Sunday, December 5, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
TBA
Maybe one day I'll get my life together enough to start writing again and doing and art basically all the stuff that I say I love but never end up actually doing.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Chapter (?) 1
A few clarifying notes:
1) The previous two posts are from the same story. I know it's confusing cause they're written in entirely different styles and both read like prologues, but they are. Sorry about that -- hopefully as (or rather, if) the story develops further, it will make more sense
2) This post is also connected to that story-line. Confusing again, because it switches styles again (it's more like the "exposition") so allow me to explain: the plan for this story is to have the majority of it written from Lyn's perspective. HOWEVER, there will be scenes that she is not present for, and as you will find as you get to know her character, she's not psychic. So to allow these scenes to happen, I'm segueing into third person until the scene is over.
3) This kind of just ends. I know it's not a very good ending, but I felt like posting it anyway because I've been working on it forever and couldn't come up with a better temporary conclusion then that. Suggestions for further action would be welcome.
4) Here's the post.
In my seventh year as the dog of the Powers That Be (not their official name — that one is dreadfully long and painfully Elvish) my life began to take a completely different direction. The six previous years were interesting enough; a push-prod here, playing devil’s advocate every once in a while, that sort of thing. There really wasn’t any way to put a job description to what I did. I did whatever was needed.
As a general rule, the powers try to avoid using a human medium as much as possible. They find the manipulation of events far superior. Events have a way of refusing to play out exactly as they’re intended, though, so that’s where I come in. I’ve never met any others like me, but I think they must exist. It’s a big world and I’m quite a small girl. I’ve never spoken to the powers. I often wish I could. But, alas, it’s not to be. Instead I just get my instructions from a small miller’s son or an ancient wise man or some milky village sweetheart. Those are the worst, by the way; they always take it into their empty little heads that I’ll be some devastatingly handsome boy yearning for companionship and then get irrationally furious when they discover I’m nothing of the sort.
In my seventh year, I played a mentor of sorts. Not a very good one – seventeen year old girls aren’t exactly well suited for that kind of thing – but I fared pretty well. I think. It was the first job I ever had that had any sort of structure. I floundered around helplessly for a bit, but anyone who’s ever tried to mentor a teenage boy ought to be sympathetic. It was hard; harder than anything I’d ever undertaken. As cliché as it sounds, it changed my life forever. Anyway, I suppose the real start of my troubles (by which I mean delightfully, wonderfully, thrillingly exciting adventures, of course) was the day I met Greyson.
On my way to a small village in the middle of utterly nowhere, I happened to be passing through a small patch of woods. It was all quite peaceful and beautiful with the sun shining through the trees making the whole forest glow. Birds chirping, small stream trickling somewhere; quite lovely really. In a rare fit of appreciation for life I considered how I wouldn’t have come through all that beauty if not for my job, so perhaps it wasn’t half bad after all. Greyson promptly put an end to that line of thinking.
“Hey!” he screamed. My heart nearly pounded itself straight out of my chest. I looked around desperately for the source of the noise. “Look down.” I did.
Several feet to the left of me, an enormous whole was dug straight into the forest floor. Cautiously peering over the lip of the pit, Greyson stared up at me, his green eyes drinking in my image as though I was the first human being he’d seen in years. Maybe I was.
“Wh-who are you?” I stammered.
“Stuck,” he said. That was his way, really; always giving you the most round-about and least direct information he could. If I’d known at the time how annoying he would turn out to be I’d have left him to rot in that god-forsaken pit.
“Yes,” I said, “I see that. But that’s what you are, not who. I mean what’s your name.”
“Greyson,” he said. “And you?”
“Lyn.”
“Wonderful. Could you help me out?”
I considered for a moment before answering. “How’d you get down there?”
“I woke up here.”
Irritated, I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I see,” I said. “So you were put there? What did you do to deserve it?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I suddenly began to suspect that I might have come across some sort of raging lunatic or a mass murderer or some other such unsavory character.
