Worldbuilding Revisited, Internal Logic

This is an old post from my blog, originally shared in the eon past of 2016. It was apart of a short lived worldbuilding series I did. Looking back, I have mixed feelings on some of the entries I wrote, but feel this one holds up. Anyone who’s been writing SFF likely won’t find anything new here, but I like to revisit the basics every now and then.

An important caveat about the original worldbuilding series, but also with anything that orbits writing advice:

This series was about the things that I've learned, or am learning, about worldbuilding. It's me trying to level up my craft, and documenting the process. These posts represent my personal approach to worldbuilding, and the way I do it might not be right for you. I'm not an authority on writing, and so everything in these posts should be taken with not only a grain of salt, but a heaping bucket of saline.

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Worldbuilding, Internal Logic

Can the manticore bite through steel? Does the dragon’s fire melt stone? What happens when someone gets hit with those mage fireballs? Any piece of fiction that has fantastical, sci-fi, superhero, or any variation of those elements needs to have consistent internal logic. It’s the thing that keeps us, the audience, rooted in the world even though Strongman is swinging a bus like a baseball bat. 

I see internal logic as the rules of your world. If you have a fireball flinging mage, then the damage of their fireballs should be consistent. That way the reader knows that when the fireball hits a wooden shield it’ll char it, but if it hits a steel shield it won’t do any damage. Things like that, that remain consistent throughout the story, are what help keep the reader immersed in the world. If the fireball doesn’t do anything to a wooden shield, but turns a steel one into a pile of molten goop, that takes me out of the story because it doesn’t seem to make sense without an added explanation. If later in the story the fireball turns a wooden beam to ash, then I’ll start to think the writer doesn’t have any internal rules that govern the mage’s fireballs, making it hard for me to get into the story because it feels like there’s no consistency.

I’m using things mostly associated with fantasy as examples, but this really applies to any kind of story. It can be extended to all kinds of things in a whole variety of genres, from character traits, to tools, sci-fi gadgets, or even laws and the consistency with which they’re enforced. When any kind of “rule” is introduced to your world, you should stick to the general parameters of that “rule” throughout the story.

Rules could be things like:

The fireball cannot melt metal

The comm-link requires wifi access

The yeti needs to eat, like, a *lot* of food daily 

And so on. The rules can be loose, or more like guidelines that can be bent this way or that, but in general there should be some consistency to their implementation. Maybe the mage fireballs can only melt metal if their being cast by an elder mage. That would be a good way to bend the rule, or add an addendum to it. 

And I prefer to know the limitations of these abilities or powers. It makes it easier to build the world around them, to know how they would act in most scenarios. It feels like you’ve laid out your tools, and now it’s just a matter of how you want to use them.

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Does it hold up?

I think the idea outlined here is solid enough. I will say that the bounds of how magic works in your world can be bent and molded however you want. How stringently you want to adhere to consistency might also change whether you have a soft or hard magic system. Although, I’d ere on the side of caution with letting a soft magic system be an excuse for excessive leniency. I think there should still be limits understood by your readers. If vaguely understood magic keeps solving problems, then the conflicts presented to your characters will feel lackluster and their solutions unsatisfying.

Anyway, I’m still learning. So take this all with a grain salt.

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Darkest Dungeon and Narrative Context

Darkest Dungeon is the best game I’ve played that doesn’t have a plot, and yet has a story. It’s a peculiar distinction to make, but it’s the only way I can think to describe how Darkest Dungeon’s narrative and themes are laced throughout every aspect of the game, without having a point A to point B plot.

Darkest Dungeon is layered in a gothic Lovecraftian aesthetic. You find yourself pitted against tentacled horrors and warped pigmen. The whole game has an oppressive feel, bearing down on you with inescapable hopelessness. It’s phenomenal. This is all communicated with an amazing mix of art and sound that comes together to create a vivid experience.

The final knot that hold the whole experience together, is the ancestor’s voice over.

Conflict and Tragedy

The ancestor’s voice over narrates the entire game, from combat, to the Hamlet (the game’s hub town), and all the little pieces of exposition we’re fed over the course of the game. It’s a low, pained tone that haunts us as we try and clean up the ancestor’s failings.

Darkest Dungeon is inextricably tied to the ancestor’s actions. We see the remnants of his dark rituals, grotesque experiments, and disregard for the townsfolk who were his charge. Each dungeon, each boss, and every broken thing about the Hamlet is the ancestor’s fault.

This is where conflict and tragedy intersect, rooted throughout the game’s design. Each boss is tied to the ancestor’s actions. When you enter a boss dungeon, the ancestor narrates a snippet of that boss’s history. They are always created by the ancestor. A problem that was the result of his greed. And you are there to clean up, throwing body after body at horrors to fix his mess.

In time, you will know the tragic extent of my failings...

—Ancestor

The ancestor starts in a position of power. A leader of vague title to the surrounding town. He’s wealthy and wants for nothing. But then his greed and selfish fascination with the Darkest Dungeon drives him to more extreme actions, until his end (this is all shown in the opening cutscene). Which is when the player, as the descendant, enters a derelict and broken Hamlet.

The ancestor starts as a powerful leader, but we enter after the tragedy, when he has already brought himself low and expired from this world. The ruins of the Hamlet, the dangers of the dungeons, are all that’s left of him. And it is all failure.

The minute to minute gameplay is laced with this subtext. Every raised undead and grotesquely summoned monster is reinforcing the ancestors actions. He may be gone, but his failings haunt us. The player is partaking in the tragedy, at the very tail end of it, by throwing heroes into the fray. And our frustration, either when a leveled up hero dies, or we run out of gold, its all part of the hopelessness that hangs over the Hamlet. All initiated by the ancestor. His actions still affecting us.

