An Introduction

For years, I've heard about how I should run a blog. I should catalog my experiences in New York, or I should post up my writing, or I should lend my voice to the news, or any number of other things that helpful folks tell creative young people when they think - often correctly - that we could be applying ourselves better. For years, I've been largely ignoring those suggestions. Maintaining a regular blog would be too much work, or I've got nothing interesting to say, or yadda yadda excuses excuses. Well, no more.

Welcome to Casimir Creative, a site made on a whim and named after some kind of inside joke I don't even remember. Here, you'll be able to see excerpts or chapters from the novel I'm supposed to be working on, as well as journal-style posts, my attempts at journalism, and other creative endeavors that I decide are worthy of someone's eyes. This will be my archive and my homepage, a space where I can shout into the void and hope that maybe someone in there hears me. It won't be fancy for a little while, but it will be something, and that's got to be better than nothing, right? For now, thank you for popping by, and I hope you find something you like.

Euferia, Chapter 3

NOTE: The following is from an unfinished draft. Read chapter one here.

Martin

Martin Maddux was, at thirty-three, fairly satisfied with his lot in life. He owned a house, had two cats (Mary Jane and Gwen), and ran a profitable and popular business without ever having to leave his home, or even put on pants. He had also once been nominated for a Turing Award for his work on artificial intelligences, but lost out to a team of quantum computer researchers who had been passed over the year before, and of course by the time the next awards ceremony came around someone else had developed an AI using similar algorithms to those he had and because he'd neglected to patent his he couldn't say anything against them but at least he could fight their attempt to patent the code so it remained basically open source which was something but-

Martin squeezed his knee tightly, soft flesh giving way to strong, dextrous fingers. He steadied his breathing, in for four and out for seven, just like Doctor Evelyn had taught him, and closed his eyes to the sight of four strangers puttering around his living room. Gwen rubbed up against his leg, which made him feel a little better. He reminded himself for the eleventh time not to talk about the Turing Award during his interview, and he prayed that Suzanne Something-or-other from WKOR or whatever her station was wouldn't ask about it. Martin's heart wasn't in the best condition, which his cardiologist told him came with being a hundred and eighty pounds overweight and sedentary and black and American and a dozen other things, so for the last year he'd been a vegetarian. It wasn't helping immensely, but he didn't sweat as much as he used to, which was especially useful with a camera and about a hundred lights in his face and a skinny blonde white lady about to stick a microphone in front of him because some producer decided having a "real life video game designer" in his home town constituted news, and it might be good to get a little free advertising and people had been wondering if he'd died or what since he let Maeva run pretty much everything in terms of player relations for the game. He caught his mind racing again and scrunched up his face, resetting his breathing.

"Mr. Maddux," Suzanne said, her chirpy newscaster voice being pleasantly unaccented and warmer than he'd heard from an actual physical woman in longer than he cared to recall. "We're ready when you are."

Martin nodded, eyes still closed, and went through another ten cycles of breathing in relative silence. Then he opened them and gave his best sociable smile, which he always thought looked more like a grimace but which his dad had always said looked "professional," whatever that meant.

"Ready," he said, careful to speak steady so his voice didn't crack. He normally had a fairly smooth baritone, at least when he spoke to people from the safety of his computer, but stress had a tendency to make him stutter and revert to a pubescent tone.

"Fantastic," said Suzanne as she turned to her camera guy - Steve? Martin remembered that three of them had S names, the producer Shawn and reporter Suzanne, but he couldn't remember if the cameraman or the lighting guy had the other one. "We'll keep it simple and be out of your hair in no time."

Martin ran a hand across his shaved head and grimaced a bit. He'd been balding since he was 21 and had given up the fight long ago. He forced a chuckle to try and make it less awkward, but only the cameraman - Scott? - seemed to notice.

Martin watched the producer count down on his fingers and then point at Suzanne. She spoke to the camera first.

“I'm here with Martin Maddux, creator of the hit online video game, 'Heroes of Euferia.' Now Martin, you're the only employee of your company, Crown and Dagger Software. What led you to create a game of this scale on your own?”

Martin bristled a bit, pursing his lips and taking in a slow breath before he answered. He'd had this question before.

"There are a few parts to this answer," he began, tracing a pattern on the leg of his loose slacks as he spoke. "First, when you say a game of this scale, you have to understand that there's never been one. The old massively multiplayer online role-playing games, MMOs for the members of your audience who know anything, were made by teams of a hundred or more designers and occupied hundreds of digital miles. In terms of area, all of Euferia is about the size of South America. Second, I didn't create any of the game. What I created were the Creation Engines, my twelve AI systems that work together to shape the game's land, its creatures, its weather, everything. That also includes the AI that handles player's fees and information, and the one that guides the progress of the others to make sure everyone is playing nice. I'm a player in the game but honestly I'm not very good, and every day at five in the afternoon, Archivus - that's my maintenance AI - gives me an update on how the others are working. I tell Archivus how to do things and he takes care of it. So I guess, getting back to your question, I didn't decide to create a game. I'm not a designer or a writer or anything like that. I'm a software engineer who created AI systems capable of working together to create an entire, massive game, completely independent of any human interaction. The Game will exist long after I'm dead, so long as people are still putting enough money into it for Aurus to pay for the servers."

Martin looked at Suzanne - he'd been staring at a point on his wall just past her head - in time to see her glance with some slight concern to the producer. He seemed to mouth something that looked like it was probably about editing Martin's answer down to something more digestible. That was typical.

"I see," she said as she looked back to him. Again, she was all smiles and warmth. "In that case, what sort of challenges do your system - Archivus was it - bring to you?"

Martin bit his tongue to keep from blurting out the most recent technical issues. Nova and Leanna had been drawing massive amounts of CPU at the cost of a few of the other systems lately, and Nemesis had a tendency to build monsters that took dozens of high-level players to beat instead of balancing the systems like he was supposed to, and then there was the fact that as more players joined the game he had to allocate more funds for Archivus and Aurus to simply keep everything running, then to contract skilled technicians to install and upgrade the systems that were in place, and there was just so much to keep track of, even with the AI systems working optimally.