“Lived,” he muttered darkly. I couldn’t make out much of his face – it was really a deep pit – but I could feel the bitterness he felt towards his situation.
“If you want me to help you you’re going to have to start giving me straight answers,” I said severely.
“I haven’t done anything. I have no enemies, I’m not a criminal, I was just going to my cousins when someone bashed me over the head and I woke up here. That was weeks ago. Or is it months now? I’ve lost track, but it’s been a long time.”
I shook my head. “Can’t be,” I said. “You’d have starved if it was that long.”
He didn’t respond for a while. “Oh,” he at last answered in a manner too casual to be natural. “I suppose you’re right. I’m going a little crazy I guess. The point is, I really need you to help me. I can’t get out on my own.”
Sighing and silently praying I wouldn’t be made to regret it, I put my hand down the hole. In the end, I had to pull him out, he was so weak. Once I got a good look at him, I almost believed he really had been down there weeks. He was several heads taller than me with long, unkempt white-blond hair streaked brown with dirt. In fact, his whole body was covered in dirt. It stained his clothes and face, caked under his fingernails, and generally found as many ways to obscure his true appearance as it could.
I must – ashamedly – admit that in spite of his general russet tinge, I was struck silent for a full half a minute at how startlingly handsome he was. Just the type I had a weakness for. Large, striking eyes, long pointed nose, sharp angles on his cheekbones and jaw line and all that lah-di-dah. I’ll warn you right now, he’ll try to win you over and make you think he’s actually a nice guy. DO. NOT. LISTEN. Seriously. True, he was the most striking man I ever saw in my whole life, but good looks do not a good person make. This is not a joke. He lies. All the time. And he’s evil. And has no redeemable characteristics at all. Ye gods, I love that boy.
…Oh, sorry.
“Thanks very much,” he said nodding politely. “I’ll be on my way now.” Thankfully, my brain was still far too numb to gush out some sort of embarrassing protest. My good fortune ended there. He collapsed at the first step, too weak to carry his own weight. After staring at his crumpled form bemusedly for a few seconds, I at last recovered my mental capacities.
“Oh, my goodness!” I gasped. “Are you alright?”
“Fabulous,” he muttered. “Give me a hand, would you?”
I pulled him up. Oh, the regret that floods in when I recall that simple action. I could have left him. I never would have had to deal with him. I should have. Instead: “You’d better lean on me,” I said. “You won’t get far in your condition.”
He gave me a scandalized look. “Absolutely never!” he declared firmly.
“Would you rather I gave you a piggy back?” I inquired. With an expression even more affronted than before, he wordlessly put his arm over my shoulder. “Where to, sir?” I asked.
“Wherever,” he said vaguely.
“Good,” I said cheerfully. “That means I don’t have to change course. I’ll just drop you at the nearest village.”
“Where are you going?” he asked. He kept his gaze distant but didn’t quite manage to keep the interest out of his voice.
It was my turn to be vague. “Nowhere in particular, but I’d already had a direction picked out so I’d rather not change it.”
“Which direction would that be?”
I decided to take a page out of his excruciatingly un-informative book. “West.” He glanced down at me scornfully. I think he knew he couldn’t press me further and still keep up his façade of nonchalance, so he fell into a sulky silence instead. I smirked to myself. If I wasn’t occupied with making sure he didn’t fall face down in the dirt, I would have given myself a hearty pat on the back for being so wickedly clever. Yes. I know it wasn’t really, but it felt like it was at the time.
It wasn’t a very large forest, so we didn’t have to walk more than a mile before we were out of it. With my free hand, I pointed ahead.
“That’s a small farming village,” I said. “Tons of grumpy old men, empty-headed shop girls, and impetuous farm boys. Sounds charming, don’t you think?” Greyson didn’t deign to respond. “I’ll leave you there, if you like. I’ve got some money on me, so I’ll put you up at the inn for a few nights. You should recover sufficiently with rest and some food. What do you think?”