Plot vs Story

I wouldn’t say Darkest Dungeon has a plot. It may be possible to very loosely apply the boss encounters and build-up to the final dungeon on a plotline, but that feels like a stretch. Really, the game is about grinding out levels while partaking in the gothic fantasy atmosphere. But there is still a story.

The discussion of what plot versus story is can get convoluted, it depends on who you ask. In this context, I separate plot as being the story beats that make the backbone of a narrative. Hero leaves town, meets mentor, encounters villain, climbs Mt. Doom, etc. But lacks all the characterization, worldbuilding, and atmosphere that makes a story complete. The two are so intertwined that is makes sense to not break them apart outside of noodly conversation around narrative.

For games though, the way stories are presented can be very different than other media. Darkest Dungeon might not have the player following a clear route through a plotline, but it’s still enmeshed in story. The narrative permeates every aspect of gameplay. Heroes permadeath frustrates us, makes us angry or hopeless, even feeling like we wasted our time. The background sounds, especially when the torch is at 0%, evoke horrors just beyond our sight. And all of this, the reason we’re sending heroes to die in nightmare wrought landscapes, is because of the ancestor’s actions.

The game design is the narrative. Grinding levels is part of the conflict, a result of the ancestor’s tragedy. One the player strives to push against, despite the consequences of our predecessor’s actions constantly bearing down on us. Each dungeon run has narrative conflict rooted in its foundation, and supports the ancestor’s tragedy. The narrative and game design are so expertly interwoven that it creates an amazing experience. There’s no part of Darkest Dungeon that feels out of place.

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If you can’t tell, I’ve been playing a lot of Darkest Dungeon lately. I went through the same stages many players do, where at first I got incredibly frustrated, considered dropping it, but then ended up hooked. It’s a peculiar game that can shift from infuriating to comforting once you learn the tactics to deal with each enemy type. But I was particularly struck by how the narrative is tied to the gameplay, it really is phenomenal.

If you haven’t tried it, and you like the sound of a turn-based rogue-like, then I highly recommend Darkest Dungeon.

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Worldbuilding Part 6: Nothing Matters Until You Make it Matter

Pages upon pages of worldbuilding notes, noble lineages, shifting political landscapes, it doesn’t matter.

Until you make it matter.

I’m always reluctant to start worldbuilding before I’ve started to write the story. All the bloody tears that went into that world can be erased with one wayward line of dialogue. I could always rewrite that line, but is that the right decision?

Sometimes the worldbuilding is wrong. Being beholden to a document isn’t the way to write a story. Instead, the story should dictate the worldbuilding. There has to be malleability to my worlds, there has to be room to move the pieces, realign the axis, erase an ancient king from its history.

What I’m getting at is that all the history and trade routes and political systems don’t matter until you make them matter. If it’s not on the printed page, then it’s on the chopping block. It can be changed, erased, altered, or never even see the tail end of a blinking cursor.

In this case, I think there’s a detriment to being over prepared. The story and characters should always come first, and the worldbuilding second. Being beholden to a worldbuilding doc is setting up a series of hurdles in front of your story. 

I say chuck it all and dive into the story, let the worldbuilding come after.

Edit (February 25, 2019): This series is about the things that I've learned, or am learning, about worldbuilding. It's me trying to level up my craft, and documenting the process. These posts represent my personal approach to worldbuilding, and the way I do it might not be right for you. I'm not an authority on writing, and so everything in these posts should be taken with not only a grain of salt, but a heaping bucket of saline.

Worldbuilding Part 5: Smoke and Mirrors

Implication makes your world feel vast and complicated. It paints images in the reader’s periphery, giving them an idea—a generalization—that’s just enough to fill in the blanks without spelling out the exact formula.

It’s smoke and mirrors, hand puppets making shadowy shapes on the wall. That’s the Imperiator’s Sanitarium, and you never want to go there. Why? Because we’ve seen someone refer to it with fear, or maybe someone who went in came out different. We don’t know what the Imperiator is doing in there, and we don’t need to. All we need to know is that it’s bad.

That’s just one example, but there are tons of other ways you can fill out your world using little details—each one hinting at the wider world without explicitly saying it.

An organic world has constants that affect all its denizens. These are things like trade, religious institutions, markets, etc. These elements can be littered throughout your world and have small levels of influence on your characters. This will imply that there’s a larger organic world, one that has its own ebb and flow outside of your narrative. This can be done with little bits of detail sprinkled throughout your story. A mention of trade routes, or how two different people view a religious institution, little moments that not only build character but fill out your world.

Keeping details vague can make your world feel bigger. Give them just enough to fill in the blanks, a few guideposts here and there will allow them to populate the roads with their own speculations. If we look at the above example, the Imperiator’s Sanitarium, we don’t need to know what they’re doing in there. Long descriptions of their experiments/torture/whatever will narrow the walls of your reader’s view. They’ll feel boxed in, and everything will start to lose its sense of scale. Leaving things vague, only giving hints of what happens in the Sanitarium and showing the consequences, gives room for the reader to fill in the blanks with their imagination.

The key is to convince the reader that there’s a whole lot of shit happening behind the scenes that they don’t know about. There should always be a sense that there’s more to learn, more to discover.

Small street level elements can add a lot as well. Things like magic lanterns, the way buildings look, or those crow/rat hybrids that are all over the city. This can take pre-established worldbuilding elements and show the readers how they’re integrated into the world. Necromancy is cool when the secretive underground cult is chanting and ohming, but it can also be dotted throughout the world. Maybe detectives raise the dead to ask them questions, or people make a wish when they see a roving spirit. Really, these elements can be integrated any way you like, but having them be constant, as well as showing how they affect the grander world—not just your plot—goes a long way in making the world feel expansive.