Instead of all of that, he simply said, "It's enough to keep me very busy, and to bore everyone at home."

The interview dragged on for another twenty-three minutes and nineteen seconds, and Martin struggled through every minute of it. The one bit of footage that everyone seemed happy with involved Mary Jane getting bored and hopping into Martin's lap, which was sure to get a good "Aww" from some viewers. Everyone loved a cat, even on the dying medium of daytime TV news. And after the interview was over and Martin had ushered everyone out of his home, he found that he could hardly remember a single thing he'd said. He was also sweaty enough that he felt the need to shower, and he hated having to shower in the middle of the day. Everything always felt weird afterward, like a second morning to contend with. He watched the news van drive away and hauled himself into his bathroom.

The water sluiced over Martin's skin as he stood beneath the torrent, not moving for a long moment. In his mind, he saw his stressors, his triggers, his worries, and his fears all clinging to his skin like little green beetles. He felt their little feet digging into him, making his skin itch and hurt, but he kept his hands balled at his side, tight fists of concentration. He watched from outside himself as the water pushed at the beetles, and slowly washed them away. His skin felt smoother when the little mental bugs had been removed, and he started to feel relaxed and safe again. Doctor Evelyn had said that allowing the interview would be a big step in the right direction, but he'd had to let them into his home and they'd made everything just a little bit wrong and now he would have to fix it, but for now it was enough that he could stand under the hot water and wash away the beetles. It soothed him as much as it had when he was a kid, though he knew it was actually a reinforcing behavior. Dr. Evelyn had told him he shouldn't give into it, but if he didn't it just became a compulsion and then he had to wash it away even if it did reset his day. It made him feel better and that was important enough.

After a quick lunch of leftover grilled tofu salad, Martin faced a familiar dilemma. His computer beckoned to him, calling like a familiar lover with its softly glowing screens and ergonomic keyboard. At the same time, the voices of Doctor Evelyn, his therapist, and Doctor Patel, his physician, reminded him that he should leave the house for a while, get some exercise and some sunlight on his skin. Martin thought of the interview he'd finished barely an hour ago and figured he may as well keep going while he was outside his comfort zone. He pulled on his shoes and walked out to his car. The little farmer's market that occupied a section of Mackenzie Park was probably open, and he could pick up some food for later.

Martin felt his thoughts starting to wander as he drove out of his neighborhood, getting lost in the code that sometimes streamed through his head. He scrunched up his face and started focusing on real-world objects: a squirrel perched on the curb, his neighbor washing the family sedan, a moving van parked in front of a house at the end of the block, a pack of kids in a cul-de-sac with a smartphone and a makeshift bike ramp. It grounded him, and his mind quieted enough that he could drive safely.

It was only fifteen or so minutes before he reached the park and found that, yes, the farmer's market was open, and yes, the little organic farm that had popped up a couple years back had a whole new crop of tomatoes that looked fantastic. Martin bought some of those, along with enough fruits and veggies to get him through the week, and walked back to his car. He munched on an apple while he rested in the driver's seat and debated the virtues of those self-driving cars for someone who lived in a small town and only left the house every couple of days. Then he drove back home, satisfied with his intake of fresh air and early-summer sunlight, and retreated to the comforting cradle of his computer chair. The seat seemed to have risen a bit in his absence – the hydraulics might have been giving way? - so he took a moment to lower it, then powered up the machine.

“Hello Martin,” Archivus said through his speakers. The voice the program used was built from modulated clippings of a few different fair-use voice recordings, and had come out sounding a bit like a Bond villain: smooth, sophisticated, just the tiniest hint of the lack of humanity.

“Afternoon, Archivus,” Martin said as the screens came to life. The face that Archivus had made for himself took up one of the four monitors on Martin's desk, a thin and chiseled ebony mask somewhere between a warrior prince and a scholarly grandfather. When Martin had first seen it he'd thought the AI was somehow mocking him, but he'd come to like the face. It reminded him a bit of his dad.

“Are there any updates I should know about?”

The computer whirred a bit as it processed his request, sending the query through the maze of the internet to the server farm that actually housed Archivus' and the other AI's “bodies.” There was far too much processing power required for Martin's personal system, as beefy as it was, to contain even one of the thinking programs.

“The player Hitomi Heartwind has begun her test play of the Fortress of the North expansion, Euferia's publicly traded stock has gone up by two points, Optic Dream has announced a new headset model will be released with a Heroes of Euferia theme, and an attempt to infiltrate our housing server was made and repelled thirty-nine minutes ago.”

It was good news, that the attack had been turned back, but Martin felt a mix of apprehension with the triumph nonetheless. His competitors, the people who wanted his codes and his technology, had tried to infiltrate the servers before. Actually, most of the reason he'd built Nemesis in the first place wasn't to give the Game a villain, it was to give any potential hacker wannabe a real adversary. Archivus once told him that Nemesis had literally caught computers on fire when people had tried to break into the system.

“Keep me updated on the Fortress of the North progress, allocate a bit more of the budget for a security upgrade, and put in a pre-order of that new headset for me. I suppose I should figure out why people like using it so much.”

“Right away, Martin. You should know, by the way, that the latest system assault was made from your terminal.”

Martin blinked. He touched his chin, rubbing it for a moment. He'd missed a single hair when he'd shaved that morning, he could feel it now under his fingers, scratching and poking at him in rebellion on his own face. He stared at Archivus for a long, silent moment, trying to get a purchase on that hair with his chewed-down nubs of fingernails. Finally he forced himself to stop, put his hands on the desk.

“Could you repeat that?” he asked the computer.

Archivus told him again, and a third time. The reality sunk in like an idiot tyrannosaur into the tar pits. Someone had used his computer, where he was sitting at that very moment, to try and break into the Twelve's servers. And they'd done it less than an hour ago, right before he got back home.

Martin heaved away from the computer, looking at the keyboard like it was infected. For all he knew, it might be. There were a thousand toxic substances that could be breathed in or absorbed through the skin before he could detect them and whoever had broken into his home could have left any number of them to kill or incapacitate Martin and he could be dying already and there would be no way to tell until his throat started to close or his eyes started to bleed and he'd be dead on the ground next to the chair – when did the chair fall, did he knock it over when he stood up?

