The Mysterious Hystory of Cache (Real Name Unknown)

It was late afternoon, and the tavern held only the usual crowd. There were only three logs in the fire, enough to keep it going, but not the roaring blaze they would keep in the evenings. The curtains were open, letting in the gentle spring breeze. The barmaid, Corinna, was clearing the dishes from the adventurers’ table. They were in each week, rejoicing and nursing wounds from their weekend excursions into the old goblin runs and such. They were a pleasant group, if a bit loud.

The batling, Shadowflight, was the quiet leader of the group. Then there was Desdra, a pixie that occasionally wasn’t. Romba, the loud-mouthed, boastful human had his feet on the table, as usual. Liveria, the lizard-centaur crossbreed, was leaning in through the window.

The door opened to a welcome visitor. The broad-brimmed, high-peaked hat and dark leather cloak of the traveler were barely hung on the pegs at the door before he was sitting at the table by the fire with a mug of ale in his hand.

“News you wouldn’t receive, stories you’ll barely believe! Ten silvers a tale, a song for some ale, I promise I’ll never deceive!” His trademark limerick wasn’t really necessary, as everyone knew his business, and everyone wanted his trade. The normally quiet afternoon hours were suddenly busy and crowded. The entire town was eager for news and entertainment. The old minstrel was only too happy to provide, one mug at a time.

“I ought to charge double for this tasty bit,” he laughed and took another long swig of his ale. The crowd pushed forward, silvers clattering at his feet. He laughed and set his mug on the table beside him. “Last time I was here, I told you about some unrest in Tontves. There was a dark elf mage taking more than his fair share…”


The dark elf called himself Magewind and no creature in their right mind said no to him. Those that did say no, it was usually followed with ‘please, don’t hurt me.’ He took anything he wanted, and he wanted anything worth having. If an archivist in a library discovered an old spellbook, Magewind would be there to check it out, permanently. If an armorer crafted a special weapon or shield, it would quickly find its way into Magewind’s hands. The most beautiful castle in the realm was renamed Windgate and added to his holdings. Enchanted artifacts, unusual potions, gold, jewels, beasts, women, all were his if he desired them. Yes, there were those that tried to stand in his way. But he had his way, and they stand no more.

Finally, a group of men met quietly in the middle of the night, hoping to escape his notice. One of them had the ability of Vision, and he shrouded the room from sight. Another knew the acts of Creation, and he weaved Shadow throughout the chamber, such that not even the men who met could say who had spoken which ideas. Some had special affinity with the creatures of nature, and set a guard around them on land and in air. Some with a knack for Locks and some with a skill for Creating walls together secured even the entrances by which they came. One with an aptitude for Stealth crept around and watched for suspicious signs. Finally, a tall man with a long, frosty white beard waved his arms in the air and around the house wailed an Ice Storm that would slow any who approached, as well as cover any sound that escaped the other enchantments. Working together, they secured their meeting from detection and dubbed themselves the Wizard Defenders.

All the long night, that ice storm raged around the shadowed house while they debated methods by which they might defeat the dark elf mage. Before the dawn woke, the ice storm calmed, the shadow faded, and the house stood empty. Its occupants had left by way of Teleportation, Beacons, Stealth, Speed, Insubstantiality, and Flight.

Over the next week, the Wizard Defenders searched out various reputed heroes. Some found that the reputation was the hero’s strongest ability. Some found little more than broken skeletons where heroes used to be. The brilliant plan that had so secretively been conceived looked as though it would come to naught.

Then, one of the talented men found him: A warrior who wielded an electrified broadsword with a green jewel set in the hilt. The hero, going by the name Shandar, was spirited to the shadow house. The following night, the Wizard Defenders brought Shandar to Windgate.

Illusion was useless against Magewind; he knew the true form of anyone in his sight. A moving ball of shadow would only gather his attention instead of avoid it. Regardless of the objections, Shandar, a man of honor, declared he would not enter the man’s home (stolen though it may have been) in a deceptive manner. Shandar, to the Defenders’ dismay, pounded the gate and demanded audience with the mage.

The golem guards, confused by this unusual request, allowed him through. Magewind, intrigued by the hero’s evident foolishness or bravery, met him openly in his center court to find out which it was. Never one to underestimate his opponent, Magewind had done his research.

“You are Shandar, an adventurer who earns his meals with your excellent broadsword. You are honorable, because your parents were not. You are foolish, because you demand entrance to my home for an audience with me. You are a valiant and worthy adventurer, but you are no match for me. Why do you come here?”

“I came here to stop your evil works, and break the stranglehold you have on this kingdom. You may know my history, and even of some of my weapons, but you do not know everything about me, nor can you see the future that exists without you.”

