Metro: ESP

The ESP is the "Employee Screening Program".

This test is given to high school students and above who would apply for jobs within Metro. Since there is such a huge demand for people and thousands of jobs available, the four major companies that settled in Metro decided to use a uniform system to assess and categorize all incoming employees.

After the test, each person is given a letter grade.



A
The Executives and money-movers in the economy of Metro city. They have all the perks, all the access and all the protection of the law to ensure that they don’t loose it. Few things in the world can stop an “A” from getting what he wants.

B
These are the Bureaucrats of the economy. Mayors, chiefs of police, Lawyers and some doctors. They have enough privilege to be comfortable and can generally operate within society without hindrance.

C
The public servants of Metro. These are the nurses, firemen, police, teachers and general repairmen that you see everyday. Most people will push themselves to get a C-Level position as it’s comfortable without too many complications.

D
The drudges. These people were just not good enough to “Go Blue” but were better than the F-Level, Factory Fodder. These people are generally in the maintenance fields that require some technical skills but nothing too spectacular.

F
Factory Fodder. These are the lowest of Metro’s economy. They have nothing and are all but owned by the companies they work for. Commonly seen in a red jumper, they’re sometimes known as “Fire Crackers” for their occasion to be burned up in a factory accident.

Within each Level there is a ranking from 1 to 5; five being the lowest of the rank. Most people will attend some form of technical school in order to raise their rank by a few points so that they might shift levels. University students will often raise their standing by an entire level by the time they graduate.

The ESP test is approximately 6 years old.

Metro: The Warrens

The Warrens:



About 10 years go the corporations that were developing the Huntington / Ashland area found themselves to be swarmed with an abundance of labor and more was coming every month but they had no place to house them nor to put them to work.

A joint project, as much is done within Metro-City, was established to develop a corner of what was then the outskirts of downtown. Though the area has subsequently been circumscribed within the outer ring of the last rail, the almost 80 square block industrial center was, at first, a model of corporate thinking.

Four, five-story buildings were erected in "clover"-like clusters each of which was the size of a city block. Sixty-four of these clovers were arranged in a grid with factories enclosing the entire space at the corners. These factories were low-impact facilities where workers would generally assemble products for later use at other locations (no threat of chemical spills or the like - or so they said). These factory buildings were built taller than the apartment buildings that they surrounded to accommodate for the massive amount of machinery that was needed to put their new "localized" labor force to work. The height of the buildings all but drowned the apartment complexes in a perpetual shadow; only receiving a small amount of sunlight for a few hours around noon. Without the sun, the streets became dingy and trash strewn and the squalor of the corporate dream became quickly apparent.

Then, three years ago, the first of the Cleaners came to The Warrens. The Cleaners are massive machines that are something of a mix between a street sweeper, a trash compactor and a garbage truck. This large machine with its piercing headlights will pass down the street and clean it completely. Cars are not permitted within the Industrial center so anything found in front of the Cleaner is grabbed by two robotic arms (think about the arms used to grab trees) and fed into a mouth-like metallic chipper. As there are no stoops for any of the apartment complexes, the Cleaners can clean the streets from edge to edge. As they pass, jets spray waves of a light-green foam on the street and the buildings that will cut through the grime and dirt and leave an annoyingly strong Pine scent behind.

Each apartment cluster has a trash disposal system but they're almost always broken and rarely will anyone come to repair it since the gangs have started to patrol the streets. People will commonly just put bags of trash out on the street for the Cleaner to pick up the next time it passes through.

Those who live in the Warrens are sometimes called "Pine Cones" due to the overwhelming PINE scent in their clothing and on their person.

-Tom

Metro City

Location:

The Principle Location for Metro-By-Night is a fictional urban environment stretching from Huntington, WV to Ashland, KY.

Metro: A possible history.


10 Years ago (1995) probes from Mars sent back particles of various rocks and such that were found all over its surface. An element found within the particles was found to possess 5x the strength of titanium and weigh 7x less than aluminium; it was called "Durinium". The potential for this element has caused the mega-corporations to go into a frenzy to get to Mars. It will be the new cash cow once the mining operations are set up. The problem is that it would take ten years to not only come up with the means to get to the planet, design and build the mining operation and then send the refined minerals back to earth.

8 Years ago (1997) congress passes the Lawrence Act; preventing American corporations from outsourcing more than 20% of their workforce outside the continental US. This creates a huge boom for jobs in the US and its economy begins to build. The heavy demands for construction for this project and the infrastructure required the corporations to urbanize large portions of previously undeveloped. The Ohio River Valley with cities such as Huntington, Ashland, Portsmouth and Ironton were chosen due to the proliferation of a cheap workforce and massive amounts of undeveloped and generally unmonitored commercial and industrial zones.

7 Years ago (2001) the corporations finally got approval to begin building a large orbital platform that can accommodate the launches from Earth to Mars without having to escape our gravity. Also, incoming shuttles of the refined ore can be accepted by the platform and transfer it to the planet for construction. This platform was built by a joint effort from four mega corporations (whose names can be filled in later).

The four corporations that developed the Ashland / Huntington Metro area combining Huntington, West Virginia and Ashland, Kentucky into unified metropolitan area. It was announced that the corporation's "back to work" program for the area, promising jobs to any qualified individuals. The corporations create the Employee Screening Program (ESP) which administers tests for potential candidate and grades them upon their performance aptitude. Each candidate is given a letter grade (A, B, C, D, F) and a rating from 1-5; the lower the number or the lower the letter - the less desirable job available to the candidate. Most students, upon graduating High School, will complete the ESP test. The test can be taken once each year and most students will take it again after their graduation from College as a 'ranking' for what job they -could- get if they wanted to go to work for one of the corporations.

Those candidates who score in the "F" classification are generally considered "Factory Fodder". As the race for space is now a driving force within the nation's economy, the factories work night and day with the offices keeping up with a global market round-the-clock.

4 Years ago (2001) the Metro rail is rebuilt to accommodate the growing transportation needs of the large community. It is tied to a similar rail system that connects Ironton to Portsmouth over a new bridge that was built to span the Ohio River. The bridge (name unspecified) has two statuesque figures as the central pillars (four figures total) with a large bowl of fire at the top.