“I was able to get a picture of the intruder,” he was saying. Martin blinked and tried to stop his hand from scratching along the side of his neck. After a futile moment he reached up with the other hand and gripped his errant fingers, thankful he kept his nails short these days. He opened his mouth to speak three times before his body would push the words out.

“Show me,” Martin whispered, staring at Archivus. He watched as the image changed to an unfamiliar face. White, male, probably mid-thirties with short brown hair and a bit of stubble. Actually, the more he looked at it, the more familiar it became. He'd seen that face recently, he was sure of it, but some connection was missing. If only he was better with faces it would be easier, but eye contact was hard enough as it is and a lot of white guys really looked the same, especially with that stubbly look that everybody had going, and it was especially hard if he had to deal with more than one person at a time so with the farmer's market and the TV crew and the people in Dr. Evelyn's waiting room and-

It wasn't helpful to try and force his brain to make the connection. It would come, or it wouldn't.

“Get Nemesis to help you look into it. I want to know who this guy is and what he was looking for.”

Archivus pulled the image away and replaced it with his own generated image. Martin relaxed a bit, looking into the fatherly eyes.

“Right away, Martin. We'll find everything we can. In the meantime, you should relax. Would you like me to log you into the game?”

The game was comforting. He'd been working on his blacksmithing skill lately, crafting decent armor for other players and trading it, staying in one of the safe cities of the South. He could return there, regain some control, let the real world slip away for a little while. Martin reached down and righted his chair, then settled into its familiar seat.

“Yes please, Archivus. Log me on.”

Copyright Jesse Vetters, 2016

Euferia, Chapter 2

NOTE: The following is from an unfinished draft. Read chapter one here.

Hitomi

It had been a long, lonely journey to find Ylvain and reach out to their guide, but as Hitomi knelt on the floor in her room of the inn, she felt satisfied. Making it all the way into what was essentially uncharted territory on her own would only help her reputation within the Dawn Knights, all too necessary amidst the growing murmurs of a schism. There was already a faction within the guild calling themselves the Sunset Knights, and though they hadn't split off from the main group officially, they had started raiding and trawling dungeons on their own. The timing of this quest, handed to her by Maeva herself, was a mixed blessing, at best.

Hitomi pulled the large blue crystal from her bag and whispered the words of the spell that would activate its beacon. Krave and Garreth both carried similar crystals they'd be able to use to teleport to her. The enchanted items had been expensive, but worth the cost. Krave had his own business to take care of, and Garreth had agreed to let her make the journey on her own. Now, all she had to do was wait until the morning and their adventure would begin. She stood and stretched, removing her armor and resting her sword by the bed before laying down.

Then, with a stroke of her escape key, Hitomi logged out.

A few moments later, the screen flashed the familiar message telling Hitomi Offerman that it was safe to remove her headset, that her progress had been recorded and she was successfully logged out. She set the contoured glass and plastic visor down on her cluttered desk next to a little 3D printed figurine of her own avatar, Hitomi Heartwind. Garreth – his real name was Garth – had printed it out, painstakingly painted it to match her in-game look, and shipped it to her once she got her newest armor. It was a huge achievement, that armor, and put her in an equipment class above ninety-nine percent of the other players in the game. Thinking about that brought more than a touch of joy to Hitomi, and she found herself holding the figurine, looking over it. And then she began to compare its flawless beauty to herself.

Hitomi Heartwind was strong and slender, with light and smooth skin and immaculate hair, black streaked with vibrant red highlights. Hitomi Offerman had the upper body strength of a fish, and always felt there were ten more pounds on her body than there should be no matter how much she jogged or did yoga. She'd tried to dye her own hair the way her avatar's was but had only succeeded in leaving bleach-yellow streaks of stiff, damaged hair. Hitomi Heartwind had piercing blue eyes that flashed with magic and a fierce intelligence. Hitomi Offerman's brown eyes never seemed to flash with anything except the artificial tears she used after hours in the headset, and they were usually hidden behind thick glasses. Hitomi Heartwind was a warrior hero with unparalleled skill, dressed in gleaming armor and wielding a greatsword that was nearly unique in the world. Hitomi Offerman was a college drop-out who made a living playing an online video game, and who only wore something other than pajamas or sweatpants when she visited her parents or her life coach insisted.

Hitomi set the figurine back down on the desk and turned to face the computer that took up most of the real estate in her little bedroom. One of its monitors showed the welcome screen to Heroes of Euferia, with the figure of Maeva, the Herald of Heroes, in her elegant toga-esque gown, waiting to interact with the player. The other had four various pages pulled up, each showing the stats of some item or monster, maps of the North and the forest around Ylvain, or the strategy guide she was writing for her free company to use. She made sure everything was saved and shut the system down. Sitting in the dim room, she leaned her head back and pulled out her phone.

[Activated the beacon, guide will be ready at sunrise 7am EST. Be on by then. See you tomorrow.]

She sent the message to her companions, Kevin and Garth, and yawned. She had about eight hours to sleep if she woke up early enough to eat, get in a pre-dawn jog to keep the life coach happy, and shower before the quest started. Hitomi set her phone back down and wandered across the little apartment, fixing herself a Hot Pocket as a quick and easy dinner before she finally fell back into bed.

As she stared up at the darkened ceiling, thoughts wandering and a microwaved "sandwich" digesting in her belly, her mind settled, as it often did, back on the game. Chathen was a fairly run-of-the-mill NPC for the most part, but she'd reacted more smoothly than most. One thing that Heroes of Euferia had boasted since its release was that every character would have their own voice and evolving dialogue, thanks to a new modulation program that removed the need for an actor, and while most hadn't had a great deal of expressiveness it was impressive to see computer generated characters respond to what a player actually said. It was one of the first games to use post-Turing character AIs, and definitely the first massively multiplayer game to do so. Chathen seemed more real than most, though. Which made sense, in a way. She was part of a brand-new questline, a newly minted character in a freshly created section of the world, which Hitomi's guild had been selected to test. In a couple weeks, if everything worked, Ylvain would be swarming with high-level players all scrambling for the same quest Hitomi was about to start, but tonight she'd been the only "hero of Euferia" the townspeople had ever entertained. Being one of the top-ranked players had its perks.