I could feel him go stiffer and stiffer with every word I said. “I can take care of myself, thanks very much!”
“Well, seeing as you can’t even walk by yourself at the moment, I somehow doubt that.”
“Well, you’re wrong!”
“I’m beginning to think there’s nothing I can possibly say to you that you won’t contradict,” I said through clenched teeth. “And if you disagree with that, I might just take you right back to that whole and drop you in again.” He shot me a scorn-filled look.
Clearly our acquaintance was off to a flying start.
1) The previous two posts are from the same story. I know it's confusing cause they're written in entirely different styles and both read like prologues, but they are. Sorry about that -- hopefully as (or rather, if) the story develops further, it will make more sense
2) This post is also connected to that story-line. Confusing again, because it switches styles again (it's more like the "exposition") so allow me to explain: the plan for this story is to have the majority of it written from Lyn's perspective. HOWEVER, there will be scenes that she is not present for, and as you will find as you get to know her character, she's not psychic. So to allow these scenes to happen, I'm segueing into third person until the scene is over.
3) This kind of just ends. I know it's not a very good ending, but I felt like posting it anyway because I've been working on it forever and couldn't come up with a better temporary conclusion then that. Suggestions for further action would be welcome.
4) Here's the post.
In my seventh year as the dog of the Powers That Be (not their official name — that one is dreadfully long and painfully Elvish) my life began to take a completely different direction. The six previous years were interesting enough; a push-prod here, playing devil’s advocate every once in a while, that sort of thing. There really wasn’t any way to put a job description to what I did. I did whatever was needed.
As a general rule, the powers try to avoid using a human medium as much as possible. They find the manipulation of events far superior. Events have a way of refusing to play out exactly as they’re intended, though, so that’s where I come in. I’ve never met any others like me, but I think they must exist. It’s a big world and I’m quite a small girl. I’ve never spoken to the powers. I often wish I could. But, alas, it’s not to be. Instead I just get my instructions from a small miller’s son or an ancient wise man or some milky village sweetheart. Those are the worst, by the way; they always take it into their empty little heads that I’ll be some devastatingly handsome boy yearning for companionship and then get irrationally furious when they discover I’m nothing of the sort.
In my seventh year, I played a mentor of sorts. Not a very good one – seventeen year old girls aren’t exactly well suited for that kind of thing – but I fared pretty well. I think. It was the first job I ever had that had any sort of structure. I floundered around helplessly for a bit, but anyone who’s ever tried to mentor a teenage boy ought to be sympathetic. It was hard; harder than anything I’d ever undertaken. As cliché as it sounds, it changed my life forever. Anyway, I suppose the real start of my troubles (by which I mean delightfully, wonderfully, thrillingly exciting adventures, of course) was the day I met Greyson.
On my way to a small village in the middle of utterly nowhere, I happened to be passing through a small patch of woods. It was all quite peaceful and beautiful with the sun shining through the trees making the whole forest glow. Birds chirping, small stream trickling somewhere; quite lovely really. In a rare fit of appreciation for life I considered how I wouldn’t have come through all that beauty if not for my job, so perhaps it wasn’t half bad after all. Greyson promptly put an end to that line of thinking.
“Hey!” he screamed. My heart nearly pounded itself straight out of my chest. I looked around desperately for the source of the noise. “Look down.” I did.
Several feet to the left of me, an enormous whole was dug straight into the forest floor. Cautiously peering over the lip of the pit, Greyson stared up at me, his green eyes drinking in my image as though I was the first human being he’d seen in years. Maybe I was.
“Wh-who are you?” I stammered.
“Stuck,” he said. That was his way, really; always giving you the most round-about and least direct information he could. If I’d known at the time how annoying he would turn out to be I’d have left him to rot in that god-forsaken pit.
“Yes,” I said, “I see that. But that’s what you are, not who. I mean what’s your name.”