The local lingo can show how your world grew organically. If your denizens worship a fire god, then maybe they shout burn me! as an expletive. Language can play a huge role in cementing the believability of your world. The names of people and places should have a sense that they share an etymology, or if they don’t then maybe that’s also a worldbuilding element. If all the people/locations have monosyllabic names like Grot, Kur, Fin, and so on, when Ezekael shows up, we know he’s a stranger from a foreign land.

But don’t go overboard with made-up words, they should be sprinkled throughout the story. Too much all over the place can make your story unreadable (Mad Max gets away with this, but its lingo fits into the degraded sanity of the wasteland).

These are just a few ways to make your world feel big. Each, on its own, seemingly a little detail, but together they create a cohesive and evocative image. Give them try and let me know how it turns out!

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This worldbuilding series is less a how-to and more a way for me to try and figure out the big messy process of creating secondary worlds. Check out Worldbuilding Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

Edit (February 25, 2019): This series is about the things that I've learned, or am learning, about worldbuilding. It's me trying to level up my craft, and documenting the process. These posts represent my personal approach to worldbuilding, and the way I do it might not be right for you. I'm not an authority on writing, and so everything in these posts should be taken with not only a grain of salt, but a heaping bucket of saline.

The Book of Jewels

Illustration by Monica G. Cabral | twitter | tumblr | Instagram |

I wrote this short story a little over a year ago. Then, I didn't really have any intentions on what to do with it. All I knew was that I had come up with this fantasy world and I wanted to write something in it. Enter Hrusk, the half-orc half-gnome ass kicker. (I also have a rough novella with her has the protagonist.) 

This world, at the moment referred to as Aftania, is my own version of orcs, gnomes, and elves. I came around to this late, I think most fantasy writers probably start with the elves, get it out of their system, and then transition to more creative stuff. I did the reverse, writing weird shit before I decided "fuck it," I wanted to write about orcs. Some of the worldbuilding elements have changed since I wrote The Book of Jewels, but I've decided to upload it warts and all. Hopefully, you'll see more of Hrusk in the future.

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The orc punched Hrusk in the face.

Roll with the punch.

“Half-breed’s got nothing clever to say now?” He jabbed her in the gut.

Groan, make them think it hurts.

The orcs tossed her against the wall, and the biggest most tattooed of them leaned forward and said, “we don’t want to see you around here again. Ever.”

Avert your eyes, make them think you’re scared.

They sauntered off, seeming real proud of themselves.

Hrusk spat blood onto the alleyway’s cobbles. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and then felt her ribs. Nothing was broken. She rolled her tongue around her tusks, both still there. Hrusk crouched near the opposite wall and searched the grime crusted cobbles. There it is. A key, covered in small markings, which she managed to swipe from one of the orcs. They hadn’t even noticed as she tossed it to the side.       

This better be worth it.

She walked into the street and pulled up her hood. The people here were packed shoulder to shoulder. She sidestepped a bushy bearded gnome, and shouldered past a giant beetle who warbled a complaint at her. She averted her gaze from a pack of orcs, muscular and hairless with black pupilless eyes, and ducked under a floating cart. Its levitation sigils warm on her skin. She came face-to-face with an armastoat, who snorted snot onto her and then licked it off. A moment later its handler cracked a whip and the stoat lumbered on hauling the cart at its back.

Hrusk squeezed her way to a side street that led to the Teal district. It stunk of rotted meat. She checked the dagger at her waist and laid a hand on the pommel of her sword. This was one of the places in the city of Aftan that few wanted to be in. The tenements were made of rotted wood and cracked bricks. She rounded a corner and found herself walking in the space between two tenements, barely wide enough for her to fit. There were a lot of shadowed corners someone could disappear into. One bad job for the wrong kind of people and Hrusk would find herself in one of those nooks. She didn’t like the Teal district.    

A man with a golden beard and long matted hair slumped against a wall with a canteen in his hand. Even in that position Hrusk could tell he was tall and lanky, and the pointed ears added to the effect.

Hrusk kicked him, and he looked up at her, his face angular, his nose hawkish, and his eyes a vibrant blue.

“Hello Ellbrim, I got what you wanted.” Hrusk tossed the key into his lap.

Ellbrim rolled it between his fingers, took a swig from his canteen, and said, “well, shit. I didn’t think you could do it.”

“I’ve been dealing with orc gangs ever since I can remember. I barely broke a sweat.” One of her bruises radiated a dull ache.

 Ellbrim rose from his place, making sure to secure his canteen on a loop at his belt, and began to lead Hrusk deeper into the Teal district. All five feet of her had to look upward to see his face. It was hard to believe that this ragged elf had once been a renowned incanter. His faded red waistcoat with dangling threads made him look like a vagabond.

Ellbrim kept taking swigs from his canteen. He staggered once, leaned against a wall, and then regained himself. She’d done jobs for him before, and when he promised a payout he was good for it. Even if the job ended in a maelstrom of spectral fire.

Ellbrim stopped before a dilapidated tenement missing four of its walls and all of its roof. Ellbrim stepped over the rubble into the building. Hrusk chuckled as she walked through the only standing door.

“You needed a key for this place?” Hrusk said.

Ellbrim held the key pointed downward between his forefinger and thumb. “The key is sigiled, though I doubt the orcs knew that.” The key moved slightly as Ellbrim paced through the tenement. “The best place to hide a secret is where no one will look for it.”

Brilliant.

“Here,” the key in Ellbrim’s hand vibrated from an unseen force. “Tear up these floorboards. Now.”

Hrusk sauntered forward, “take it easy with the commands and the ‘now.’” Hrusk jammed her dagger between the floorboards and pried them up. She looked into the opening to see solid steel. “Well shit. There is something here.” She pulled up the rest of the floorboards to reveal a steel door. It was covered in sigils similar to those on the key, and had no hinges or keyholes. “And how does this thing open up?”