-Tom

Once Upon a Time

The Four Seasons

Once upon a time, there were four brothers who lived in the lands of Wyck. They were called Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. To each of the brothers their parents gave them a time of year that was to be their own. Each was given the gifts of their season to use as they saw fit. Spring, though born first, was the least mature of all of them, full of the vigor of youth. Summer, second to be born, was tall and strongly built with hair the color of wheat, was eager to start his own family. Fall, third to be born and the most mature, was quick to plan ahead and a clever craftsman. Winter, the youngest brother, was always greedy and honeyed his words to lure other people to do for him what he would not do for himself.

When they came of age, they each moved away from their parents’ dwelling to build themselves homes to survive the coming snows. Winter found a damp cave deep in their forest and, considering himself more clever than his brothers, decided that he did not have to build a home for himself.

Spring decided to grow himself a house of ivy and buckthorn, hoping to entice a young girl to be his bride. They would warm the house of vines with their love and survive the coming winter in each other’s arms. Spring and his bride made the birds sing with envy for many weeks until his youngest brother, Winter, came upon their home. The woven nest of vines was clutched in a bramble-thicket on the eastern side of a high hill to catch the first rays of morning sunshine. Winter moaned to Spring and begged him for a place to stay for the cold months. He flattered Spring by complimenting him on the growth of the house and asked if he could step inside and get out of the heat of the sun.

Spring did not want his younger brother living with him and his bride, and so he sent his youngest brother away with mocking laughter. Winter ran into the Wood and found a cave hidden by a dead tree. Inside the cave he found a cloak, a bag and a stick as though someone was living there. Winter, mean-spirited and constantly greedy for attention, was not about to be stopped by his brother’s harsh words. He disguised himself in the tattered black cloak like a Wither, hiding his face behind a rotted, bottle-gourd mask, and returned to Spring’s home. Winter, as the Wither, stood before the door of ivy and moaned and howled in torment until it was answered.

“I am the Wither of the Wood. Give me shelter or I shall blight you and your bride with sorrow and dread for all of your days.”

The sight of the Wither scared Spring, and he invited the twisted figure inside. Spring and his bride tried to live with the Wither as the rains of his season lessened and the days grew brighter. Winter, still dressed as the Wither, constantly moaned, demanding that Spring’s bride serve him berry juice and bring him sweet nuts from the trees. He howled at his brother, Spring, that his house of vines was always damp from the rains and that leaking water dripped onto him as he slept in their wedding bed – for no other bed would suit his twisted back. As the season became hotter, Winter could not wear the cloak and mask while he slept. Spring’s Bride, Rose, saw that the Wither was actually her husband’s brother and threw him out of their home, chasing him with a bundle of thorns.

Winter retreated to his secret cave and returned the next day with a leather bag that had been filled with a fierce north wind. He snuck up to the home of his brother Spring and untied the bag just a little. With a loud WOOSH of air, the frost of the north covered the ivy nest and the couple inside ran out into the sun to warm their naked flesh. Winter, disguised as the Wither, roared in jealousy at them and chased them out of the valley.

Winter claimed the house of vines and thorns as his own, much better than the cramped cave he had found earlier, but the frigid north winds in the bag had killed the vines and wilted the soft ivy; only the thorns remained. He would have to find a better house.

Summer, who was younger than Spring but a bit more mature, had woven his house out of straw and decorated it with yellow meadow flowers. He and his wife, Thistle, were happy in their home eagerly anticipating the arrival of yet another child in the months ahead. When the sun was highest in the season, the youngest brother, Winter, came to Summer’s home and begged to be let in.

“Generous brother, I can not build myself such a lovely home as you. The sun is high and I have found no home before the coming of the snows. Please let me stay with you and your beautiful bride. Your house is twice as big as that of Spring; surely you have room for me?”

Summer did not know of Winter’s trickery upon their brother, Spring, but told him that he had no room in his house for they had plenty of children and were expecting another soon. He sent Winter away but gave him three loaves of sweet bread so his brother would not go hungry.

Winter would not stand for Summer’s insult. He stormed back into the forest to find the Wither’s cave, muttering angry words under his breath.

“Summer has enough wheat in his house to feed his wife and their children and more. I’ll show him the Wither’s stick and make him feed me.”

Winter fetched the cloak and the stick and the bag of wind, and hid his face with the gourd mask before returning that night to his brother’s house. Summer sat with several children playing around him, enjoying his wife’s company and the bounty of their family’s harvest. With the crooked Wither stick, he banged on the door of straw and wailed like the wind.

“I am the Wither of the Wood. Give me food and shelter or I shall blight you and your family with sorrow and dread for all of your days.”

Summer’s children cried in fear as the wind howled outside. Thistle calmed them with sweet bread and gentle songs and left her husband to deal with the blight at the door. Summer had heard of the evils of the Wither as all children did, but never expected to see one at his front door. For fear that his children would be cursed with the creature’s crooked stick if he did not offer his hospitality; he invited the Wither into his home and fed him well. Each morning bread and barley soup were taken away from the mouths of his children to fill the belly of the Wither.

The season continued and the Wither grew fatter each day while Summer’s children grew pale and weak. He demanded to sleep in their enormous bed and drink of their finest wines, threatening to curse the children with a crooked body if he didn’t immediately get his way. He had remembered to always wear the cloak and mask of the Wither lest he be caught as he had before, but the days were even hotter than that of his eldest brother’s season, Spring, and the house of hay and meadow flowers made him itch. So he would leave the house during the hottest hours of the day and travel to a nearby stream to bathe. He knew that Summer and his wife, Thistle, and all of their children were working in the fields and wouldn’t catch him, so he took off the hot cloak and the heavy mask for just a bit to submerge himself under the cool water. When he surfaced he was surprised to hear the stifled scream of a small child. It was Summer’s oldest daughter, Heather. She had been sent to the stream to fetch water for her family to drink and saw her uncle remove his mask and cloak to bathe. She knew his secret and would tell her parents of his trickery.

Before Heather could run for help, Winter reached for the stick he had taken from the cave and pointed it at the child. Pointing the Wither’s stick at her, he cursed the child. Her back twisted in horrible knots until she fell to the ground too breathless from the pain to scream. Winter knew that her mother, Thistle, was skilled in the healing arts and might be able to save her daughter from this curse but he didn’t want his secret revealed, so he began digging a hole. By the end of the hour he thought that he had dug the hole deep enough to bury the child. But before he could be sure of that, he saw more children coming over the ridge of the hill towards him. Quick as a starving fox he dumped the child into the hole and tried to cover her up, but some tufts of her hair could still be seen through the dirt. Since he couldn’t dig the hole any deeper while the children were coming he grabbed a bit of grass and wove it into her hair to disguise it. Winter sneaked back to the stream and dressed himself as the Wither to hide from the children who were calling for their sister, Heather.