Hitomi woke up to her alarm without having realized she'd fallen asleep. Which, she supposed, was usually the way of it, but it always felt unsettling. She was more used to watching her avatar fall asleep in the game. Most of it was played in a close third-person view, with a first-person mode for players using the Optic Dream, but as the player was logging out the camera pulled back further so they could see their character falling asleep. There was something oddly reassuring about it for Hitomi, though she'd heard other players complain about it. Then again, most other players spent less time in Euferia than she did.

The sun had yet to rise, and she felt the urge to wait in bed until it was time to meet the others. The growling of her stomach changed her mind, and she dragged herself to her feet. Breakfast consisted of a bowl of shredded wheat, too crunchy for too short a time before melting into a milky mush, but she'd been banned from the sugar-soaked marshmallowy goodness she used to eat. There was also an apple for good measure. Her life coach made sure she kept well-stocked on fruits and veggies, and it felt bad to let them spoil in the fridge.

After breakfast, Hitomi dressed in loose sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee shirt. These morning jogs had become regular enough that she wasn't shocked by the pre-dawn chill when she stepped into it, and with her headphones in the world seemed another blessed step away. She imagined, as she often did while doing any kind of exercise, that she was her other self in training. It helped stave off the urge to turn around and walk slowly back to her apartment. She noted, as she returned home, that today's run had been a full minute shorter than her best time the week before. She was getting faster.

After a quick shower, Hitomi pulled on a pair of comfy pants and a hoodie. Her wet hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and stuffed into a beanie – there was no time to wait for it to dry. She flipped the power switch on her computer and watched the monitors flicker to life, then picked up the Optic Dream headset and pulled it over her eyes. Two images floated in front of her. She clicked the one that showed her finances first. There were still about five minutes until she was due in the inn to meet the guys.

Most of Hitomi's income came from the game's auction house. There, players from around the world could spend real-world currency or in-game gold on weapons, items, even services from other players. She and some of the other officers of the Sunset Knights regularly took on the most difficult tasks the game had to offer, selling all but the best gear and guiding less experienced players through dangerous areas. It didn't make for a glamorous living, but it meant Hitomi could spend her time doing what she loved most: gaming. She'd heard a rumor that there was only one person who made more in the game than she did, but she refused to give that too much thought. She made enough to live, and that was enough for her.

Now, though, she was doing contract work for the game's developers themselves, working for a modest hourly wage with the promise of a bonus upon the quest's completion. Hitomi, Krave, and Garreth had been hired to test a new expansion to the game, to make sure everything worked for real-time players with the skills to push the programs to their limits. It wasn't the first time Hitomi had playtested a game, but there was a difference between working a nine-to-five looking for bugs and glitches in cell phone games and running the gamut on something she loved. The first check from the company had already gone through, a modest bonus for starting the job, and she closed out of that screen satisfied. With a smile on her face, she logged into the game.

“You're two minutes late,” Hitomi heard as she stepped out of her room. She sighed and turned to find Krave leaning on the wall outside her room. He didn't have to lean like that – she was about ninety percent sure he'd done it for dramatic effect – but it was definitely his style.

“I said seven. It's seven,” she answered, walking past him toward the main room of the inn. He followed on silent footsteps.

Where Hitomi Heartwind was built for power and speed, Krave Stranlich had stealth in mind. His skin was bone-white but covered almost completely by black spell-woven leather, and Hitomi was fairly sure he was bald under his hood. A cloak, also black, concealed an array of daggers, poisonous flasks, and bombs. Hitomi was a walking tank, but Krave was an entire arsenal. Hitomi knew he had a pair of poisoned knives as his main weapons, but he'd never told her what they were made from, or how he'd come by them.

As Hitomi found a table and sat, Krave stood behind her. That habit had always irked Hitomi, but she'd never been able to vocalize exactly why it did. Something about it was simply predatory, but that made sense for an assassin. Maybe she just hated feeling like prey.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Maybe you're on time by your own clock, but you're late by mine. And Garreth is late either way.”

“Give him a couple minutes. He'll show soon.” Garreth had always been a friend to Hitomi, but he wasn't one to defend himself from the ridicule he sometimes received. She'd spent a lot of time sticking up for him since founding the Dawn Knights.

Hitomi and Krave watched Garreth appear together, the glow of his teleport crystal giving the room an amber shine before the magical object turned to dust. Hitomi's beacon did the same, its purpose served. Garreth smiled at them and waved, the awkwardness of the gesture somehow coming through his avatar from the real world.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said softly. “Father's still asleep, so I have to whisper for a while.”

Garth, Garreth Smallfoot's player, had moved back in with his father after a stroke left the man paralyzed in half his body. It meant he would occasionally have to leave his computer for stretches of time to attend to his dad's needs, and that hadn't helped his reputation with the guild. It didn't help that he was on the autism spectrum and couldn't quite figure out how certain things worked. He was smart, sweet, and a talented player, but gamers could still be cruel. People could be cruel.

“No worries Garreth, we're glad you made it.”

Krave scoffed but Hitomi pretended not to notice. Garreth took a seat at the table, clambering up the chair. He was a halfling and a wizard, carrying a staff that was almost twice his height and wearing a hat the obscured most of his head. As a wizard, he had access to spells that could command forces of nature and change the flow of time, while being a halfling meant he was frail but quick. The three of them made an adequate party for most quests.

Chathen came in a moment after Garreth sat down, dressed in well-crafted leather armor, carrying a bow on her back and a sword on her hip. Hitomi waved her over, watching the way she crossed the room with confidence and a powerful stride. She was taller than Krave, with the kind of ropey muscle that comes with actual use. Chathen had been crafted with practicality in mind, made to look like a true warrior. Hitomi felt like a porcelain doll next to her, despite the heavy armor and giant sword.

There was another woman with Chathen, a contrast in almost every way. Short and pale, with an elven look about her, she wore a flowing robe and carried a thick tome. Hitomi guessed at a glance that she was a mage – a spellcaster who specialized in healing magic – but she wasn't another player.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Chathen Dubrais, and this is Lessa Ethellion. I'll be your guide into the forest, and she'll be coming along.”