This angered the mage, and he threw a fireball at the hero. Shandar didn’t even flinch. The fireball engulfed him and burned fiercely before flickering out, leaving Shandar standing unharmed. He had an Amulet of protection. Magewind snarled and a held up one hand. Three balls of ice, each bigger than his fist formed in midair, circling his hand. He figured if Shandar’s world wouldn’t end in fire, it would end in ice. The iceballs flew at Shandar. One struck his shield; one struck his armor; the last hit him in the head. As they struck, however, instead of iceballs, they became snowballs, and Shandar shook off the attack easily. With snowflakes in his hair, he stepped forward and drew his sword.

Magewind realized this hero would not be as easy to dispatch as he had thought. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and seemed to blur, making it hard to tell exactly where he was standing. Magewind made a blurred motion and suddenly a dragon stood behind Shandar.

Shandar spun and attacked the dragon. Dragons, though formidable, hold fewer tricks for such an experienced adventurer. The dragon did not stand against Shandar long. Magewind, however, had not stood idle while they fought. Shandar turned, sword at the ready, and a glass bottle soared from one corner of the room and shattered against his chest. The acrid liquid inside spread out on his armor and began to smoke and sizzle. His armor wouldn’t stand up against the acid too long. He pulled a dirk from his belt and threw it, targeting the section of wall that was less clearly defined than the rest. His aim was true, and he heard Magewind cry out in pain and fury. He charged the sound, blood welling out from midair, sword raised high.

The dirk, though painful, had not actually done that much damage. Magewind brought his palm to his lips and blew a gray dust into the air. The dust swept toward Shandar and caught him in the face. He stumbled, and stopped. His head bowed, shoulders slumped, and, with acid eating away his armor, Shandar lightly began to snore.

Magewind threw back the hood of his Cloak, and boldly walked up to the hero. He snatched the jeweled sword from his slack hand with a haughty laugh, and pulled a dagger from Shandar’s belt. He dipped it into a vial of deadly poison and took fine, slow pleasure in slitting the warrior’s unprotected throat.

As Magewind’s laughter and Shandar’s dying gurgles filled the air, the Wizard Defenders stepped into view. They had snuck in while Magewind was distracted with the hero, and now he was distracted completely, absorbed in the murder of an honorable man.

They raised their arms, readied their Rods, turned their Rings, whispered their incantations, and as one launched their attack on Magewind. Light, darkness, fire, ice, and a myriad of other forces lanced across the room toward Magewind as he let the hero fall to the stone floor. Despite the force of their attack, he did not so easily fall. Some missives rebounded back on their caster, often plastering their bodies to the wall. Other attacks he deflected, or took minor damage from. Even so, it was powerful enough to bring him to his knees, from which he launched a counter attack, just as powerful as the rest. Several minutes of heated attacks and returns followed, ending in a deafening explosion of power that could be heard from far outside the walls of Windgate.

The roof of the castle was merely embers, floating on the winds. The walls were scorched, iced, broken, and crumbling. The stone floors were cracked and discolored. Of the dozen or more member of the Wizard Defenders, three remain.

One is now blind, with his tongue in a permanent knot, making serious spellcasting impossibly dangerous, if possible at all. He stumbled his way back to the village, and reported the garbled tale.

Another is a tree, rooted in the center of the cavity of destruction that is left of the dark elf's fortress. Through the veins and pulp of this tree runs neither blood nor sap, but a lethal poison. His family and friends attempt to guard the tree from those who would steal his bloodsap to use on weapons, one of the deadliest poisons known.

The last of the Wizard Defenders is little more than legend. Supposedly, a misty, vaporous cloud floats seemingly randomly along the river that flows near the site of the battle. Legend says that if you can find the vapor, it will communicate with you, and can heal grave injuries or grant wishes. Few can say that they have stood within the Magician's Mist, but many claim to know those who have.


“But what of Magewind?” whispered the little, wide-eyed girl in front of the fire in the tavern. The story was long in telling, and darkness has fallen, yet no one had moved.

“Ah, Magewind. The place where he made his stand, where the body of the hero had fallen, was little more than scorched earth when all was said and done. The hero’s corroded armor remained, but nothing else. The kingdom has celebrated his downfall, but there are those that say he is not dead, but only gone, and will one day return for his vengeance.”
The old storyteller sat back and picked up his mug of ale.


Corinna wrapped her shawl around her. Despite the crowd that night, most of the tips had gone to the news-bringer. Not that he’d helped clear the tables or bring the food, she’d noticed. With all of the extra work from the crowd, she’d hardly heard the story at all. She locked the door and headed for home.