One of the children spotted the Wither near the stream as another heard their sister’s moaning. The gaggle of sprats scattered as the Wither roared at them to leave his “flower” alone. By this time, Summer and Thistle had come to see why the children were screaming and saw the Wither chasing them around the hill with his stick. Summer, a protective father, hefted his scythe and charged the Wither to slice him like a stalk of wheat. Winter saw his brother and the sharpness of scythe, and reached for the leather bag beside the stream. With a quick release of the knotted cord, the frigged north winds were loosed against his bother with a loud WOOSH. Summer was almost frozen to the spot as his wife, Thistle, plucked a stone from the field and chucked it at the Wither to distract him. It struck Winter against his temple, breaking his mask. Thistle called to her children to pelt their uncle with stones and drive him away. Winter was chased away from the stream, forgetting the broken mask as he ran to Summer’s home. He would make his revenge sting more harshly than the stones they threw.

The smallest of his brother’s children, those too young to go out with Summer and the others to the field, were left in the care of an older daughter, Lily. Winter snuck into the house of straw and meadow flowers and saw the girl reading to the younger babes by the hearth. He untied the leather bag almost half way and let the frosty winter winds freeze Lily and her brothers and sisters to death. The loaves of sweet bread that had been cooling on a nearby table were now almost as hard as stone, but Winter took them all back to his cave.

The season of his brother slowly came to an end, and now the leaves were turning color to signal the time of the last harvest and the final preparations before the coming snows. Winter had eaten all of the sweet bread he had stolen from Thistle’s hearth and was now both hungry and worried that he still had no home to protect him from the snows that would come and freeze his damp cave.

Without the Wither’s mask to conceal his face, he would not be able to trick his anyone into giving him hospitality. So he would use the threat of the stick and the leather bag to gain his welcome. The journey to the home of his brother, Fall, was long, almost at the edge of the forest, beyond the fields of Summer and the vine-woven thickets of Spring. As he walked up the road he could see that Fall’s house was huge and well built. Walls of stone wrapped around three score and six rooms sheltered under a massive roof of clay tiles. A warm, oak-fed fire poured hearty smoke through the stone chimney; filling the air with the smells of a stew of barley and spring greens and loaves of sweet bread cooled on the window sill. Winter’s belly grumbled with hunger and his pace quickened.

“Summer and his family have come to live with Fall, and Spring and his bride have brought their love to his house. Surely he would not turn me away.”

As Winter drew closer to the front of Fall’s house, he could see all three brothers on the porch enjoying the evening. Fall was only mildly older than Winter, but sharper of wit. Fall was a man of plans and of patience. He had been gathering the harvests of his brother, Summer, and preserving the freshness of his brother, Spring, so that they might enjoy them throughout the long months of snow. Winter stopped at the front step of Fall’s front porch and bellowed.

“I am the carry the Wither’s stick and I have the north winds tied up in a sack. Welcome me into your home, Brother, and I shall spare you and your guests.”

Fall had heard about Winter’s trickery from Spring and of his spite from Summer, but to their surprise he invited his brother onto the front porch of his home. Winter slowly approached the brothers and saw that there were many people gathered; Summer’s children, their wives, and one-other person who was seen serving out stew into large bowls of bread. Winter whispered to himself, “Fall’s wife will be giving me stew soon and I shall be happy and warm while these fools serve me.”

“Brother, I understand that what you have done must have been very trying for you and that you are filled with great remorse for your deeds…”

Winter smiled in triumph for Fall was always prone to long-winded speeches before he gave of himself. He listened greedily on the porch as Fall continued to speak.

“… I know you to be a clever man, but tell me how did you come across these items that you would use against us? Give me this story and I shall see that you are given what you need.”

Winter was glad to tell the story of how he had found the cave hidden in the heart of the forest and stolen the crooked stick, the mask and cloak, and the leather bag that he used to force his foolish brothers into serving him. Once Winter had finished the tale, Fall called to the kitchen, and Winter’s mouth watered at the thought of the bowl of stew finally in his hands.

The figure walked onto the porch with a stoop in her stride, as though her legs were under a heavy weight.

“This is your wife?” asked Winter.

“No, my wife is at the Millers fetching the grain.”

Winter was confused, and again more so when the bowl was not given to him but to Fall.

“Grandmother, did you hear my brother’s story?” he asked as he accepted the food.

“Yes…” the figure croaked with a voice like a bullfrog.

“He is in need of a home for the months of snow and someone to care for him and feed him. Do you think he deserves this from us?” Fall asked.

Winter was beside himself with anticipation. His belly grumbled and Fall was playing word games with him. He did not care who the old woman was, and was ready to open the bag of icy wind all the way on them all if he did not get food soon.

“Yes…” the old woman croaked once more.

Winter was surprised. He did not think that Fall would give him what he wanted, but was eager to be lazy once more.

“Brother, my guest has agreed that you are in need of these things; a home and someone to care for you, and I am inclined to give them to you, “ Fall began. “She too had come to me and sought shelter, for someone had stolen her home and her only belongings many months ago. She would have threatened me with sorrow and dread for all of my days, but being without so much as a cave and a stick to her own, she asked for my hospitality as any guest should. She has lived with me and my wife these many months teaching us the secrets of the land. We were kind and generous to her – as she was to us and so we have prospered. I promised her that I would deliver the one who robbed her. And so, now I have.”

Winter went white with fear as the old woman lifted her hood to reveal the broken mask of the Wither, now whole. He reached for the crooked stick but his hands gnarled at its touch. He howled in pain as the stick fell into her grasp and he fell to his knees. Angrily he fought to pull the cloak over his body and conceal himself in the shadows, but his withered hands could not grasp the rough fabric. The old woman pulled the cloak onto her own back and stood a bit straighter with the help of her walking stick.

“Come, my husband, you have a cave to clean.”

“But, you said I would have someone to serve me!” Winter complained petulantly.

“And so you shall, Brother,” said Fall. “She shall serve you as you have served your own family – with trickery and spite.”

The porch was filled with laughter as Winter was hobbled by the old woman. She thanked Fall and his Brothers for their hospitality as she lead Winter down the steps by the ear.