Hitomi thought she heard a bit of embarrassment in Chathen's voice as she spoke. She had to be projecting that, though. The acting modulation program that the game used was decent with high emotions, things like fury and despair and joy, but she'd never seen what one could call a subtle performance from one of the non-player characters. It was part of the reason she and many of the Dawn Knights were committed to playing in character – it helped preserve the realness of the game.

Krave was the first to respond to Chathen. “I thought we were getting one guide, not two. I won't be responsible for keeping your little friend alive.”

Lessa stepped forward. Krave had a head of height on her and that menacing assortment of blades and gadgets, but the mage seemed unperturbed.

“I can keep meself alive, thanks.”

Garreth smiled. “It will be good to have a healer,” he whispered.

“That it will. Welcome to the party, Lessa,” Hitomi said, stepping between the pale mage and the assassin at her back. “Chathen, when can we be ready to move out?”

“We're ready whenever you are. It would be good to have a clearer idea of what we're looking for, though.”

Hitomi dug into her inventory, pulling out the map she'd been given for the quest. It came out of her belt pouch as a folded bit of leathery parchment, and he handed it to Chathen.

“We are looking for a castle,” Garreth piped in helpfully.

Chathen stared at the map for a moment, reorienting it and nodding to herself.

“It won't be easy. I've never gone this far in, personally, but I can get you there. What's this castle supposed to be?”

Hitomi smiled and struck a pose, hand on her hip and head tossed back in blasé confidence. “Why, Chathen, didn't I tell you? We're off to slay a god.”

Read the next chapter here.

Copyright Jesse Vetters, 2016

Euferia, Chapter 1

NOTE: The following is from an unfinished draft.

Chathen

Chathen Dubrais had been tracking the little band of goblins for nine hours, as best she could tell. There were five of the vile creatures, a nasty and short variation of goblinoids that called themselves Gobs. In the hours just before dawn they had slipped out of the forest and scaled the palisade wall into the town of Ylvain. She'd awoken when a sheep's fearful bleat was cut short by one of the gob's wicked little knives.

The branch of the thick old tree swayed gently beneath her feet, but Chathen had spent half her life in the trees. Their motion was like her own, something to be embraced and appreciated, and their sounds masked hers. She could hear the gobs squabbling ahead, along with the hundred other sounds of the forest - the songs of birds, the rustle of the underbrush as a hare shot through it, the yelp of a fox as a pair of wolves scared it away from its dinner. She could feel the tapestry, the wide and wild story the forest was trying to tell her. She could hear the forest telling her its secrets as she strained her ears for the raspy language of the goblins. Words came on the wind.

"Shass haratsk, Grekza," came the words, carried on the wind. "Speed up, Grekza."

Chathen wasn't well-versed in the language of the goblins, but she'd heard this dialect enough in her squabbles with the little tribe of monsters to recognize a phrase or two. They might have caught her scent, heard some evidence of her pursuing them. She leapt from her perch and swung silently into the canopy of another big, sturdy tree. As soon as her feet touched the next branch, she bounded off it as well. Her legs knew how to land true, her hands knew where to grasp and when to let go, and her senses worked in masterful unison to propel her across the secret highway of squirrels and birds and hunters. For a minute, she was flying.

She came to rest in a large oak behind the goblin raiders, close enough to see the glint of naked bronze from their daggers and swords. The two in the middle were the stockiest, but none of them weighed half as much as Chathen, and the tallest among them was barely as high as her belly button. They had the disconcerting look of misshapen children, with skin the color of a wilted daisy and stringy grey hairs. The one in front carried a wand at its hip - a hedge witch, most likely, and dangerous. Chathen pulled her bow from its case across her back and strung it in a moment with a practiced hand, nocking an arrow and creeping through the branches to follow the moving band. She took aim for the leader and loosed the deadly shaft.

The arrow plunged through the skull of the second gob in line, intercepted as the blighted little monster stumbled on some unseen branch, knocking into the back of the leader. That one whirled around and grabbed for its wand, a crude little thing cobbled together from rat bones. Chathen could see the panic and fury on its twisted face, ritual scars in a spiral on its forehead giving it a menacing look. A stream of wild lightning spewed out from the end of the wand, tearing at random through the trees. They hadn't spotted her, so the spell had been thrown wild.

The goblin witch's spell was a costly gambit, but an effective one. The lightning arced and slammed into the tree Chathen was using as a perch, throwing her down to the ground. The huntress fell with a crunch into a bush, saving her from breaking upon the hard ground but stabbing and scratching at her skin and the sturdy leather armor she wore.

She could hear them charging her, the pounding of six feet, the rasping of three blades, and the high-pitched wail of a spell being prepared sending a chill from her ears to the base of her spine. She got to her feet as quick as she could, straightening just in time to see that two of them had typical daggers, but the third wore a string of small stone knives. Time slowed to a crawl as Chathen threw her hand back to her quiver. She felt her muscles straining for more speed as her mind roared, screamed to dive away, but another part of her was in control. The hunter's skilled composure had taken over and she felt her arrow find its place on her bowstring as the gob hurled one of its knives. She drew, aimed, and fired in what must have been a single heartbeat, then dropped her bow and ducked to the side.

The goblin's knife whizzed past Chathen's shoulder, hurtling through the space her sternum would have occupied a moment before. She didn't have time to be impressed with herself, though. Her right hand was already gripping the hilt of her sword, drawing the steel blade from its scabbard, but the two rushing gobs were upon her.

One leapt through the air, arms upraised and dagger turned downward to drive the point into her flesh. Chathen let herself fall to her back, rolling out of the bush and throwing her legs up. She caught the monster's elbows with her feet as she tumbled back, upsetting the smaller creature's leap and sending it spiraling backwards. Her blade was tasting the air as she came to her feet, and the second gob hesitated in its own attack. Chathen snarled and lashed out with a jab, sending the little monster leaping back. She had time to see that her shot had landed true, her second arrow protruding from the knife-thrower's eye as it lay on the ground.