Ellbrim let go of the key and it hovered above the steel plate. With a few whispered words, a motion of his hands, and a spark of blue light, it began to lower. Jagged sigils glowed when it touched the steel plate, and the key melted into the steel. There was a grinding noise, and the plate dissipated. A cloud of gray-blue mist rose around them. Hrusk batted her hand in front of her face.

Ellbrim bowed, “after you.”

“What’s down there?”

“An ancient temple to a forgotten god.”

That was never good. “What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

Ellbrim shrugged. “There will be gems and jewels, enough to pay you what I promised twice over.”

Hrusk was getting that festering feeling in the pit of her stomach. An ambiguous incanter and an ancient temple never went well together. But temples were notorious for being lavish. She inclined her head toward the opening, “pointy ears first.”

Ellbrim extended his hands as if to say “as you wish” and descended the stair. Hrusk followed. The stair led far beneath Aftan. It spiraled around a thick column. The stair led into a long hall with unused lanterns hanging from the walls. Ellbrim snapped his fingers as they passed these and each one burst to life with green fire. They came to a grand chamber, and her eyes widened. Gems. A lot of fucking gems. They lined the walls, embedded in the stone to make murals and frescoes. Even the pillars were covered in rubies and sapphires. Jewel encrusted serpents spiraled up the pillars. 

Ellbrim marched into the chamber.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

He spun on a heel and raised his hands to take in the whole chamber. “What’s it matter, look at all this. Start taking as much as you can carry. It’s your reward.” And he turned his back to her.

Hrusk drew her dagger and started popping jewels out of the walls. She stuffed as many as she could into her satchel, all the while keeping an eye on Ellbrim. There was so much here, her gaze travelled along the walls and ceilings. If no one else knew of this place, she could live like a king, coming back to harvest it all. But Ellbrim knew of it. She didn’t even like elves.

Hrusk shook those thoughts from her mind. Don’t go to that dark place. You’re better than that.

Hrusk made for the door. She glanced over her shoulder. In the center of the far wall was a massive serpent statue coiled in on itself. It was covered in crimson and amber jewels, and its maw was closed. Ellbrim raised his hands above his head, and spoke in a language Hrusk didn’t recognize. The air around him went muddy, and the serpent’s head rose. It brought its great head back, opened its maw, and slammed down on Ellbrim. Its maw closed over the elf, and then it returned to its resting position. Ellbrim was gone. No blood, no fabric, not even scuff marks on the tiled floor.

Hrusk knew enough about incanters and gods to turn her back on the temple. A small part of her was curious as to what she had just witnessed, but she buried that part, along with the entrance to the temple. She heaped broken beams and mounds of bricks over the entranceway to make sure no one else found it. Maybe she’d come back later for more gemstone. For now, she was going to get out of the Teal district.

***

Hrusk spent her gems all over the city of Aftan. She had gone from tavern to tavern gulping as much ale as she could and getting thrown into the street for being too rowdy. She was half asleep, her face pressed against slimy cobbles, when two bugmen approached her.

“You the half-orc half-gnome?” One of them warbled at her through its face mandibles.

When Hrusk gave a groan for an answer the second one, which looked like a hunched over beetle, said, “what else would she be? Look at her.”

The bugman’s tone roused Hrusk, and she stumbled to her feet. “Whadya sez?” She fumbled at the hilt of her sword but couldn’t get it free.

Each bugman grabbed one of her arms and started dragging her through the back alleys of Aftan. By the time Hrusk was regaining herself she was against a dead end wall facing three figures. Two were the ant and beetle bugmen, and the third was a man in a thick cloak with his hood drawn. She could see a tangled white beard spilling out of the hood. Symbols around his eye emanated a muted glow. Sigils?.  

“You are Hrusk?” The man said.

She nodded.

“I need to ask you about the Teal District.”

She didn’t answer.

“Rumor is a half-orc half-gnome was seen with an elf named Ellbrim. Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

The man raised a hand from within his cloak and snapped his fingers. A circle of red lightning surrounded Hrusk. “Wrong answer. What did Ellbrim show you in the Teal district?”

“Nothing.”

He snapped his fingers again and the circle of lightning tightened. She could feel its heat on her legs, and the crackling made her ears ring.  

Two four-armed bugmen and an incanter, the odds weren’t in her favor. Bide my time.

“Temple,” Hrusk submitted. “A temple.”

“Good. What kind of temple?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. Let him think her ignorant. The circle of lightened edged closer. “There were jewels everywhere, and snakes. That’s all I saw.”    

A smile played on the man’s lips. “Good, good. Now, you’re going to show me where it is. And remember, if you try anything clever, I’ll end you.”

She nodded.

The lightning faded, and Hrusk remembered to breath. I’ll run you through, old man. A set of insectoid hands took the sword and dagger at her hip, and then pushed her forward.

“Walk,” the ant one said.

Hrusk decided to take the long way to the Teal District.      

She came to learn that the ant was named Kank and the beetle was named Bamb. The old man said nothing other than “keep walking.”

Hrusk figured she could take down one of the bugs, maybe both if she managed to pry her weapons from them, but the old man at her back was a problem.

Carbun Avenue came into sight, dense with Aftan citizens. Hrusk led them as near as she dared. Her foot struck out, and Bamb’s knee twisted at an awkward angle. The beetle let out a warbled cry of pain. Hrusk tore her arm free of Kank’s grasp and darted into the crowd of Carbun Avenue.