“Don’t forget your Bag of Wind, husband… it’s all you’re good for.”

-The End

Needle and Thread

This is a piece that I've worked on a few times. It's still a work in progress.

This book would serve him well. The journal he had kept while on his pilgrimages was all but spent, the last few lines inscribed more than a week ago. By candle’s light, the monk bent his cowled head and nimbly pierced the folded pieces of paper with his sharp pricking awl; a broken needle now affixed within a sturdy wooden handle. This book, he made today, would serve him well. The journal he had kept while on his pilgrimages was all but spent, the last few lines inscribed more than a week ago. The new oak boards were planed by one of the carpenters in the village to be flat, straight and true. The tanned hide of one of the sow goats that was slaughtered this past winter would cover and protect its pages. This book would be made by the villagers and used to record their stories and history. This book, made by the villagers, would be used to record their stories and history.

Needle and thread, beeswax, paper and patience; these are the tools of a binder of books. By candle’s light, the monk bent his cowled head and nimbly pierced the folded pieces of paper with a his sharp pricking awl; a broken needle now affixed within a sturdy wooden handle. The thread, hand spun to be as fine as a cat’s whisker, was waxed to keep it from knotting as it was passed through the holes and around the thick hemp cords that would hold the folded gatherings of paper together. Patience and precision are the ways of Monks.

Brother Thomas, the monk was called, had learned the craft of bookbinding while on his travels as a young man; eager to travel to the far corners of the world on pilgrimage after pilgrimage. As his hands blindly sewed the pages together, his mind wandered to the first page he had stitched – and to when he was called upon to bind more than pages. His mind wandered too far from the path and the awl pricked into his finger. The shock of the needle piercing his skin was not so great as the rush of stumbling back from the path his mind had found; a path long-since covered in brambles, weeds and dried blood and almost forgotten.

The smell of boiled rabbit hides and bones mixed with the memory of a rain-soaked cassock, stained with the blood of others. The smell of the dried brown blood then fluid from the rain had silently crept into his nose as he bent his cowled head to lick the bead of blood from his finger-tip. The scent of the boiling hides was almost as strong as the gelatinous mix that would forge the glue needed to paste down the pages of the book. and ensure that it would not slip or kettle and tear through weeks of use and years of storage. The small iron pot rested over a small weak fire, suspended from a small iron tripod just out of his reach. A brush’s handle rested just over the lip so that it could be stirred and kept the mixture fluid. Rabbit glue smelled horrible and was usually kept in a wax-sealed clay pot until needed. Even with the mixed aromas of bundles drying herbs hanging from the beams of the monk’s chamber, the musty leather smell of the glue would not be defeated.

“No…” Thomas thought to himself. “Not now…” he would forbid the old memories from resurfacing once more. The shelter of his squat stone tower had blocked the storms, the wind and the sun but it could not shield him from the past.

His shadows crept across the stony crags of his chamber walls, and the autumn wind blew beyond the shutters and each candle throughout the room danced a flicker or two. Soon the pages would be sewn and the boards would be laced and the glue would be needed. Once the foul mixture was applied and the new book placed between two large planks and weighted down with flat hunks of rock, the monk could stand and stretch his weary back. The stool in his chamber was not much in comfort but it was a far cry from sitting on the floor or perched at the edge of his bed. Bless the carpenter and his work; the tea the ex-Benedictine had gifted him to sooth his toothache was quickly repaid - even with the monk’s objections. Most of the possessions that the monk had been able to acquire were gifts and repayments for herbal remedies and the odd gift of beeswax or honey from his hives within the apple orchard beyond the walls of his new home.

Binding was work for the evening, after the sun had gone below the hills. It was calming and gave the monk time to reflect upon the day’s work. Though it had been months since he observed the holy offices, having been raised within a monastery most of his life he was unable to break the habit of keeping odd hours; odd even for a monk. His nights were filled with study and reflection upon the past and his uncertain future. Tomorrow would bring more problems to be solved, more unconquerable tasks to be accomplished. It is the way of monks; to go where they are needed and to do the impossible. Tomorrow was another world away. The moon would say it’s goodbye once more and the sun would rise to rob the soot-clad bookbinder of most of his sight. His pale blue eyes glanced up through the crack in the shutters to spy a full and opalescent moon in the cloud-strewn sky and he sighed; a deep and soul-searching breath that hangs heavy in the air - pregnant with a question begging to be asked.

“Where are you, my friend?” the monk allowed his lips to ask. “The moon has waxed and waned more times than there are pages within my new book and I do not know if you are alive or dead.” The voice quivered for just a moment as a hint of emotion crept into his voice. Tearless eyes glanced down to the skein of waxed thread, needle and pricking awl at his worktable before the window. Books were more easily stitched together than people; far easier than friends. He could not help but try to dry his palms upon the apron that protected his black cassock from a bloodstain etched more in memory than in his flesh.

A candle guttered and gave up its last flame to a strong breeze. He stood to relight it and found himself finishing the few steps between table and wall-sconce by opening a small chest under his rope bed. The chest held the few possessions he had managed to retain in all of his wanderings throughout the realm. His hand could not breach the shadowy confines of the oaken box though he knew its contents without pause. The pads of his fingers drug slowly across the thickness of the wood, noting its coarseness until finally he reached within to withdraw his secret. The blade’s handle was cold; much colder than he had remembered. The sword’s pommel was a simple disk of metal once polished silvery bright but now little more than a faint shine of tin. The monk’s hand clutched at the broken sword in his hand with enough strength that his knuckles grew white, almost wishing that his fingers would pass through the leather-wrapped grip and prove to him that it was not real - that his memories were not real. They could not. The sword was barely the length of a long dagger, about the distance from his fingertip to the faint muscled budge in his bicep. Long enough to take the blood from the throats of many. The edge was just as keen as the night he held it last, almost two years ago. Such a long night; thick with rain and screams. He could not look at the blade for but a few moments before quickly returned it to the box with a quickness reminiscent of a man hiding from an addiction, denying its’ power.

The ropes that supported his straw matrice creaked as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Do you still live?” He asked, cradling his face in his sweaty palms. The scruff from a few day’s growth scratched his fingers reminding him to rid himself of the bristling hairs by morning.

