grape had always been a weakness for him and had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. He had a sharp tongue even when he hadn't been drinking, and spirits just made it all the worse. He looked at the knight's face, flushed with anger and alcohol. He had no desire to kill this man, not least because that would almost surely mean his own life. But he couldn't withdraw now, either. If he dropped his knife, the knight's compatriots would surely take him. Think, Quinn. There's always a way out.
"Come now, sirs. There's no need to quarrel here." Quinn noticed the innkeeper standing off to his left side for the first time, his tray still perched on his shoulder. His eyes were wide, his face pleading. "We all know you didn't mean nothing by it; it's just the wine been talking, that's all. Right, lads?" The innkeeper looked around, desperately seeking support from the others in the room.
"Thatsh the firsh intelligent thing thatsh been said all night!" a voice slurred from off to Quinn's right. All eyes in the room turned to focus on the source of the outburst. A dwarf in dark leathers sat several seats down from Quinn. His long black beard flowed down from his face and rested in the bottom of his empty mug of ale. He laughed quietly to himself and belched. "Now if you gentlemen are done dishrupting the servish, I'll have another ale." The dwarf leaned forward and looked down the table, beckoning to the innkeeper with a waving hand. "Come on now, I don't got all night!"
Ethon looked back and forth between the dwarf and the two men and slowly began to make his way around the table. "Come, come, come!" the small man cried impatiently. "One for me and one for me beard!" As Ethon neared him, the dwarf made a sudden turn as if to grab some ale off the tray. Ethon tried to step back, but he was too slow. The dwarf collided with the tray, upending all of its contents, the majority of which fell directly onto the dwarf, who proceeded to fall back off the bench and onto the floor into a fit of laughter, rolling around in the spilled brew.
The entire room stared blankly at the drunken little man. Then Sir Randolph began to laugh, slowly at first, but building in intensity. "I do believe that's the first dwarf in the three kingdoms to ever take a bath!" he exclaimed, roaring at his own joke. His men joined him, and the rest of the room soon followed. The tension began to melt away. Quinn began to smile also and slowly lowered his knife.
A bard who had been seated next to the dwarf took hold of his own cup. "Time for a rinse," he said and proceeded to dump the contents in the dwarf's face and drop the cup on his head. The laughter in the room erupted anew as the dwarf laughed and coughed and gestured for the bard to help him to his feet. The bard reached down and hauled the dwarf up, and Ethon stooped down and began to pick up the goblets from the floor and place them back on his tray. Quinn saw the opportunity to take his leave, picked his bow up from beside the bench, and began to make his way down the aisle toward the main doors.
As he passed by the dwarf, the little man stuck out a foot and caught Quinn between the legs. Quinn tripped and caught himself on the floor; the room laughed again. The dwarf leaned down to lend him a hand in getting back up and brought his face within an inch of Quinn's. "You owe me for that one, boy," the dwarf whispered. He was looking straight into Quinn's eyes, and it was only now that Quinn could see that he was stone sober. The dwarf erupted in sudden laughter and clapped Quinn on the back. "Hope you had a nice trip, lad!" Quinn got up slowly and made his way up to his room. The sound of music and laughter followed him up the stairs and down the hall. He closed the door and sat down on the bed.
Quinn's mind raced. Who was that dwarf, and why should he help him? Would it be safe to spend the night here? Was Sir Randolph the type to hold a grudge? He didn't know. The knight's reputation hadn't traveled as far west as Briarwood. He could always leave now and camp in the woods somewhere along the road, but he'd had much to drink and would most likely not be able to defend himself if he encountered any trouble. Maybe he could try and switch room keys with another patron. He had a nice room, and no doubt there was someone with one of the cheaper rooms who would like a free upgrade.
This weekend was a lot busier than I expected it to be, mostly for an unplanned eye exam. It was just a standard annual exam, but I was surprised that they were able to see me the day I called. New glasses with transition lenses are being forged in the depths of some volcano as we speak, and I should have them in the next week or two. I will try and have Chapter Two of Vote the Adventure up on Monday or Tuesday evening.
Darkness dwells in the hearts of all men. It is only the conviction of the strong, holding it at bay with the light of honor, that allows civilization to endure. On this, all our foundations lie. Black, indeed, will be the day when righteousness gives way to avarice and spite. On the shoulders of few, rest the fates of many, and when they fall, all will be consumed.