She shouldered past a gnome, who went toppling into a human, who knocked down three other people. Bamb and Kank warbled at her, and a quick glance showed them charging into the crowd. They stumbled and shoved the confused onlookers out of their way. Hrusk ducked under a floating cart, pressed her hands to its bottom, and heaved. The levitation sigils groaned as the cart tipped. They couldn’t support the cart at a lopsided angle, and it fell with a crash, spilling cabbages and grains into the street.

Everyone in the street stared at the overturned cart and the two bugmen that clambered over it. Two orcs drew Hrusk’s eye. One had a myriad of tattoos across his body, it was the orc she’d stolen the key from. Hrusk dashed toward him, the bugmen on her heels. Too late the orc saw her fist streaking toward his face. The impact resounded with a meaty thud. Hrusk managed a quick “fucker” before sidestepping the stunned orc and barreling into the crowd. The bugmen collided with the orcs and they all tumbled into a heap of flailing limbs.

Hrusk darted into an alley. The tumult of the crowd faded as she dashed away. The alley opened onto a narrow street. Just as she rounded a corner, something grasped her leg. Off balance, she stumbled to the ground. The pressure writhed up her legs and to her abdomen. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and something hissed, its tongue licking her ear.

A red scaled snake coiled around her. The old man loomed over her. He spoke a strange language, and the snake tightened.  

“Now,” the old man said through clenched teeth, “you’re not going to do that again.” With a word the snake raised Hrusk to her feet.  “We’re going to the Teal District, and you’re showing me to that doorway. Or—“ the snake tightened and twisted as he spoke that strange tongue. “Do you understand?”

Hrusk nodded.

Bamb and Kank came stumbling into the street.

“Bind her hands, and make sure she doesn’t get away this time,” the old man said.

The bugmen tied her hands and then each grabbed one of her arms. The old man exhaled, and the red serpent dissipated.    

***

The Teal district, cracked and crumbling. Hrusk led the way to the fallen temple. She cursed Ellbrim, wherever he was.

When they found the dilapidated building, Hrusk took a step back and pointed her chin to the mound of rubble. “Under there,” she said.

Bamb pushed her aside and began hefting shattered stone and splintered wood to reveal the passage below.

The old man’s eyes were fixed on the dimly lit stair. Without looking at Hrusk, he said, “kill her.”

The abruptness of it made her heart leap. Kank drew his four blades and marched toward her. Hrusk backed away, arms bound and her weapons at the bugman’s hip. Kank leaped at her. Hrusk sidestepped the blow. Kank reeled on her and unleashed a flurry of whirling limbs. Hrusk ducked and dodged as best she could. So many damn arms. Kank thrust, Hrusk sidestepped it and clamped her jaws down hard on his wrist. She twisted her head and tasted bitter ichor. Kank let out a warbled cry as she spat out his hand. Hrusk lunged, pulling her sword free from Kank’s hip. Kank reeled, and she thrust with her blade, burying it deep into Kank’s chest. Green ichor pulsed from the wound, and Kank fell to the ground convulsing.

The old man and Bamb were gone. They’d underestimated her. She’d never have a better time to get away. But Ellbrim could be down there. She shooed away the thought. Let them shit fire on each other. Not my problem. She took a step away from the doorway. He’s probably drunk off his ass. A flicker of light came from the passage, it shone a faint green. It’s two against one. Ellbrim was supposed to be powerful. Drunk and out of practice. Hrusk turned toward the passage. She told herself this was to get revenge on the old man, not because she was worried about the elf. She grabbed her dagger from Kank’s corpse and made her way down the passage.

The lanterns Ellbrim had lit still shone, and she could see Bamb the beetle and the old man entering the jeweled chamber. She kept near the shadows as she moved closer. Take out the old man first, and then the beetle will be easy.

The old man and Bamb were standing before the great jeweled serpent. Hrusk pressed her body close to one of the grand hall’s pillars. The old man raised his hands and spoke in that unfamiliar language. The jeweled serpent came to life, opened its great maw, struck forward, and swallowed them both.

Hrusk waited a few moments and watched the jeweled serpent. The hall was quiet, and the statue made no further movements. Hrusk walked up to the jeweled serpent, sword and dagger in hand, and stared at it for a time. It didn’t move nor did it show any signs of life. She tapped her pommel against the statue’s body. Nothing.

She climbed it, hauling herself over the thick coils of its body until she was beside its head. She tried to pry the mouth open, but it wouldn’t move. She tapped her pommel along its neck, and it resounded with a hollow ringing. Using the pommel of her sword she struck at the serpent’s neck. Jewels fell to the ground and a crack formed where she had struck it. Again and again she slammed the steel of her pommel into the statue until chunks began to fall away and she could feel the soft caress of air on her skin. She pulled and pried at the hole, kicking pieces inward and forcing it wider and wider until she could fit through it. She climbed into the serpent’s gullet and had to crouch low to keep her head from striking the smooth stone above her.

She tripped and went tumbling down the tunnel. She careened down a spiraling tunnel, deeper and deeper, until tumbled onto stone.

What she saw was a palace. With domed spires and sprawling walls, it was a massive complex hidden in a large cavern. Green flame shimmered in lanterns. The palace was covered in jewels, but at the center of palisades, arching bridges, and huge towers were gem stones the size of horses. Hrusk had never seen anything like it.

She stood in the palace courtyard bathed in spectral green light. This first courtyard led to another wall, likely made to keep ancient armies out, and as she passed through the gate she froze in place. Lying on the tiles of an inner courtyard was Bamb’s body littered with arrows.

She pressed close to the doorway with her sword drawn and scanned the surrounding parapets and towers. She couldn’t see anyone.

She found her way through the first courtyard and up a stair to the parapets, from there a door led into a tower, up a stair, and to the top that was connected to an arching bridge that led from tower to tower.