The memories threatened to keep the monk awake all night if he did not stifle them immediately. The rabbit glue would need to be resealed before it fouled his chambers. The small metal pot was taken from the tripod and its contents poured into a thick-walled clay pot on the worktable. A makeshift lid had been made for the pot and wax would be poured around the rim to keep it from leaking and the smell escaping. Once the jar was safely on his shelves, he slowly lowered the metal pot into a bucket of water to soak until dawn. A sweet mixture of herbs was tossed onto the burning coals to fill the room with a more pleasing scent and he breathed them in to remember and to forget.

Plagued by memories at night and harassed by the blinding light of day he was only welcomed within the shadows.

Firefly: Independence Ridge

From the Firefly-Verse

Independence Ridge

It was the last days of the War between the Brown Coats and the Alliance. Independence Ridge was several miles away was intended to be a support position for the valley, named Serenity, below. The plateaus that made up the ridge were a mixture of anti-aircraft emplacements and artillery bunkers. The ridge was also where several civilians had been relocated as an evac position but had been grounded by the approaching Alliance forces; arriving for the fight ahead of schedule.

The Independence did not have the resources of the Alliances. The planet, Hera, had been a major production facility for the Independence and its discovery would bring the War to head. If the planet fell, so too would the Independence. Civilians of every shade who had come to serve in the Independence war effort were being pulled out and sent to fall-back positions to continue the constant demands of the “Brown Coats”, the Independence’s own army. Supplies, civilians and aircraft were all grounded when the fighting began. Nothing was getting off the planet and it was up to the forces on the ridge to ensure that nothing was getting on; not without paying dearly.

After the first few days of the fighting, there wasn’t anyone no one left in charge on the ridge above a sergeant. Fighting on some of the plateaus had devolved into knives and fists in some instances. No one had reinforcements to send and no means to send them. The Independence was loosing and the there was no sign of reinforcements.

Corporal Ramey had become a Sergeant when the last filed-promoted corporal had been shot three days ago. He was in charge. He had joined the Independence to fight for the freedom to make his own choices rather than face the reality of the perfect police state of the Alliance. He had less than three dozen coats with him, and a fourth of them were civilians who had picked them off of the dead; grabbing a rifle to hold the perimeter along side seasoned soldiers.

Their position was half destroyed from sub-orbital bombardment; a miracle of Independence engineering that it actually managed to survive this long. They had no tactical position within the fight, their ordinance was half-depleted in the bombardment leaving them with only their own personal weapons to defend the position. There was no means of escape off the ridge, it was far too steep to climb and with the fighting still heavy in the valley below anyone who attempted it would be picked easily. Ramey was left with the duty to hold the position.

The civilians who he was trying to protect numbered almost twice his own troops, but most of them were not able to fight; not enough weapons to go around. Ramey’s promotion had come when a crashing Alliance gun ship had destroyed a section of their bunker that was being cleared to evacuate the position. Their escape had been cut off. Twelve Coats and twice as many civilians had died in the collapse. One of the people who had pulled the civilians together and managed to organize them after the cave-in was a man that always seemed to respond to the yell for a “Medic”.

Ramey remembered seeing him a few times since the fighting started; most notably after they were hit and the first cave-in cut off their escape. Occasionally he could remember seeing him skulking here and there in the bunker, pulling people to do odd jobs and generally keeping people out of the way of the soldiers who stood perimeter.

“Lieutenant… take this…”

The voice was unfamiliar but insistent. Ramey couldn’t place it but he was semi-distracted by the wailing of short-range artillery in the valley below.

The light was low, only the occasional flickering of concealed oil lamps in the rooms away from the front of the bunker.

The “Medic” was holding a small cup of brown broth, offering it to him. A smear of grime besmirched his face, giving him somewhat of a comical expression.

“Thanks…,” Ramey paused as he reached out to take cup; quickly scanning the other troopers around him to make sure that they had chow before he would accept it.

The medic seemed to catch the shift of his eyes and smirked a bit, “Yes, Lieutenant, they have been served.”

Ramey didn’t appreciate the smirk but accepted the broth anyway.

“Are you going to let me take a look at that?” The medic asked while the lieutenant’s thoughts immediately returned to the battle.

Ramey just glanced back to the medic curiously; having no idea what the man was asking about. He followed the man with his eyes as he reached for his leg, almost instinctively readying himself to butt-stroke him. It was then that he realized that his pants had a gash through them. Covered in dust and day-dry blood, he had cut himself on something but had been too preoccupied to really notice it.

“No, it’s fine. Save the meds for those who need it.”

“Don’t worry, I will, but since you’re the one who’s going to keep us together, I need you in one piece.”

Ramey wasn’t about to let someone work on him. He was quite capable of fixing himself. His shin would be a bit difficult to reach with the trauma plate covering his chest but he would make due. He didn’t like people touching him; especially medics. He glared at the medic before him in a silent order to move back.

The two men would easily have gotten into a heated argument about dressing the wound. Ramey insisting that his orders were to be followed at all times; even if that meant to leave him, and his wound, alone. The medic did not have a chain of command to follow, he wasn’t, technically, a soldier of the Independence. Both had a duty to follow and were equally as stubborn about it; one to the health of the people and one to the success of the battle.

Ramey put the cup of soup down and pushed himself to his feet, preparing for the first challenge to his authority. The medic stood as well, his expressionless eyes flicking side-to-side slightly as he began to pick up on the Lieutenant’s body language.

“Listen…” Ramey began coldly.

“…Medic,” an urgent voice called out from another room in the bunker.

His head spun around to find the source a second before his body turned to follow; someone was in trouble. Ramey reached out to grab a hold of the medic and answer the question of authority once and for all but was interrupted by one of his troopers calling out for him.

“Sir… we have contact in-bound.”

“Report,” Ramey barked.

“Gun-Ship on approach. She’s setting down on the south platform in one minute.”

“And you’re just now picking it up?” The medic already tweaked Ramey’s temper and it was all the more aggravated with this surprise.

“… shadowed a transport; didn’t see the echo until just now.”

“First and second squads on me. Third squad, hold this position and get the civilians out of the way. Prepare for ground assault!” Ramey barked out his orders as the rising sense of foreboding crawled into his mind. This could be it.

Gotta job to do…

Hold the position…

The troops filed out of the forward area of the bunker, grabbing grenades and weapons as they fell in line behind Ramey on the way to the entrance hatch. They would make a stand of it; such as they could. The narrow hall would give the Brown Coats an advantage but the Alliance would have more ordinance and better supplied troops.