“Greyson,” he said. “And you?”
“Lyn.”
“Wonderful. Could you help me out?”
I considered for a moment before answering. “How’d you get down there?”
“I woke up here.”
Irritated, I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I see,” I said. “So you were put there? What did you do to deserve it?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I suddenly began to suspect that I might have come across some sort of raging lunatic or a mass murderer or some other such unsavory character.
“Lived,” he muttered darkly. I couldn’t make out much of his face – it was really a deep pit – but I could feel the bitterness he felt towards his situation.
“If you want me to help you you’re going to have to start giving me straight answers,” I said severely.
“I haven’t done anything. I have no enemies, I’m not a criminal, I was just going to my cousins when someone bashed me over the head and I woke up here. That was weeks ago. Or is it months now? I’ve lost track, but it’s been a long time.”
I shook my head. “Can’t be,” I said. “You’d have starved if it was that long.”
He didn’t respond for a while. “Oh,” he at last answered in a manner too casual to be natural. “I suppose you’re right. I’m going a little crazy I guess. The point is, I really need you to help me. I can’t get out on my own.”
Sighing and silently praying I wouldn’t be made to regret it, I put my hand down the hole. In the end, I had to pull him out, he was so weak. Once I got a good look at him, I almost believed he really had been down there weeks. He was several heads taller than me with long, unkempt white-blond hair streaked brown with dirt. In fact, his whole body was covered in dirt. It stained his clothes and face, caked under his fingernails, and generally found as many ways to obscure his true appearance as it could.
I must – ashamedly – admit that in spite of his general russet tinge, I was struck silent for a full half a minute at how startlingly handsome he was. Just the type I had a weakness for. Large, striking eyes, long pointed nose, sharp angles on his cheekbones and jaw line and all that lah-di-dah. I’ll warn you right now, he’ll try to win you over and make you think he’s actually a nice guy. DO. NOT. LISTEN. Seriously. True, he was the most striking man I ever saw in my whole life, but good looks do not a good person make. This is not a joke. He lies. All the time. And he’s evil. And has no redeemable characteristics at all. Ye gods, I love that boy.
…Oh, sorry.
“Thanks very much,” he said nodding politely. “I’ll be on my way now.” Thankfully, my brain was still far too numb to gush out some sort of embarrassing protest. My good fortune ended there. He collapsed at the first step, too weak to carry his own weight. After staring at his crumpled form bemusedly for a few seconds, I at last recovered my mental capacities.
“Oh, my goodness!” I gasped. “Are you alright?”
“Fabulous,” he muttered. “Give me a hand, would you?”
I pulled him up. Oh, the regret that floods in when I recall that simple action. I could have left him. I never would have had to deal with him. I should have. Instead: “You’d better lean on me,” I said. “You won’t get far in your condition.”
He gave me a scandalized look. “Absolutely never!” he declared firmly.
“Would you rather I gave you a piggy back?” I inquired. With an expression even more affronted than before, he wordlessly put his arm over my shoulder. “Where to, sir?” I asked.
“Wherever,” he said vaguely.
“Good,” I said cheerfully. “That means I don’t have to change course. I’ll just drop you at the nearest village.”
“Where are you going?” he asked. He kept his gaze distant but didn’t quite manage to keep the interest out of his voice.
It was my turn to be vague. “Nowhere in particular, but I’d already had a direction picked out so I’d rather not change it.”
“Which direction would that be?”
I decided to take a page out of his excruciatingly un-informative book. “West.” He glanced down at me scornfully. I think he knew he couldn’t press me further and still keep up his façade of nonchalance, so he fell into a sulky silence instead. I smirked to myself. If I wasn’t occupied with making sure he didn’t fall face down in the dirt, I would have given myself a hearty pat on the back for being so wickedly clever. Yes. I know it wasn’t really, but it felt like it was at the time.
It wasn’t a very large forest, so we didn’t have to walk more than a mile before we were out of it. With my free hand, I pointed ahead.