A stooped humanoid figure stood motionless on the bridge, bow in hand. Hrusk stepped forward. The statue’s head whipped around to face her, symbols carved into it shone to life, and an arrow shattered on the wall beside Hrusk’s head. She barreled forward. The thing knocked an arrow and fired again, nicking her shoulder. Before it could knock a third Hrusk was on it and swung, gripping her sword two-handed, and shattered its chest like porcelain. It made a sound like grinding stone, and the myriad of symbols lost their glow.

Automatons. Artificial creatures brought to life with complex sigils. They could “live” for centuries requiring no food or rest. How ever ancient this palace was, it was still protected.

Ellbrim, what were you looking for here? She had a vision of the ragged elf proliferated with arrows. She shook the image from her mind. His body wasn’t in the courtyard with Bamb, which meant he may still be alive.

An arrow sailed past her head nearly clipping her ear. Her gaze found its source, an automaton knocking another arrow on the opposite bridge. She ran for the tower before her, and a dozen arrows clattered to the tiles around her. Automatons appeared in windows and from behind railings. One emerged from the doorway in front of her and let its arrow fly. Hrusk charged.  

It dropped its bow and drew a long rusted sword. Hrusk parried a thrust, sending orange mist into the air. She struck with her dagger. The automaton’s clay chest shattered, gears of tin and copper clanging to the ground as its sigils faded.

Hollow footsteps sounded from the stairs, more were coming for her.

She ran out onto the bridge where four automatons stood shoulder to shoulder, and a quick look over her shoulder showed more crowding the tower stairs. Hrusk wondered if it was too late to start praying to Balael.

Hrusk charged the four in front of her. Her sword swung, and the automaton’s rusted swords bent and shattered from the force. She ducked under a swing and tackled the attacker. With a heave strengthened by her momentum she sent one of the automatons over the bridge’s railing. She whirled in time to catch a broken rusty sword with her dagger, and cleaved through its head with her sword. The broken sigils popped, sizzled, and lost their glow. The automaton collapsed. The final two lumbered forward.  

The others had made their way up the stair and were crowding the bridge. Hrusk was about to turn and run when one of the automatons burst into flame, its porcelain flesh melting away. Another and another caught fire and the flames burned green.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” A voice called from behind her.

Hrusk turned to see an elf with a ragged beard and frayed red overcoat. With a flick of his wrist another automaton burst into flame.

“Ellbrim!”

“Good eye, now hurry up.”

 “Are you going to explain what’s happening?”

“Automatons.”

“Right.”

Ellbrim led her from the tower and they bolted down a spiraling stair to an inner hall. Ellbrim swung the door shut and lowered a heavy iron bar over it.

“Now,” Hrusk said between breaths, “what is going on?”

Ellbrim mopped the sweat from his brow with his coat sleeve. “This is the palace of Orga.”

“You mean the palace?”

“One of her palaces. I came here looking for the Book of Jewels.”

“And that old man?”

“He wants the book.”

“Figures. Who is he?”

“His name is—“

A thunderclap shook the palace. Hrusk glared out a window to a large tower in the palace’s center. Red lightning sparkled in its windows.

“I’m guessing that’s where the book is,” Hrusk said.

“Most likely,” Elbrim brushed his beard. “There are a lot of automatons in there.”

“How much is a lot?”

“A small army kind-of-a-lot.”

“So, we just sit back and let them take care of the old man.”

Another thunderclap and an arc of lightning shot through one of the central tower’s windows. An automaton went spiraling to the ground, shattering into pieces.

Ellbrim was up and running. “We can’t let him get the book!”

Hrusk spat a curse and was sprinting beside Ellbrim a moment later.    

The courtyard was littered with the shattered remnants of automatons.

Hrusk picked up a piece of porcelain, its edges smoking. ”How strong is this guy?”

“Very.”

They bounded up a spiral stair crushing shards of porcelain beneath their boots. He’ll be tired when we get to him.

Two large double doors stood slanted on their hinges. Beyond was a grand hall of jeweled serpentine pillars and marble tiles. In the center stood the old man, hood back revealing his tattooed pate and glimmering eyes. Blood red lightning crackled around his hands. An eight foot tall automaton, nearly half as wide, loomed over the old man. It raised a rusty cleaver, and before it could swing it burst full of lightning. The cleaver fell to the ground as its hand melted, and the automaton turned to a pile of slop.

Ellbrim charged forward, his own hands engulfed in green flames. Hrusk watched as a cascade of green fire and red lightning exploded into the air. Each’s blasts seemed to resound off invisible barriers.

Hrusk made her way around the two. Each of their blows boomed like a thunderclap and shook the palace’s foundations. Jewels clanged to the floor, and tiles cracked from the force.

Within the serpent’s maw sat the Book of Jewels. The serpent statue’s ruby eyes glinted from the reflected light of spectral fire. There’s probably a pressure plate. She flexed her fists, her eyes darting to Ellbrim with each thunderous strike. Or it might breathe fire, spit acid. Ellbrim stumbled, and an arc of lightning singed his overcoat. Balael’s ass.

Hrusk leaped for the book, clutching it as she dove through the serpent's maw. The palace shook, and the sound of grinding stone echoed throughout the chamber. A screeching hiss sent Hrusk reeling. The serpent statue came to life. It slithered to the person in its field of vision, the old man.

He didn’t see what was rising behind him, even as Ellbrim began to back away.

It was at the last moment that he looked over his shoulder, and a primal fear twisted his features. The serpent statue struck with the speed of a viper, cleaving him in two.

The old man’s entrails spilled onto the marble tiles and seeped into cracks and crevasses as the serpent statue shook its head back and forth.

Ellbrim slumped against a pillar, sweat beading his brow and breathing heavy. Hrusk made an involuntary “whoop.” And the serpent’s head snapped around to regard her.