In a clearing near the edge of town, an elf lay unconscious in the grass, a broadsword in his hand. A scream brought life to his eyes. He opened them slowly, looking confused. A second scream brought him quickly to his feet. He moved quickly toward the sound as a cry for help echoed through the woods. Breaking through some shrubbery onto a dark road, he found a barmaid being roughly handled by a couple of goblins. He threw himself on the first, driving the blade of the heavy broadsword into its chest. He jumped up to confront the second goblin, and the act of pulling the sword from the first one parried the second goblin’s strike. They circled, and the goblin leaped forward, weapon swinging. The elf’s shoulder stung as it took a glancing blow, but the broadsword scored true in a return thrust, killing the second goblin.

“Oh, thank you! I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t showed up!” The girl threw herself on him in a fit of gratitude. “My name is Corinna. Who are you?”

“I am-“ he stopped, startled, for no name rose to his lips. He had no idea what his name was, or where he’d come from, or how he’d gotten here. He looked down at the broadsword in his hand. A crackle of energy whispered up the blade and across the green jewel in the hilt. Strange, bright blue letters etched across the stone. “Cache,” he read in a whisper.

“Well, it is very nice to meet you, Cache. Let me show you into town. I’m a barmaid in the tavern there, if you need a room for the night.”

He followed her, and accepted her kindness in silence, for he had not a penny on him. She promised to introduce him to other heroes in the morning, who could help him find work.

Oh to be a poet...

My students have started working on poetry. It amazes me that despite the uniform dismay that an announcement of poetry brings, there is so much engaged interest once you begin. It does help to remember that poetry is still alive and kicking in the form of music and rap.

Along that line, I thought I would share a piece of my own poetry that isn't posted on the website:

The Silent Hunter

Over the hill,
Silent and still,
Stalked the lonely hunter.

"Pale-faced skin,"
Said the Indian,
As he laid his eyes upon her.

Her mind heaven-sent,
Her heart innocent,
She bathed in the pool by the falls.

The knife in his hand
Was stayed by the man,
Who lived inside his heart walls.

His mission to kill
Had left his will;
No longer burned the fire.

He turned his back,
And walked the track,
Alone, through the woods of desire.

A Writer... in theory

I'm supposed to be a writer, but I haven't posted much about writing, either the craft or any actual writings. Part of that has been the press of work this year; my "free" time has been quite limited, and usually stolen in secret. It occurred to me this past week, however, that as a writer, my blog should have some writing in it. Since fiction comes easier than reality anyway, at least for me, I have decided that I want to have more writing on the blog. So, you can now look forward to reading some writings here. Some may be extra stories from novels that won't appear in the actual work, such as character backgrounds, cut chapters, or extra scenes. Others will be random short pieces that were just something I felt like playing with that week. I do hope you enjoy them, and as always, I welcome commentary!


Miracle Johnson sighed and slumped lower in her desk. She wrinkled her nose as her knee encountered someone's long forgotten chewing gum. It may actually be hers from first semester, she realized, and chose to ignore it. She curled a lock of purple hair around her finger. It wasn't all purple. Most of it was jet black. The right side had streaks of purple; the left had streaks of bright green.

Her eyes flicked up as the teacher called her name. He wanted an answer to something on the board. He had erased most of the board and started over since she last was paying attention. She shrugged and waited for him to give up hope on getting an answer from her. Eventually, he moved on.

She fingered the edge of the old textbook. Every page had some sort of doodle or writing on it. She'd checked. She'd found a few that had escaped notice, but she'd fixed those herself. The cover of the text was faded and scarred, but even if it had been new, it would have been boring. The children smiling up from the hard cover looked foolish. One of them now sported horns. The other two had blacked out teeth and goatees.

Miracle looked out the window near her desk. Outside looked so much nicer than in this dusty, old, boring classroom. A dungeon would look nicer than this classroom. At least more interesting, anyway, she thought. The wall clock clicked as the teacher continued to ramble on. There was a stain high on the wall above the chalkboard. She often fantasized that it was a bloodstain. That some student had finally had enough and decided to end class early. A flicker of a smile crossed her face. Maybe this guy was actually a zombie. That might even make him halfway cool.

"Remember, everyone, test tomorrow on levitation." The class groaned as expected; Miracle didn't waste her breath. "Also, your projects on magical jinxes are due on Friday."

She sighed again. She hadn't even started hers yet. Why did she have to suffer these boring classes when the real world was just right outside?

Workaholic: disease or superpower?