“That’s a small farming village,” I said. “Tons of grumpy old men, empty-headed shop girls, and impetuous farm boys. Sounds charming, don’t you think?” Greyson didn’t deign to respond. “I’ll leave you there, if you like. I’ve got some money on me, so I’ll put you up at the inn for a few nights. You should recover sufficiently with rest and some food. What do you think?”
I could feel him go stiffer and stiffer with every word I said. “I can take care of myself, thanks very much!”
“Well, seeing as you can’t even walk by yourself at the moment, I somehow doubt that.”
“Well, you’re wrong!”
“I’m beginning to think there’s nothing I can possibly say to you that you won’t contradict,” I said through clenched teeth. “And if you disagree with that, I might just take you right back to that whole and drop you in again.” He shot me a scorn-filled look.
Clearly our acquaintance was off to a flying start.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Prologue of sorts
“That’s quite a lot of money,” Ash breathed.
“Let me hold it!”Aeris squealed. Pouncing forward, she grabbed eagerly at the glimmering coins.
“Back off!” Ash shouted smashing the girl across the face. Aeris returned the gesture by clamping her sharp teeth down on Ash’s shoulder. The two went down, battling so ferociously they didn’t notice Cicery calmly retrieve the money they’d dropped.
She cleared her throat delicately, calling the attention of the meeting back to herself. The two elves looked up, both sets of eyes immediately latching onto the bag of coins in her hands.
Hastily making plans to kill his companion later, Ash took the initiative to speak first. “We…we can’t really give you the final word on the matter…we’re not nobles or officials or anything.”
“I’ve no need for nobles,” Cicery said coldly.
“What’d you mean?” Aeris asked.
“I see no reason to involve more of you than necessary,” Cicery replied with a cool shrug of her shoulders. “Unless you think you need more help. Of course, that’s all the money I can give you, so you’d have to split it further with more people…” She allowed the implications of her remark to sink in unspoken before continuing. “Do we have a deal?”
A slow smile split Ash’s features. “You got it.”
“Good. You have three days.”
With a nod, the elves disappeared into the forest. Cicery’s eyes lingered on the vacancies their departure created. “Lanius.” A figure separated itself from the shadows. “Keep an eye on them, will you?”
“You don’t think they can handle it?”
Cicery’s eyes flickered with irritation. “It’s not a matter of abilities, I just need to be sure they don’t lack the proper encouragement.”
“Encouragement?”
“Really, Lanius,” she sighed patronizingly. “Every idiot knows you can’t trust elves.”
“Let me hold it!”Aeris squealed. Pouncing forward, she grabbed eagerly at the glimmering coins.
“Back off!” Ash shouted smashing the girl across the face. Aeris returned the gesture by clamping her sharp teeth down on Ash’s shoulder. The two went down, battling so ferociously they didn’t notice Cicery calmly retrieve the money they’d dropped.
She cleared her throat delicately, calling the attention of the meeting back to herself. The two elves looked up, both sets of eyes immediately latching onto the bag of coins in her hands.
Hastily making plans to kill his companion later, Ash took the initiative to speak first. “We…we can’t really give you the final word on the matter…we’re not nobles or officials or anything.”
“I’ve no need for nobles,” Cicery said coldly.
“What’d you mean?” Aeris asked.
“I see no reason to involve more of you than necessary,” Cicery replied with a cool shrug of her shoulders. “Unless you think you need more help. Of course, that’s all the money I can give you, so you’d have to split it further with more people…” She allowed the implications of her remark to sink in unspoken before continuing. “Do we have a deal?”
A slow smile split Ash’s features. “You got it.”
“Good. You have three days.”
With a nod, the elves disappeared into the forest. Cicery’s eyes lingered on the vacancies their departure created. “Lanius.” A figure separated itself from the shadows. “Keep an eye on them, will you?”
“You don’t think they can handle it?”