The woosh of the gun ship could be heard beyond the entrance. They were close. As the first Alliance troops neared the entrance, they seemed unaware that anyone might be holding the remains of the bunker. The first five fell to the claymores hidden in the rocks. The fight for their small corner of Independence Ridge had begun.

Concept Art

Concept Art: Pilgrim

The Staff

The Satchel

The Cloak

The Symbol

All of these are telling me that this guy is on some kind of quest.

The symbol in the background almost looks like the cross-hairs of a weapon; or a symbol on a map to draw attention to it. I, personally, would remove the bottom swoshy-thing, because it confuses the simplicity of the symbol as a background element.

The guy looks like he's wearing regular pants and that the coat thing he's wearing has some kind of cloak-feel to it; almost like a drover's coat or Austrialian duster.


The Satchel - well, it's a bag and anyone who knows me knows that I have a fascination (if not obsession) with the functionality of the average bag.

"A bag is not for what you take with you,
but for what you find along the way."
-T. Riley

The satchel, obviously, would contain a journal of somekind; a chronicle of his quest to find...whatever he's looking for.

Design: Blow Pipe

I had originally thought that this blowpipe would be used by the worshippers of the God of Undeath, Maladon, in the Chronicles of Arn. The wrapped figure with the crown and the pseudo-egyptian cartouche at the bottom was working for me.

Tribal: Great Horned Serpent

The Great Horned Serpent is something that crawled out of my Tribal brain a while back. This sketch dates to 1999.

The Great Horned Serpent, in my mind, is a mega-fauna creature that exists in the world of my own private tribal-based village. The icon of the spiraled creature and the mixture of serpent and stag is not entirely my own creation.

In the legends of the Native peoples of North America, the creature known as "Uktena" is very similar; so much similar that I'm not exactly sure that I didn't pick up on the details of the creature and just re-interpret it for my tribal society.

I knew about the Uktena as it was the Tribe of Garou that I played back in the day. the Uktena were secretive and generally mistrusted amongst Garou society so I fit in perfectly.

The Great Horned Serpent in my tribal society was a source of wisdom; found in lakes and rivers and streams. The Serpent and its children were to be honored with the Spiral Dance and with song. It kept the rains coming to nourish the fields and called the deer to the streams to drink so that we could hunt them.

-T

Design: Architecture

I have been fascinated by the number three for years. Triangles and the various permutations there-of have been a constant source of distractionf or me and I've never really been able to figure out why.

Additionally, I've been trying to design a small tower-retreat; someplace that could be built out in the woods like a cabin - a place to get away and think.

I've looked and sketched up a few hundred designs, but this idea combines the two fascinations; triangles and the tower.

One of the problems I've had with designing the tower is that a tower has limited space for the functional aspects of life. If your tower is 20x20 feet, the most you can throw on it would be three floors; usually two. That's only three rooms for a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room, etc. So I knew that I would have to incorporate several areas into the structure of the tower to make it a livable space.

With this design, I still have the central tower structure as well as a perimeter wall to keep out whatever needs kept out. The wall also allows me to have a garden or patio space that is outside but not open to the public. By extending buildings from the central tower in three directions (yeah, I had to work the triangle in there somewhere), I was able to create additional areas for the structure.

If each of the extensions are one story and the central tower is two, that allows me to have each one serve a seperate purpose.

1. Kitchen / Dining / Pantry
2. Bed, Bath
3. Living / Guest

The ground floor of the tower would be open to provide access between the other three buildings. The second floor of the tower would be the study / office area. With it being higher than the other structures, it would provide a view around the complex. Additionally, a deck could be built around the second floor so that you could step out on it or even the roof of the other three structures to create a second set of outdoor patios.

Though this design shows a triangular central tower, logic would suggest that it would have to be hexagonal as a triangle doesn't afford much usable space in this design.

A 'circular' stair (or a pair) that extends from the ground floor up to the 2nd floor area would tie the two floors together fairly well and I would work in a sun well to draw in light through the central tower into the heart of the structure at ground level.

Can you tell that I had considered architecture as a field at one time?

I'd love to find some cheap, 3-d modeling program so I could build just the basic shapes of something like this. My sketching abilities aren't the best but I'm still working on them. It's taken me years just to make objects even partially resemble what they should.

-T

Design Notebooks

These are images from my old sketch / design books. I am cleaning up a few of the images so I can post them clearly but here's the first.

I'm going to go back later and actually define or re-define some of the images for use in story and such.

-T

Last Night's Dream: Posideon's Star

Ok, real quick because I have to run to class soon.

In last night's dream, I was somewhere on the coast probably somewhere in Florida. My mentor, Jeb, had contacted me to come down and spend a working vacation with him while they did some off-shore archaeology. Jeb's cool like that.

So we went out to look for the wreck of some ship and while we were out there another, more modern ship, came up along side us in the middle of the night. No one was at the helm, and no one was on deck. Jeb was freaked because sometimes he has problems with drug smuglers who are moving cargo into Miami so they don't like boats out in the middle of no-where watching their midnight rendezvous.

The ship was just a fishing boat of sorts; not too big and not too small. We crawled on board and tried to find out what had happened while the crew called the Coast Guard. Jeb and I went down to the galley to see if anyone was around. There was some food on the table but it looked a few hours old; like they had eaten and no one had cleared away the dishes yet.

When I took a seat at the galley table, I brushed away one of the plates to see that someone had someone had carved what I called a Sun Flower into the surface of the table. Jeb took a look at it and said that it was a Mariner's Compass. Once we had moved away the other dishes, it was clear that someone had drawn a map to something on the desk and recent enough that the wood was still raw from the process.

It got kinda garbly here, but when I got back into it, we were in the captain's cabin looking for any sign of a log or something that might tell what happened. While Jeb looked at their fishing cameras and other computers, I was sniffing out a book. I knew one was there; I could taste it.

Jeb reminded me that few captains kept an actual paper log anymore; it was all done with computers and GPS. I knew there was a book around there somewhere. I could almost hear it whispering.

So I took a seat behind the Captain's desk and played the "where would I hide something" game. Sure enough, within a moment or two, I found a false compartment above my head and within it was a book in a big zip-lock bag. When I opened it, the thing smelled of the sea; not salty but of mildew. This was the smell of the depths of the deep ocean - where the sun is afraid to go.

I assumed that it was something they fished out of the sea with their nets or something so I figured that it would be wet. Nope, bone dry. Just as though it was on the desk of some captain and ready to use, the book was in good condition.