The hedge witch's second spell was almost prepared. Chathen could hear the gob's wailing chant coming to a head. Preparation of a spell, in general, meant that a larger amount of power was being gathered, and that lightning blast had been no minor feat to begin with. She planted her back foot and crouched before propelling herself into a dead sprint past the two wary knife-wielders. She heard the one she had kicked down yelp with surprise as it fell again, but the other had found enough courage to make chase. She'd have one chance and only a few seconds to pull off a second impressive maneuver, but at this point it seemed the gods were favoring her. On the other hand, they might feel they'd given her enough luck and let it run out. In the moment encapsulating her wild charge at the hedge witch, Chathen held something like a desperate prayer in her mind.

The distance was closed and the hedge witch was still chanting. That was lucky. Chathen hoped the spell would die with the caster and not explode with the gathered power. She swept her sword in a wide arc through the air, pivoting on one foot in a deadly pirouette. The sword slowed a bit as it smashed through the gob's tough yellow skin, and there was a split second of gut-wrenching terror as it snagged on the old fur of the monster's armor, but relief washed over the huntress as the blade cleared the now-bisected body and swung back around in front of her. She'd spun in a half-circle, one powerful swing intended to strike two targets, and it seemed the pursuing gob was willing to play along. As if on cue, it impaled itself on her sword while trying to skitter to a stop out of its full sprint. In its death throes it managed to lash out with its dagger, but the thing hadn't the strength to cut the leather of her armor.

Chathen could see the other gob, her last enemy, scrambling away into the underbrush. If it was allowed to get back to its camp the whole vicious tribe might retaliate with a larger force. It wasn't likely that a sheep would be the only casualty, should that happen. Her sword was stuck between the ribs of the dead goblin, but its dagger was within her reach. Chathen snatched it and hurled it at the fleeing gob, itching with dismay as the hilt bounced off the creature's arm. It seemed to know it was home free, turning to mock her as it ran-

Headlong into the trunk of a tree.

Chathen couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing as the gob sprawled on its back, dazed. The huntress pulled her sword free and followed after the dizzy survivor, crouching next to him. Up close he smelled of thick musk and carrion, like a scrawny coyote, and his eyes were rolled into the back of his head. Unconscious, but still very much alive.

There was no honor in killing this creature, not like this, but she couldn't allow it to escape. In the scheme of things, it was still a gob. By and large, their kind were vicious bandits that murdered for sport and profit. She'd heard stories of camps that had worked with the various civilized peoples of the world, but they were few and far between. Besides, those had almost all been mercenary groups that still fought and killed for their own gain. And this was still a solitary, living creature. She wasn't going to eat it, and it was in no position to fight back.

It was, however, in a position to threaten her. In all likelihood she could kill it now or kill it when it came back to Ylvain Town with fifteen raiders instead of six. It was known that goblin raiders often split off on their own – that was how new encampments were made. A whole raiding party going missing without explanation wouldn't raise any suspicion. One survivor would start a war.

She lifted her sword, ready to plunge it swiftly through the little monster's heart.

“Nothing personal,” she whispered.

The gob's eyes snapped open and it shrieked out a single syllable.

“Wait!” it cried in the Common Tongue. That itself was so surprising that Chathen hesitated. It took the opportunity to say more.

“No kill! I go, I alone, no kill!”

“You speak Common?” she asked, half stunned. The gob nodded, squirming out from under the point of her sword. He started to get to his feet and she rested the blade against his neck, not ready to let him go just yet.

“Give me one reason to trust you,” she said softly. In her experience, gobs were a step above mindless. The fought, they hunted, they stole – as a rule, they didn't negotiate and they didn't beg for mercy.

“You kill Murdrug,” he said, pointing with a shaky finger to the corpse of the hedge witch. “Murdrug bad. I hate Murdrug. You good.”

Chathen nodded, looking back at Murdrug's body. It had seemed powerful, for a gob, and the idea that it could be holding some threat over this one wasn't far-fetched. She took a long and pulled the sword away from the gob's neck. She flicked the last bits of blood from its blade before sheathing it.

“Don't make me regret this.”

The gob nodded, backing away on all fours.

“I Grekza,” it said with something like a smile. Then it got to its feet and bolted off into the woods, leaving Chathen to attend to the bodies. One of the morbid perks of being the one sent to fight the monsters was, after all, loot.

It was nearly morning when Chathen arrived back in Ylvain, the sun a few short hours away. Already, the town priest and his acolyte were puttering about the town square with a few laborers, setting up the long tables and decorations for the festival. She called over the acolyte, a tall and lanky boy called Ropur, to help her drag in the deer and three pheasants she'd managed to shoot on her way back into town. The Summer's End Festival always included a feast, and as one of the town's hunters it fell to her to provide venison. Normally she'd have cleaned the animals before giving them over, but she was already weary on her feet and the festival would start at midday. If she was going to get any sleep at all, she had to get home sooner than later.

Chathen found her mother and brother still asleep in their bedroom when she arrived in her little house, so she took care not to disturb them as she pulled her boots and armor off by the door. She crept across the main room to her ladder and climbed up to her  perch in the rafters. The nest – it couldn't be called a room for lack of walls or a consistent floor – had been her only private place in the town for almost six years, built with cast-off wood and furs she'd decided not to sell. There was even a small mirror up there, as unnecessary a luxury as it was. Her bow and sword went onto a rack she'd convinced a carpenter's apprentice to carve for her, and she took a minute to tie and cover her hair the way her mother had taught her so many years ago. Finally, exhausted, she curled into the soft pile of furs and fell into a deep, instant sleep.

She was awoken by music.

By the intensity of the light streaming in through the small window, she guessed it was near midday. She was late to the festival, but there was no changing that now. She could see, hanging on a rung of her ladder, that her mother had set out a dress for her, but she'd never felt quite right in dresses. Instead, she simply changed into clean underclothes and trousers then put her light leather armor back on. It was how most of the village knew her, anyway. After a moment's hesitation and the memory of a goblin left alive she strapped on her sword belt and slipped down, out of the house.