Cicery’s eyes flickered with irritation. “It’s not a matter of abilities, I just need to be sure they don’t lack the proper encouragement.”
“Encouragement?”
“Really, Lanius,” she sighed patronizingly. “Every idiot knows you can’t trust elves.”
Monday, June 22, 2009
Rather Long Exposition
Generally speaking, when one becomes aware of the fact that somewhere in the world there is a callow youth running around who is destined to someday kill them, thereby bringing about the untimely end of their evil, supposedly indestructible empire, the logical course of action would be to get rid of the callow youth while they are still a callow youth and not yet the all-powerful, empire toppling hero they are destined to become. Generally. Logic would further dictate, at the very least, taking steps to protect oneself or otherwise avoid the rather fatal fate they find themselves looking at. Surprisingly few so-called all powerful lords of evil have done so. Surprisingly many so-called all powerful lords have consequentially ended up dead due to this all-too-common mistake. Julian was not one of them.
Julian, since birth, had been complimented as the handsomest, brightest boy in his village. Very quickly tiring of the forced intake of such empty praise, he ended it the only way he knew how: he slaughtered the entire village. That was his first mistake. It was not long before he discovered how difficult it is to be six and utterly without anyone to care for you. Magical powers, he realized, are wonderful tools of mass genocide, but not so much for cooking dinner. Or any other meal for that matter. That was his first life lesson.
As he grew older, there were many other mistakes and life lessons, therefore he learned quite a bit. The most important lesson he learned is that while killing often brought him a great deal of pleasure, it often worsened problems rather than fixed them. It was extremely difficult to purchase food from dead vendors, no matter how insufferable and stupid they might happen to be. He had a conscience about stealing.
When he estimated himself to be around sixteen, he was accosted by the first of many doom-prophesying seers. His initial reaction was to wonder why one apparently could not be a seer and less than a thousand years old at the same time; then he sought out other seers in order to find his destined adversary. There were some problems killing could fix.
Seers, while undeniably old and far-seeing, are not necessarily very perceptive. The vast majority of them being blind—courtesy some ancient ritual no one could remember the purpose of—and a slightly smaller majority being very gullible, Julian found it stunningly easy to identify and locate the object of his search.
Expectations have a way of ending in disappointment. Julian’s destined killer was no exception: a farm boy, about his age, purportedly impetuous, immature, and ignorant. The boy lived near a veteran of an ancient, most likely archaic war no one bothered to remember anymore. The veteran had taken a liking to this farm boy and intended to make the boy his first and last pupil, passing on all his skills with a sword—with a little magic thrown into the mix—before he died. Understandably, he was rather upset to find his would-be pupil dead at the hands of the person the boy was intended to kill. The veteran soon joined the farm boy in a manner nothing like the self-sacrificing, life-altering, lesson-teaching manner he had envisioned.
That was the first of many farm boys. After the third one, Julian began to wonder if it wasn’t simply a game Destiny was playing with him. If it was, Destiny was being horrendously beaten. It even appeared to grow desperate enough to attempt a farm girl. The result was worse than the farm boys—who rarely have aunts who refuse to let them anywhere near something quite so pointy and dangerous as a sword; psychotic murderers are no excuse to sacrifice propriety—with no observable benefits. Destiny did not attempt this again for quite some time.
In between callow youths, Julian began looking further into his magical abilities. Some ancient tome informed him that he was one of seven chosen few born with the strongest magical abilities the land had ever seen. Another tome said it was three. Yet another said seventeen. One said the others were written by quacks and peddlers who couldn’t be counted on to know anything useful. It went on further to say that one should not believe a book simply because it was old. Julian opted to not believe books at all and went to find himself another seer.