Today, I find myself home sick, and, curiously, feeling guilty at not being super productive with my time. After taking care of the kids this morning, and getting them to their proper places, I came home and fell back into bed, sleeping until a little before noon. Clearly I needed it; that isn't a usual practice of mine. Nevertheless, I feel guilty that I have not used this "free time" effectively. I should be lesson planning, writing a test, preparing materials, organizing last minute details for the show in a couple of weeks, working on Slave Princess, or at the very least doing housework! (I did just unload and reload the dishwasher, for the record.)

My wife made a point about that feeling: what would I tell her if it were reversed? Naturally, I replied with the correct answer.

"But you are a princess; you are supposed to be pampered!"

Despite her royal condition, she made me think. Were she feeling ill and home, and doped up on NyQuil, would I encourage her to telecommute and work anyway? Or insist that she relax and take it easy, in order to get well? Certainly, I would insist she relax. When I try to tell myself that, though, I hear a host of complaints in my head. There is so MUCH work to do! I am always feeling short on time; how dare I throw away this discovered full day of opportunity when I could get work done?

I have always considered my brother a workaholic. He always keeps himself busy. I have usually admired that about him. I feel that it has been part of the key to his success. So, I lie here on the couch, tissues at the ready, wrapped in blankets and thoughts and guilt. Work? Not work? Work on writings? Work on school (the paying gig)? Housework, to help take care of my family? Watch a movie? Plan next year's shows? Read a book? Sleep more? Lazily analyze grades? Go through old emails?

Through all these musings, I end up here, writing my weekly blogpost, and thus accomplishing something afterall.While it is good to be productive, it is also good to relax. There must be a balance. But where is my next step?

Twitter hater

I have a Twitter account. I don't follow anyone. (Technically my wife is marked to follow, but she doesn't post, so it doesn't really count.)  I don't sign in, and I don't "tweet." The very thought of Twitter is just distasteful to me. I'm very aware that this is not a popular opinion. Twits all over the interworld tweet their day away, follow their four thousand Facebook friends, and know exactly what their five favorite celebrities are doing every ten minutes.

Without being a twit myself, I feel a little presumptuous talking about it. Maybe it isn't really fair to criticize something you haven't tried, but if I really believed that, I wouldn't be able to advise you not to set yourself on fire, and how dare I refuse to do drugs.
I base my dislike of Twitter on two things. One, the vast majority of "tweets" that get tweeted are inane, pointless trash. I love Nickelback's music, but I don't know them personally, and I don't care what time they go to bed, what they ate for breakfast, or which if them is fighting over some groupie chick. I definitely don't want to know about Ozzy Osborne's stomach flu. (Got to lay off the bats, man.) However, at least part of that is our society's  obsession with celebrities, which I also don't grok. 

My other problem with tweeting is that this service is encouraging our society to communicate in 160 character messages. We already have problems teaching people to communicate in complete sentences. This is only going to compound the problem. There have been numerous studies about tv watching and how it impairs the development of people's attention spans. The same thing is happening with language. Twitter is contributing to the degradation of our ability to communicate well.  

I do realize that not every Twit falls into these traps, but so many do, that I don't get the appeal. 

The Writer's Ideas

As a writer, ideas come from everywhere, all the time. Ideas for plots, world creations, characters, phrases, settings, you name it. It's a natural trait for writers, I think, to have their mind constantly trying to tell stories, looking for new stories, and putting together the pieces.

Earlier this week, I watched The Time Traveler's Wife with my wife, who has read the book. (great movie, and apparently, an even better book. I highly recommend them.) The moment the movie was finished, my mind was figuring out how to write a sequel to it called The Time Traveler's Daughter. (Ms. Neffenegger, if you read this and are interested in my ideas, let me know! :) ) Earlier today, my wife and I were talking about some random something, and she quoted a verse that got my brain kicking and out comes a wonderful concept for a multi-world creation that will be really fun to play with, when I get around to it.

That particular idea is what brings me to this post. Sitting at the table, laughing and discussing the idea over a pizza, she recommends I make notes, as we talk, on my iPod Touch, as I often do with ideas that I might be interested in dealing with, but don't have time for right now. (That would be pretty much all of them.) I delayed, concerned of getting pizza grease on my device, but regretted it later, when I was trying to make the notes and having to ask her what she recalled. I don't think I lost much, but it is an excellent illustration of how important it is to write things like this down. You never know when you will be able to go back and use something.

One of my unfinished novels, Thassodar Jax, which should be next in line after Hero Games (which should be back under way as soon as I finish Slave Princess, which is only a short story), was based almost completely from an image I had of the Texas highway system. I was driving home from class about sunset, and the way the roads lifted and twisted among each other made me think of them as almost organic creations, linear lovers entwined before the setting sun. This, in turn, became the way my protagonist saw the roads, being a stranger and seeing our world in a different way.