The book was larger than one of my standard journals - probably a little smaller than the average Player's Handbook. It was originally a hard-cover book but it had softened through what I would imagine would be years of use. The cover was green-ish, the color of sea weed, with small brass triangles rivited to the corner. Dead in the center of the book was a stamp of a trident that was probably gold-leafed back in the day but had been worn off over the years.

I opened the cover and knew that it said "Posideon's Star" in a flourishing script. I say 'knew' and not 'read' because sometimes I can't read text in my dreams but I know what it says anyway.

Unfortunately, I woke up as soon as I opened the book. I heard someone scream "Laaaaaand" from somewhere on deck and that woke me up.

Weird.

Cool, but weird.

-T

Witch World: Text

Text version from original post:

The idea that the Witch World is a shared reality - only really existing when those who believe in it gather to continue it; i.e. "The Dream" of the SCA. To say that the Witch World is also a place, a sanctuary, for magical creatures and arcane things is an extension of that metaphor.

Also, with the Witch World, the portal - the means by which one accesses this place would be a semi-difficult process. Pennsic is just a campground until the other 10,000 ritual participants show up to open the portal. So, opening the portal to the Witch World is a lot more difficult than closing it. Mundania's bane is a lot stronger than the will of a few people trying to "go" somewhere.

In the "War on Terror" genre of the Witch World story, you could say that small groups of people would create the equivalent of a node to "anchor" their corner of the Witch World. Similar to the game of people grabbing the edges of a parachute and flipping it up and catching air under it like a bubble, you would need several "anchor points" to hold the edge of the "balloon" that is the shared dream of the Witch World.

The nodes would be small places, hidden from view since their discovery would get people arrested, with small items or paintings or something that would help the group channel themselves together as an anchor. Routinely, say on the new moon, all of the nodes could "go active" to inflate the balloon again.

Those nodes who had the strength to push a lot of energy into the balloon could also see into the space created, perhaps across it to other windows of nodes. Messages can be sent, etc., perhaps as an owl or something.

Some places within the Witch World would be like an island, built near a node. The process would be slow - like pouring a bucket of sand at the edge of a stream - but with time the "land" could be build firm and strong.

A great deal of the void of the Witch World would be equivalent of water - a vast sea of stormy waters. As the "balloon" deflates, the waters go grey and terrible but each moon it is calmed and the sun is bright and the islands grow strong.

It would be near impossible for each node to construct their own island, grow plants and food on it and release magical creatures to its sanctuary let alone create a home for its people. So most nodes would work in concert with each other to build upon a common ground.

The creation of the nodes, the building of islands and their connection to other islands would take quite a while. For it to have any affect within the story, they would have to be started a decade or so before Demeter was released. To know that it was needed and how to create it, you could say that an oracle from within the Witch World reached back in our time to start things moving along.

Perhaps one of the first islands within the void was Avalon, sealed there centuries ago to protect it and begin the next phase of its function.

As the center of the balloon would be the location with the most energy - to hold up the canopy - Avalon was put there to act as a "support", a backup in case the nodes failed from time to time. Meetings of the nodes could happen on Avalon's shores. The ??? would be hard to get far one place but the dragon boats from Avalon could come and get their emissaries. They could also move people via Avalon from one "short" to another - crossing the world by boat or dragon or cloud.

So, the reason that people haven't just ran away into the Witch World at the first sign of trouble is that there's no where to go; Avalon isn't THAT big. The oracle - perhaps a lady of "the lake" - was able to punch through the canopy to the "far shores" (the mundane world" and influence the covens and the solos to start creating the nodes.

The nodes have to pour energy from the far shores into the Witch World to keep the canopy full, to keep the seas calm, and to build their own island. By now, some of the first nodes would have forests and small creatures on them. Dragons would dwell within or below Avalon – it’s the only place large enough to hold one.

There is another idea - for the sea - that it wasn't always a flooded empty expanse. If Avalon was "pulled" into the Witch World so long ago, it's possible that other areas were as well.

Over the years the lands slipped back beneath the waves and only the faintest edge of the short was left by the time the nodes were created. The dragon boats of Avalon originally able to cross the rivers and such were too small to cross to the lands of the other shores as the waters rose and took more and more of that which had been saved.

Like the great flood, only the tallest areas would survive for long and some creatures fought to claim it as their own. Dragons took to the waters and griffins to the tall mountains. Those places high enough to survive the flood were lost to Avalon and the small boats could not search the void for long without tempting the dragons below.

The Witch World, now, can be just as dangerous as the far shores. So many things are forgotten that many think that there will not be enough time to rebuild the land before the world slips into the grip of chaos.

Journal of Thomas Book (May 29, 05)

Journal of Thomas Book

May 29^th, 2005

18:50 Hrs

Grid G9

I was scraping away at the floor on Jude’s Tomb so I didn’t hear them pull up. The first thing that I could hear that got my attention was the sound of Nurse Ratchet screaming. I peaked out of the stairwell and saw a three trucks of men drive up to the site with their AK's held high. They began rounding up the workers and told them to leave. Our people were tied and told that they would be ransomed back to their universities.

No one saw me as G9 was on the opposite side of the field from the main camp. The guys carrying the AK’s didn’t seem too interested in what we were doing – just who we were. Within twenty minutes, they had everyone tied up and loaded on their trucks and drove away. I didn’t want to move. I could hear us screaming and them shouting but I knew that I was safer if I did nothing. I am staying hidden until dark and then sneak back into the base to search for the team's SAT phone.

21:45 Hrs

I found the SAT phone but every time I tried to call out it was too garbled to get through. Apparently we had the Big Lots version. I had to climb up the hill to the west to get a clear signal and as soon as I did – I called the Embassy. I had the number written in my notebook just in case. I just didn’t expect this to be the reason I’d have to use it. I sat huddled against a tree, but even from there I could see the kidnapper’s camp in the next valley.

The guy that I finally got a hold of, some kind of Aid to the Ambassador, told to stay put and help would be on its way just before dawn.

May 30^th

8:05 Hrs

Hospital Lobby

Last night got worse. I know I’m going to leave out some stuff but here’s my best shot at remembering what I can:

It took me a while to make the climb out of our valley, and it would take a few hours for the cavalry to show up. I wanted to keep an eye on my friends so I stupidly snuck down the hill and into the valley where they were being held. I really didn’t want to, but if the guys tried to move them I wanted to at least be able to watch and call back to let the Marines (or whomever) know about it. I found a spot behind some bushes a few dozen yards away from their camp. I didn’t mean to get so close but I could hear them screaming and what I heard didn’t make sense. They were screaming at the members of the team - wanting to know where an "eye" was.