Shit.

Clutching the Book of Jewels close to her, Hrusk ran. Ellbrim staggered after her, struggling to keep up. The serpent statue snaked around pillars, and its bulk scraped and marred the walls of the spiral stairs. It followed them through the courtyard, crashing through walls and crushing still living automatons beneath it. All the while its ruby eyes intent on Hrusk and the Book of Jewels.

“The book,” Ellbrim wheezed. “Give it to me.”

Hrusk tossed him the book, which the elf nearly fumbled. The serpent had caught itself on a narrow corridor, and it was writhing to shake away the wall. Stone fell away from its sides as the corridor distended.

Ellbrim flipped through the books brass pages. Each was inlaid with small sigiled jewels and gemstones that glowed as Ellbrim passed his fingers over them. Hrusk was clutching her sword in both hands.

“Ellbrim, hurry.”

Ellbrim raised his hand, spoke in the language he’d used to enter the palace, and flicked his wrist at Hrusk. Her sword began to glow with white light.

The serpent darted forward in a storm of dust and shattered stone.

“Strike it!” Ellbrim called.

Hrusk raised her sword over her head, and as the serpent descended on her she swung. Sparks flew from where she hit, and chunks of stone fell away from the serpentine statue. Beneath its shattered flesh were slimy red scales. It reared up to strike again. Hrusk cast a glance at Ellbrim, but the elf was half-lidded, fighting to remain conscious.

The serpent struck. Hrusk leaped out of the way, its snout colliding into her side with such force that she went tumbling. Her blade still glowed. The serpent rushed forward. Still on the ground, Hrusk swung a warding blow. The blade’s tip sliced the serpent’s snout, and a series of cracks spider webbed outward. Hrusk scrambled to her feet.

 Ruby eyes glinted, and behind them blinked membranous eyes. It slithered forward, the foundations quaking from its movements, its tongue flicking outward. It lunged, Hrusk dodged to the side. Fangs racked marble. A ruby eye loomed before her. She thrust her sword, ephemeral light pierced through the gemstone to the flesh beneath. The grand serpent reared, maw wide with a silent roar. It thrashed, smashing its head against pillars and walls. The serpent fell, its body stilled, and the light from Hrusk’s sword faded.

She stared for a time before slumping to the ground. A few moments later Ellbrim staggered to her side.

They sat together, regarding the wreckage in silence. She traced the curve or the serpent, and noted the blood pooling beneath its head.

“That book,” Hrusk said. “It’s powerful.”

Ellbrim nodded.

“You could do a lot with that.”

“A lot of bad things.”

“Or good things.”

Ellbrim flipped through the pages, passing his fingers over the jewels. Each glowed as he did so, the sigils carved into them shimmering. He lingered on one longer than all the rest. He threw the book into the air, spoke a few words in that mysterious language, and snapped his fingers. The Book of Jewels was engulfed in flame. Its ashes scattered in the air before it touched the ground.

“Now,” Ellbrim said, “we don’t have to worry about it.”

Gnomes, Big and Small

I’ve had multiple secondary worlds tumbling around inside my head. One of them is Aftania,* a world that is unashamedly inspired by things like Dungeons & Dragons and Warcraft. It features all manner of monstrous creature as well as the expected “races” like elf, human, orc, and gnome.

Absent from this world are Dwarves and Halflings. Anyone that knows me would think the absence of Dwarves was weird, fantasy dwarves are one of my favourite races (coming in close behind orcs). But I decided to condense them all into gnomes. So, gnomes, in the world of Aftania, can be small three-foot humanoids, slightly larger (halfling-size), or burly and wide shouldered with bushy beards like Dwarves. This makes gnomes more similar to humans in that they can be a whole variety of sizes and shapes as oppose to all being made out of the same mold.

It also gives me more freedom to make certain body types and features more common among certain gnomish cultures. Maybe the mountain gnomes to the north are the burly ones, while the gnomes with deep ancestral roots in urban areas are smaller. It allows for a lot more variance.

It bugs me when all of a race are the same. It doesn’t make sense that elves high in the mountains have the exact same culture as the completely disconnected elves on the other side of the continent. Same goes for physique, though I’m not sure if this is a remnant from Tolkien or the influence of video games/pen and paper RPGs.

I’m trying to keep all the things I love about this kind of high fantasy but with a few twists that make it uniquely mine.

*Aftania is actually the name of the largest territory, and is also where the majority of my current stories/characters reside. The planet is referred to as Mo’den (an orcish word), but particularly arrogant Aftanians insist on calling the planet “Aftania.”

Techno Babble and Starkiller Base: How much do we need to know?

I have a love/hate relationship with techno babble. Sometimes, I love it. It can make a story feel smarter and more rooted in reality. Like all that information you’re being bombarded with is saying “this is how it could happen in real life.” But, on the other hand, it can feel cumbersome and dull. The temporal capaci-what is going to do the thingamajig now? Great, let’s get to the pew pew.

I recently rewatched Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and started to think about Starkiller Base and some of the questions that surrounded it. A lot of wondering how it got made, how it’ll move once the star is dead, and also how can it even suck up a star? Did it use warp technology? Also, the way warp speed works in Star Wars seems…

Does it matter? That depends on the story and the world. In the case of SW:TFA, I don’t think it does. Starkiller Base is the big bad, we know what it’s going to do, when it’s going to do it, and—to a degree—how it’ll do it. The point of Starkiller Base is that something is going to get exploded if it’s not stopped. We have all the necessary information. Technological details have never been the point of Star Wars, at least as far as I can tell. If this was Star Trek, that’d be a different matter.

This is a hard line to tow. How much information does the audience need? I don’t want to overburden them with a dump of information, but I also don’t want them to be lost and unable to follow along. There is also a certain level of believability, not realism, but in-world consistency that gives the audience cues as to how the world works.