~ Stephan the Wise
The roar of the fire in the pit at the far end of the dining room was completely muffled by the rowdy conversations emanating from every table. Ethon made his way carefully down the main aisle between the two main tables that ran down the center of the hall, taking care not to trip over satchels, helmets, bucklers, and all manner of other gear piled up against the benches. He carried a large round tray on his right shoulder crammed with goblets, some full of ale, most empty. When he stopped at each section to drop off more drink and take up the empty cups, he was greeted with hearty cheers and claps on the back, some coming perilously close to upending his tray. Ethon marveled that most of the ale managed to make it to the travelers instead of soaking up dust on the inn floor. He'd been lucky so far tonight, and he prayed that it held.
He looked around the large room, making sure the serving girls were getting meat and mead to everyone who needed it. The Inn of the Black Stag was full almost to capacity with knights, squires, bards, merchants, and all manner of men he imagined lived in the three kingdoms. The majority of the patrons were almost certainly on their way to Lionsridge for the Tournament of Roses that occurred every five years in the spring and was set to begin in the next few weeks in the Southern Kingdom. The winter frosts had ceased, and the sun grew higher in the sky each day.
The lords sprinkled throughout the three kingdoms would be sending some of their surest swords and bravest knights in an attempt to win honor for their house and their king. Unlike the annual tournaments, the Tournament of Roses was open to all men, so long as you had a horse and a sword (or could afford to buy them), and many a simple man gambled all he had to try to forge a name for himself amongst the highborn of the three kingdoms. It swelled Ethon's heart, not mention his pockets, to see people from all walks of life put aside their differences and talk of great deeds past and great deeds to come as they filled their stomachs at his tables.
He made his way back to the kitchen and dumped the tray of goblets into one of the large sinks filled with soaping water. Young Will, who had yet to reach eight, sat atop an empty ale cask in front of the sink, drying the last cup of the previous load and setting it aside on the counter next to thirty-odd others. He looked sullenly at the newly filled basin and sighed in exasperation. "Not again, Mr Ethon," the boy pleaded. "I only just finished this load. My hands're run raw."
Ethon started filling the clean goblets with more ale, mead, and wine and placing them on the tray. "I'll hear none of it, William," he admonished, not unkindly. "If you like you can trade places with Jeoff. I'm sure he'll be more than happy to wash dishes and let you shovel dung from the stables." Will stuck out his lower lip, and began to clean the next load. Ethon reached out with a large paw and mussed the boy's hair. "Cheer up, lad. You'll be getting double wages tonight, maybe even triple if we can get enough drink into the merchants. I bet your mum would appreciate the extra coin." The boy grinned and began to wash all the harder. Ethon gave him a smile, loaded his replenished tray onto his shoulder, and made his way back out to the dining hall.
He could tell something was amiss as soon as he entered. The raucous laughter and boisterous conversation had been replaced with a tense silence. Every man, woman, and child was seated, save two, who were standing on opposite sides of the long table nearest the kitchen. The face of the man on the left was beet red and taut. He wore steel chainmail over a leather jerkin and a dark blue tunic. His raven hair fell to his shoulders, framing the neatly trimmed goatee that adorned his chiseled face. The rearing white bear of House Morgan adorned each of his sleeves and the cloak draped over his chair. Ethon recognized him immediately: Sir Alyn Randolph, captain of the regiment of soldiers stationed in the barracks at Swiftriver just a few miles north of the crossroads where the Inn of the Black Stag was located. He was a frequent patron and Ethon had never known him to be anything but an honorable man. Sir Randolph leaned forward slowly, placing the palms of his hands on top of the table. "What did you say?" His words were weighted and deliberate.
Ethon turned his attention to the man standing across the table from Sir Randolph, a man he didn't recognize. He was tall and thin, definitely not a professional soldier like Sir Randolph. He wore light leathers, the shirt dyed green a shade lighter than his trousers. His brown hair was cropped short, his face soft and smooth as a baby's. "I said," the man began, imitating Sir Randolph's pose, "that Theodore Morgan couldn't lead an army downhill if you pointed him in the right direction and kicked him in the arse." A wry smile blossomed across his handsome face. "Was I not clear? Should I have used smaller words?"
Sir Randolph made a move for his sword that stood propped against his chair, but stopped short. From nowhere, a bronze dagger had appeared in the stranger's hand, which now pressed tightly right up underneath the knight's jaw. "Careful, now," the man said. The soldiers on either side of Sir Randolph made as if to stand. "You may want to tell your men to keep their heads," the man said, his eyes not moving from Sir Randolph's. "That is, if you value your own."