The more they screamed in Spanish the less it made sense. "Ojo del Diablo", the eye of the devil. I assumed that it was some artifact that they were looking for - probably to trade for more weapons, but the team was excavating some tombs of a regional Mayan official and his family - no wealth like that should have been there.

The marines, or whoever was supposed to come, never seemed to show up. Dawn took forever when you were waiting for it. The bandit leader got a SAT phone call about an hour after I called the Embassy and he switched from Spanish to English.

He told the caller that "they" didn't have it but he was going to kill a few of them to send a message. One of the Grad students, a guy named Kevin, screamed out that it was in this gym bag back at the camp.

I knew that the minute they had it, the others would see the dawn. I crawled away from the camp and high tailed it up the ridge to get back before the bandits. They had to drive a fairly twisty road to get out of their valley and over to our camp, but all I had to do was just go up and over the hill.

I fell down the bottom half of the ridge, scraping my legs on something sharp; I didn't know if it was sweat or blood running down into my socks.

Yes, I was panicked.

Kevin and I were in the same barracks tent. I knew everything about that guy – when he changed his socks (never) and when he had some private time (usually every night). I never remembered anything about an artifact that could be called an ‘eye’. It took me a while to get through his collection of port-a-john pornography, but I found what appeared to be a gold disk encased in bubble-wrap. I grabbed his satchel and ducked out of the back of the tent just as the headlights brushed the perimeter of their camp.

As a hand full of bandits searched the camp, I saw Kevin being tossed out of the back of their pick-up. He was bleeding from a cut on his lip and had a large purple bruise across his cheek, but he was alive. He told them where to look - right where I had taken it.

They accused Kevin of lying and called back to the leader. I was hiding back in the tomb in G9, but I could hear the sound of one shot ring out in the pre-dawn hours. I froze. I didn't know who had been killed but I guessed that whoever it was, they wouldn't be the first.

I felt for the small pistol in my satchel; I had picked it up back in the tent when I grabbed the SAT phone. I remember Kevin asking me why I carried it with me and I told him that I had packed it in case they ran into wild animals around the site. I wasn’t the best of shots.

The two guards stayed in the camp with Kevin while the other two drove back to their boss. One bandit continued to scream at Kevin for the Eye - who was hoarse from screaming that it should be there in his box.

The other bandit found the site director's secret stash of whiskey and began to drain the bottle. They took turns yelling at him and shoving him around. He was bound with zip-ties and hardly made it back to his feet before they would knock him over again.

By the end of the whiskey, they were bored of beating on him. I was scared. I wanted to help Kevin, but I sucked at shooting moving targets and the others would come if he started pulling the trigger randomly.

One of the bandits started to take a piss against the tent but finished on Kevin's back. Still with himself hung out he grabbed Kevin by his belt and pulled him to his knees.

I knew where this was going and snuck closer to improve my aim. I moved from pit to trench across the field until I got within a few dozen feet from where they were. The bandit kept Kevin's arms zipped, but cut open the back of his shorts with a flick of his knife. The other bandit, originally not too interested, couldn't find anything he wanted in the tent and had apparently decided that raping the American before shooting him wasn't such a bad idea.

I made sure the pistol was loaded and tried to calm myself down as the two men pulled their army surplus pants down to their ankles; their guns on the table a few feet away. I took aim at the one by Kevin's head first. The one on his knees would take a second to get up before he could get to his AK.

Slowing my breath, I squeezed the trigger and the first man fell dead as Kevin let out a yelp - either of pain or surprise. It was only a Glock, but at this range almost any hit to the body would drop someone. The second man tried to stand and as he did, I put a round through his throat, but I was aiming for his chest.

Kevin was moaning with panic and fear as I ran up to him. All I could do was hold on to him for a few seconds until he realized that he had not himself been shot. Grabbing the dead bandits knife, I cut Kevin free and grabbed a pair of shorts from near the tent where the bandits had rummaged through our stuff. Kevin was freaked – shutting down his panic and fear, but at least he was able to move.

We ran and hid in the far tomb until just before dawn - just long enough for kevin to change the tattered shorts. He was more shaken than hurt but sometimes that was worse. All he wanted to do was curl up and hide. I had to pull him with me as we climbed back up the ridge and called for help again. Just then, by the dawns light, he could see the leader cocking his pistol and aiming at the back of the head of the team's nurse; a woman we jokingly called “Nurse Ratchet”.

Just then, the bandits dropped like someone had cut their strings. Snipers from the tree line had taken each out within seconds. The Marines had arrived. I told Kevin that we needed to move down to their camp so the Marines could find us. As soon as I got him back on his feet, two bushes near us moved and he about crawled up the nearest tree. I don’t know who those Mairnes were, but I’m glad that I didn’t shoot one of them by mistake. Within a half-hour, we were being air-lifted out of the area and I had completely forgotten about the artifact.

Kevin was taken to a nearby hospital with the others on the team to have them checked out. It turned out that they had broken one of his ribs somewhere in the process. I’m sitting in the lobby of the Hospital writing all this down while I wait for people to get discharged. A SGT is here with me to help get us over to the Airport. The Site Director was dead, but the Team Leader was heading back to the site to collect the gear and the data with some help from a local security company. I don’t know where they’re going to stick me. I’m just a member of the Team, not on staff with the University.

I’m never going to get paid.

Location: Apartment

This is Thomas Book's place. It's not much, but it's home.

The ground floor is a book store (on the left side of the building) and some other business (I have no idea yet) on the other.

The stairs to the second floor are accessed by the front doorway - between the two doors that open to the bookstore on one side and the other business.

The second floor of the building is fairly small with the living room shown with the Edwardian facade.

Edit: 8/3/08

This bookstore / apartment combo is great but not for the start of Thomas Book. Originally he has his uncle's fire house to use.

Thomas Book

This is a background sketch for a character named Thomas Book. He's a sort of mix between Dean Corso (9th Gate) and John Constantine (Constantine).

He lives in the fictional city of Metro - a combination of Ashland and Huntington.

I've changed his background a few times and his personality a few more times, but I think this is a good start.