Meanwhile, Destiny decided it was time to change its tactics. Taking advantage of Julian’s pseudo quest of self-discovery, it had a good think about what it was doing wrong and came to several very important conclusions. The first of these was this: it was not a good idea to tell Julian that there was someone destined to kill him. It took much sneaking behind Justice’s back to keep seers out of the equation this time. Second, seasoned war veterans had apparently gone out of style and were no longer helpful to the cause. Third, while callow was a pre-requisite of destiny-heroes, impetuousness and ignorance were not. While Chance was busy introducing Julian to his very first not-thousand-year-old-and-blind seer, Destiny distracted Justice with an immortal psychic—which, for the benefit of the unaware, is heinously unfair—and did something it had never done before: it cheated.
Julian, since birth, had been complimented as the handsomest, brightest boy in his village. Very quickly tiring of the forced intake of such empty praise, he ended it the only way he knew how: he slaughtered the entire village. That was his first mistake. It was not long before he discovered how difficult it is to be six and utterly without anyone to care for you. Magical powers, he realized, are wonderful tools of mass genocide, but not so much for cooking dinner. Or any other meal for that matter. That was his first life lesson.
As he grew older, there were many other mistakes and life lessons, therefore he learned quite a bit. The most important lesson he learned is that while killing often brought him a great deal of pleasure, it often worsened problems rather than fixed them. It was extremely difficult to purchase food from dead vendors, no matter how insufferable and stupid they might happen to be. He had a conscience about stealing.
When he estimated himself to be around sixteen, he was accosted by the first of many doom-prophesying seers. His initial reaction was to wonder why one apparently could not be a seer and less than a thousand years old at the same time; then he sought out other seers in order to find his destined adversary. There were some problems killing could fix.
Seers, while undeniably old and far-seeing, are not necessarily very perceptive. The vast majority of them being blind—courtesy some ancient ritual no one could remember the purpose of—and a slightly smaller majority being very gullible, Julian found it stunningly easy to identify and locate the object of his search.
Expectations have a way of ending in disappointment. Julian’s destined killer was no exception: a farm boy, about his age, purportedly impetuous, immature, and ignorant. The boy lived near a veteran of an ancient, most likely archaic war no one bothered to remember anymore. The veteran had taken a liking to this farm boy and intended to make the boy his first and last pupil, passing on all his skills with a sword—with a little magic thrown into the mix—before he died. Understandably, he was rather upset to find his would-be pupil dead at the hands of the person the boy was intended to kill. The veteran soon joined the farm boy in a manner nothing like the self-sacrificing, life-altering, lesson-teaching manner he had envisioned.
That was the first of many farm boys. After the third one, Julian began to wonder if it wasn’t simply a game Destiny was playing with him. If it was, Destiny was being horrendously beaten. It even appeared to grow desperate enough to attempt a farm girl. The result was worse than the farm boys—who rarely have aunts who refuse to let them anywhere near something quite so pointy and dangerous as a sword; psychotic murderers are no excuse to sacrifice propriety—with no observable benefits. Destiny did not attempt this again for quite some time.
In between callow youths, Julian began looking further into his magical abilities. Some ancient tome informed him that he was one of seven chosen few born with the strongest magical abilities the land had ever seen. Another tome said it was three. Yet another said seventeen. One said the others were written by quacks and peddlers who couldn’t be counted on to know anything useful. It went on further to say that one should not believe a book simply because it was old. Julian opted to not believe books at all and went to find himself another seer.
Meanwhile, Destiny decided it was time to change its tactics. Taking advantage of Julian’s pseudo quest of self-discovery, it had a good think about what it was doing wrong and came to several very important conclusions. The first of these was this: it was not a good idea to tell Julian that there was someone destined to kill him. It took much sneaking behind Justice’s back to keep seers out of the equation this time. Second, seasoned war veterans had apparently gone out of style and were no longer helpful to the cause. Third, while callow was a pre-requisite of destiny-heroes, impetuousness and ignorance were not. While Chance was busy introducing Julian to his very first not-thousand-year-old-and-blind seer, Destiny distracted Justice with an immortal psychic—which, for the benefit of the unaware, is heinously unfair—and did something it had never done before: it cheated.
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