Chathen didn't see anyone on the cobblestone streets of Ylvain until she turned to see the square. It looked like every one of the nearly three-hundred residents had crowded around the long tables, surrounded by twelve heavy iron braziers and twelve blue-burning flames. There was music, pipes and drums and strings playing two or three mingling melodies from different sides of the square, and people were already well into their revelries. Most had already begun drinking, many were dancing, and all were talking or singing or laughing. Those with the wealth to do so – not many in a small town bordering one of the vast and wild forests of the North – were decked out in furs and silks. For a moment Chathen felt a pang of guilt at leaving the dress behind, but a hand on her arm pulled her suddenly out of such thoughts.

“Thought ye'd never make it!” chirped a cheery voice from behind.

“And miss the chance to see you make a fool of yourself? Oh, Lessa, it's like you don't even know me.” Chathen turned to her friend and wrapped the little woman in a tight hug. She and Lessa had grown up together, both somehow outsiders in the tiny community, yet almost polar opposites. Where Chathen was tall, dark-skinned and muscular with hair that curled and flowed however it pleased, Lessa was short and paler than snow, with hair like silver that hung straight. While Chathen had practiced with the bow and the sword, Lessa had studied magic.

The little mage was already, it seemed, a few cups into the celebration. She swayed and grinned after Chathen stepped back from the embrace.

“I only make a fool o' meself around you, turtledove. Ye should feel honored. Got a seat yet?”

Chathen shook her head, glancing back for her family at the tables. She found her mother fairly quickly, laughing merrily with the weaver and her husband, but her brother was nowhere to be found. She did spy two empty seats on either side of her mother, though.

“I assume my mother will want me to sit next to her,” Chathen said as she turned back to Lessa. “Not that I'm too excited about the prospect. She's sitting with the Quils.”

Lessa stuck her tongue out, twisting her cherubic face into a goofy grimace. “Ah, gods forbid ye have to spend an hour with yer mam's friends. I happen t' think the Missus ain't half bad.”

Chathen scowled as she laughed. “They're both fine people, but between her voice and his breath it's an assault on the senses. Honestly, it's bad enough that I have to hear four different songs and a hundred conversations all at once today. Spare me at least a little.”

“Follow me then,” quipped Lessa, grabbing hold of Chathen's hand and pulling her away from the tables and the noise. The pair paused just long enough to grab a handful of sweet rolls before slipping down a side street. A few minutes later they were sitting together on the edge of a rooftop, far enough from the festivities that even Chathen's sensitive ears only picked up faint wisps of music and voices. She stuffed a roll into her mouth and leaned her head on her friend's shoulder.

“Thanks for this,” she said, mouth half full. Lessa knocked her head gently against Chathen's and chuckled.

“You bet.”

It wasn't the first time the pair had been alone on a rooftop. As long as she could remember, Chathen's senses had always seemed too highly tuned. When she was young, before the forest took her father, she used to wake in fear from the sounds of wolves or gobs or other monsters of the forest. Sometimes she would run out of the house, searching for any quiet place to find refuge, but the whole village was filled with the sound. Lessa found Chathen crying outside her window. Maybe it was the magic in her, Lessa's own othering cacophony to deal with, but the mage had seen what was tormenting Chathen almost immediately.

“When it all gets to be too much,” she'd said, holding fast to Chathen's hand, “don't try to hide from it. You'll never get away. Instead, understand it.”

Fifteen years after that first night, clambering onto Lessa's roof and trying to identify every sound and smell, the two were still as thick as thieves. The sun had dipped back down into the sky when Lessa finally cocked her head, looking at her friend.

“We should get back before the Recitation. Brecklynn'll get mad if we miss his fancy prayer, an' the feast proper starts at sundown.”

Chathen lay back on the slanted roof and sighed.

“I suppose you're right,” she conceded, fingering a curl in her short, black hair. Speaker Brecklynn had no practical authority over the town, but it wouldn't do to be labeled a heretic. In a town where everyone knew everyone else, additional oddities were halfway to a death sentence. “Give me one more minute, and I'll be ready to go.”

“As ye wish, turtledove,” Lessa said with a soft smile. A few minutes later they made their way back into the town square.

The revelries had carried on throughout the day, but all came to a pause once the sun dipped behind the horizon. A portly man with a booming voice and a scratchy grey robe stepped onto the platform in the middle of the cluster of blue flames. Chathen and Lessa slipped into the back of the crowd, watching as everyone gathered close.

“My people,” he called out, motioning for the music to quiet. “Another cycle of the seasons has passed, with its times of hardship and prosperity. We have seen greatness and evil, but always the Twelve have watched over us.” This brought murmurs from the crowd. Many had lost a loved one over the years, and in a village of less than three hundred, a single loss could be devastating. The speaker held his hands aloft and called out to the citizens. “The Twelve have watched over us,” he reiterated, “and they will continue to do so! My people, join me in the Recitation of the Genesis.”

The portly priest brought his hands together at his waist, then lifted them to his shoulders. The whole town, from the most withered elder to the youngest child still old enough to stand, returned the gesture to him in unison. Then, nearly three hundred voices rose as one into the night air of the little town.

“In the beginning, there was nothing. Then, the Creator breathed life into his Twelve and gave unto them the task of creating and watching over our world. First came Aurus, whose purpose was to marshal the resources that the world might be created. Second were the Siblings: Nova, Sora, Estemus, and Wuster, tasked with shaping the lands. Third, the Aetherials were brought to life. They were Jikan and Tenki, lords over the heavens. Fourth came Leanna and Branko, queen and consort, creators of the thinking races and all beasts. Fifth was Maeva, the herald of heroes, and sixth came Nemesis, god of dark forces. Finally, and most powerful of all, the Creator gave unto us Archivus the Mouthpiece, that his word might be carried through the world. And lo, the Creator left the world to his Twelve until a time when he should be needed once more. So say the prophets, and so say we all.”

Chathen had never been particularly spiritual, but she recited the words along with everyone else. She could hear Lessa whispering in reverent tones beside her – the mage was a true believer. It wasn't as though Chathen didn't believe in the Twelve. Their reality was almost impossible to ignore in a world where monsters, magic, heroes, and heralds were all around them. She simply didn't spend much time contemplating them and it was easier to accept the world right in front of her. She'd never felt the need for anything else.