Dragons, a staple of fantasy, shouldn’t be able to fly (at least not the typical image of a dragon). At best, they should be clumsy gliders. But when a dragon soars through the sky, we all buy it. It doesn’t matter how it flies, just that it’s a dragon and it can fly.

Now, if you had a dragon that could fly because it exuded fart clouds, okay a little weird but whatever, then you’d have established a rule in your world. So, if say, you had a another giant winged beast show up and start flying around, but it didn’t use fart clouds to fly despite its huge size, that’d create an inconsistency in your world. Once it’s established that big bulky things have to adhere to some rules if they want to fly, it becomes a glaring mistake when your own rules are broken. It messes with the world’s consistency.

Ultimately, how many of your world’s rules you have to communicate to the reader/viewer depends on the context. In the case of Starkiller Base, all we need to know is what it does and when it’s going to do it. The same tends to apply to most doomsday machines. There are a lot of other times when we do need to know how The Thing works. Especially in stories that are set in modern times or hard science fiction, but also if it’s just you breaking one of your established rules. If you’re going to break one of your world’s rules, the audience has to understand why or it’ll mess with the story’s consistency.

What do you think, is there such a thing as too much techno babble or not enough of it?   

Worldbuilding Part 4: Show it all but keep it lean (featuring Mad Max and Judge Dredd)

I recently rewatched two of my favourite movies, Dredd (2012) and Mad Max: Fury Road.  They got me thinking about lean storytelling. 

Both are extremely action oriented movies, but they communicate their worlds and characters through the action in a way that doesn’t feel shoehorned. A lot of it is done with body language, concise dialogue, and an extremely brief spattering of flashbacks. The stories are lean, all the fat stripped away. I take a lot of inspiration from both Mad Max: Fury Road and Dredd (2012), and try to implement some lessons from them into my writing. 

Minor spoiler warning for both movies.

Mad Max sets up its world with some impactful visuals. There’s only a brief bit of dialogue to set up the tone, and then we are launched into the story. We learn everything we need to know from the imagery. The derelict cars being worked on, the starving masses clamouring for water. We even see Immortan Joe running through a lush garden, which isn’t addressed again until the end of the movie. It doesn’t need to be, that one shot gives us all the information we need to know about how Immortan is hoarding resources. 

Dredd does something similar. A bit of dialogue to set things up, and then we’re thrown in the deep end mid-chase. We see the over populated city, a few civilians apathetic to the crime taking place, and Judge Dredd’s near monotone* way of acknowledging a civilian’s death and the subsequent death of the perps. It all paints a picture of a city where crime is the norm. 

*Is it possible to have an angry monotone? That seems to describe Dredd better.

That’s just the first few scenes of each movie, they’re packed with this kind of imagery throughout. Telling us more and expanding on their worlds without resorting to infodumps or large chunks of expository dialogue. (There is some expository dialogue, but it’s kept brief and concise.) 

How can this translate to books? The general principle has already been around for a long time: Show, don’t tell. 

I try to infuse the worldbuilding into my stories in a way that doesn’t rely on infodumps.* I think one of the negative instincts some folks have (myself included) is to try and explain everything. After all, you did make that beefy worldbuilding doc, and by the old gods and the new you’re going to work those political machinations into your book! And you should, but the key is weaving them into the narrative in a way that has the reader doing the work for you. 

That might sound weird, you, we, are the writers. We create. We do the work. Yeah, but part of that is relying on the reader to put the pieces together. Just like how Mad Max and Dredd rely on the viewer to put the visual cues together to create the grander image. We set up the land marks, so when the reader reaches that first toppled waystone, they can see Stonehenge from across the field. They know where to go, we just planted the guide posts. 

*I know sometimes infodumps are necessary and might be the most efficient way to communicate certain information. I still feel that, in most cases, other alternatives should be explored. 

A lot can be communicated by a character’s movements, as well as how others react to that character. The way they walk, fight, and speak all add up to define them. Ma-Ma from Dredd is a good example of this. Everyone is tense and quiet around her, listening intently and scared to shit of pissing her off. But when the corrupt Judges are standing right in front of Ma-Ma, she’s the one that speaks in a clipped, controlled manner out of fear of pissing the Judges off. This is something where movies have the edge. I find it a bit more difficult to do in a book. Particularly since I like to keep my dialogue clean and concise. I can’t think of any good examples of movement in books really adding to the character (but maybe you can leave some suggestions in the comments!).

I’d take a guess and say about 15-20% of your worldbuilding will actually make it into the story, at least explicitly. The rest is hidden in the subtext. It makes up the bedrock of your story. Likely most won’t even notice it’s there. And that’s probably how it should be. 

Postscript

This worldbuilding series isn’t planned out. I have a few ideas and general concepts for future posts, but in general I’m sort of making it up as I go along. Hopefully I haven’t gotten to the point where I’m repeating myself yet. I’m not sure when my interest in secondary worlds started, maybe with Warcraft or Redwall,* but either way it has become something I really do find interesting and enjoy talking about. I plan to keep yammering on about it as long as I have ideas, and I hope you keep popping in to read and share your own thoughts. 

Check out Worldbuilding Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3. I’d also recommend Chuck Wendig’s post on Mad Max: Fury Road.  

*Now that I think about it, maybe it started with Final Fantasy 6.

Edit (February 25, 2019): This series is about the things that I've learned, or am learning, about worldbuilding. It's me trying to level up my craft, and documenting the process. These posts represent my personal approach to worldbuilding, and the way I do it might not be right for you. I'm not an authority on writing, and so everything in these posts should be taken with not only a grain of salt, but a heaping bucket of saline.