Children (my wife says like any man), will repeat behaviors that are validated and praised. Similarly, your mind will continue to search for ideas if you validate the ideas by writing them down for later use. Also, as I tell me students, having a list of ideas of interesting facts can be a life-saver when you're dealing with Writers' Block.

Play Ball!

I've spent every other night this week freezing my butt off at baseball games. My son (10) is playing little league, so we've been attending his preseason tournament. (Game is starting; he's on the bench as I write this. Go Pirates!) This is about the only way you'll catch me watching a baseball game.

I also watched the World Series this year- no wait, wrong sport- we watched the Super Bowl this year, at my in-laws' house. (What in the world were they wearing at half-time? It was cool to see Slash rising up onto the stage, though.) It was a very momentous occasion, for it was the first ever, and probably the last, Superbowl I've watched.

I don't dislike sports. (Oh no, my son just missed a long fly to left field, and the other team, the Nationals, scored two runs.) I played in the student-vs-faculty softball game last year, and in the student-vs-faculty volleyball game this past fall. I've got the scar on my nose to prove it! I like to play sports; I just don't like to watch them.

(Bottom of the 1st: 3-0 'Nats' in the lead.) I've never comprehended the appeal of watching someone else have fun. Let's compare: the fan is sitting on a hard, wooden/metal bench, often in less-than-ideal temperatures. (Yes! First run of the game for the Pirates! Way to go, kids.) The Player, on the other hand, is running around, part of a team, enjoying the sunshine if warm, warming up through activity if cool, confronting and surmounting challenges. It just seems like that's a better deal to me. I don't see the fun in sitting on an uncomfortable bench for a couple of hours watching other people run around and play.

(Top of the 2nd inning done: 3-2 Nats in the lead.) Think about this: when you were a little kid and had recess, one of the most horrible punishments available was sitting on the bench beside the teacher watching the other kids play. That was absolutely cruel and inhumane torture. (No! NO! Argh! Nationals just turned a single into homerun through a series of Pirate errors!) How dare they prevent your from playing with your friends! Can you even imagine a kid sitting on the bench beside the teacher, watching recess: "Come on, Bobby, go for the jungle gym. Yeah, yeah! Swing, Susie, Swing! Run for it, Johnny! Oh no, Smelly Johnson tagged him! It's ok, next time, Johnny. Way to go, 4th grade, way to go! Whoop, whoop! Hey Teach, can you get me a Dodger Dog?" He'd be in the counselor's office for the rest of the day.

And yet, (9-2 Nats, Pirates are up to bat.) we grow up and not only do we sit on the bench and cheer for the ones playing, but we PAY for the privilege to do so! (Oh, the umpire reversed a call. Score is 8-2 Nationals.) To top that off, we don't even know the people playing. They aren't our friends, or coworkers, or family. (My boy's up to bat!
-Ouch, he struck out. He's having a rough night.) So we pay to watch people we don't even know play a game. When did this go from being punishment to a national past-time? What is the appeal of being a spectator? You get none of the glory, none of the exercise, none of the team camaraderie, although that one apparently, people grab onto anyway, despite not being on the team. (Phew! Pirates are fighting back! Top of the third: 8-7, Nats only leading by one run!)

Looking at our society, sports are a major part of it. Mostly, however, watching it, not playing it. We have a culture of spectators instead of players. (Wow! Pirates back at bat, and no runs for the Nats! Great job, boys!) Why do we prefer to sit on our collective backsides and cheer on other people being alive? Why do so many choose to pay big bucks to eat hot dogs and peanuts watching a game instead of playing one of their own? (My son just got walked to 1st base. Good eye, son! Now the bases are loaded, no outs, score is 8-9 and the Pirates are in the lead!)



Then, on top of that, we have people making their living telling the spectators what they are watching! Sports Commentators have become huge. I'm not talking about the size of their very useful rear ends. The public is sitting on the bench, watching the game. They aren't doing anything else, and they are fans of the game, presumably, so why do they need someone to explain the action? (Top of the 4th, 8-12 Pirates!)

Apparently, the public is in too poor shape to play, and too stupid to understand what they are watching. Thus we need professional players for people to live vicariously, and announcers to help explain who is winning. Whatever happened to the simple, childhood joy of just playing ball? Of getting out in the sun and being active, of playing for yourself and the joy of the game?

Game over! 10-12 Pirates WIN! Time to go home and celebrate the exciting game I just watched. I don't object to the joys of spectators; I just don't understand them. Maybe I'll try to work a sports fan into my writing, just for the challenge. And maybe my character will teach me something.