“Can you believe,” Lessa said beside her as the prayer ended, “that people all over the world are doin' exactly what we are right now?”

It was true, as far as Chathen knew. Her mother had told her that in the deserts of Estemus all that differed about the festivals were the foods. She imagined the same held true for the mountain strongholds and mining towns of Wuster and the farmlands and river cities of Sora. Some of the festivals would have thousands of worshipers are gathered in celebration and reflection, but many would be as small as Ylvain's own.

Chathen's eyes came to rest of the gentle curve of Lessa's neck. The mage had pushed her hair behind her ear, exposing a length of pink pale skin that made Chathen's fingers twitch. Years had gone by, but what Chathen had thought of as an adolescent infatuation hadn't faded. Her feelings had gone unspoken, but today felt important. Her arm moved, almost on its own, bringing their hands close together. Lessa was staring at the priest with rapturous attention. Chathen could feel a trickle of sweat down her spine from the nerves.

The moment was broken before it began as a familiar voice rang through the crowd. Chathen's hand snapped back to her side before anyone could see how close it had come to Lessa's fingers.

“Chathen! Mama's been looking all over for you! The feast is starting soon.”

She turned to see her brother, Kaleth, and moved swiftly away from Lessa. Chathen scooped the skinny boy into her arms and threw him over her shoulder as he squirmed.

“I'm too big for this!” he cried out. It was almost true; the boy was about twelve and growing tall, but he had more of their mother in him than their father and his build was slim. Chathen had always been told she'd inherited their father's frame, but she could hardly remember what he looked like anymore.

Tember Dubrais had perished just before the boy's birth, killed in the wilds by some fell creature. Branko the Consort and Leanna the Queen had been warring since just after the world's creation, or so the stories went, and their subjects could do nothing but serve as pawns in the battles. Tember had been a casualty, and now his sword rested at Chathen's hip. It was her wish that Kaleth never have to fight, even as a child looking at her infant brother, so she had insisted the sword be passed to her and she be trained as a hunter. Kaleth thus apprenticed as a dyer with their mother Yarla, and he seemed to like it well enough.

Kaleth stopped squirming and started to guide Chathen back to Yarla, occasionally distracted by jokes Lessa cracked as she followed behind them. The mage's family was large enough that she wouldn't be terribly missed until the feast truly began, and she'd spent as much time with the Dubrais family as her own over the years. The strange little procession found Yarla at her seat with the Quil couple in short measure.

“Mama!” Kaleth called out. “Tell Chathen to put me down!”

Yarla turned with a smile and a gentle scold for her daughter. Although she and Chathen shared the same dark, curling hair and olive skin, Chathen always felt outshone by her mother's beauty.

“Let your brother go, dear. I see you opted not to wear the dress I laid out for you.”

Chathen's face felt hot. No matter how old she got, how strong or skilled or self confident, her mother always made her feel like a child again. She shook her head as she set Kaleth on his feet. Thankfully, Lessa came to her rescue.

“Sorry mum, that one's on me,” the mage said as she looped her arms around Chathen's elbow. “I caught her comin' outta the house an' needed her help so she changed for me. One o' Da's sheep'd got loose an' we were worried it bolted for the woods.”

Chathen could see that Yarla didn't quite buy the story, but she shrugged it off regardless. Kaleth scrambled into his seat beside his mother as Lessa put an arm around her friend.

“I'd best be off, turtledove. Come an' find me after you eat, aye?”

Chathen nodded and hugged Lessa tightly. “See you soon.”

The serving of the food began mere moments later, food enough for three hundred people celebrating the changing of the seasons as families and friends talked, laughed, and ate happily as the sun slowly disappeared over the horizon. After more than an hour of food and drink Chathen had her fill. She kissed her mother on the forehead and ruffled Kaleth's hair, swaying slightly from too much mead. The drink had softened her senses so all she could hear was the lilting music. Thus, she didn't notice the clink of armor behind her until a voice broke through her haze.

“Are you Chathen?”

She whirled around to see a woman a bit more than a head shorter than herself, startlingly beautiful with crystal blue eyes and a waterfall of silken black and red hair. Even more noticeable than her appearance, though, was her equipment. Gleaming white heavy armor and a greatsword with a blade as long as Kaleth was tall, the mere sight of them made Chathen stagger back a step. She was certainly no expert on the matter, but the armor looked to be made from polished dragon's bone and the sword held the emerald gleam of grensteel. This woman was wearing enough wealth to purchase half of Ylvain, and she was asking for Chathen by name. The huntress swallowed, straightened, and nodded.

The woman held out her hand and hit Chathen with a smile that seemed to outshine the moon. There was only one thing she could possibly be, and the thought chilled Chathen to the bone. She clasped the woman's hand.

“My name is Hitomi Heartwind, of the Dawn Knights. I'm told you know the forest better than anyone.”

It was all Chathen could do to nod again. This woman, this Hitomi Heartwind, was a Hero.

Heroes were the stuff of legend. Some said they were born normal, then chosen by the goddess Maeva for greater purposes. Others said they simply sprang into the world, fully formed and ready for battle. Chathen knew that she was a skilled hunter, and that Lessa was a formidable mage, but if this Hitomi was anything like the Heroes she'd heard stories of then both of their skill combined would pale in comparison.

“I need a guide,” Hitomi explained. “Two of my companions will be here in the morning and we'll be traveling deep into the forest. Can you help us?”

“Certainly,” Chathen said, coming back to herself. “But there's nothing out there worthy of your attention. The worst we see are wendigo, and even then only maybe every five or six years.”

Hitomi laughed, and it sounded like honey. “I'll explain it all when my companions arrive. Can you meet us in the inn just after sunrise?”

“Of course. Sunrise. We'll talk more then. If,” she paused, taking in a long breath and letting it out slowly, “if you'll excuse me, I'm in my cups and need to prepare. Begging your pardon.” Drunkenness wasn't the most honorable excuse, but it was a festival and wine and ale had been flowing freely for hours.

Before the Hero could say anything to the contrary, Chathen turned and walked quickly to where she hoped Lessa would be waiting. There was a great deal to talk about.

Read the next chapter here.

Copyright Jesse Vetters, 2016