Game Chef 2015
A little teaser
So this is the end product of my GC15 game I’m putting together. This isn’t the game itself! But playing the game — it’s a solitaire — produces a story intended to be read by an outside audience.
It’s not great literature. But it was interesting as heck to work through and I already want to play again. Honestly I felt moved playing and writing it, which is all that really matters.
Rules in a presentable form in the next day or two. I’d love to see some other folks play too. #GameChef1st
The Chronicle of Drakevale
Dragonfly is upon us, and the Warrior has gone to do battle with the beast. Perhaps, finally, the cycle of destruction can come to an end.
The people of Drakevale have gathered at the manor walls. Of course it’s my duty to protect them. Of course. But there is not enough room in our walls. I tell them to scatter but of course they don’t. They want the comfort of walls even as I tell them it will not be enough. I have no idea what to tell them.
The Wise One
Satan’s servant would not be taking flight if these sinners had prayed like they meant it and, for the love of all that his holy, stopped their sinful ways. I feel my blessing is wasted and this Gomorrah deserves what is coming to it. Meanwhile, this so-called church remains humble and frankly ignored. I deserved a posting in a larger city. Now I will be incinerated.
The Manor: A Hard Decision/
Today I had to lie to the people of Drakevale. I told them that we were making preparations to house them here in the manor, and to remain calm in their homes. My men have orders to quietly go through town and select the best of them, those with useful skills for … afterward, whatever that looks like. We’ll need doctors and laborers, not poets and musicians. We’ll need babies! Ha, perhaps those poets and musicians will prove useful after all.
I keep a small household, perhaps smaller than others. Two children, both girls. And my wife of course. Even my dogs are female. Fate has seen fit to bless me with a surplus of womanhood. Irony, then, that I serve both as father and mother as my wife has taken up her mother’s sword to face down the damned dragon. A black pit in my gut tells me she’ll come to the same end as well. Thinking this is how it will end for my daughters drives me to misery. Damn her for having more balls than the so-called warriors of this village.
The Wise One
Regarding our illustrious leader: Secret/
As I suspected, our leader the Duke has cravenly withdrawn behind not only his walls but his lies. He’s told us he’s making preparations for us. Magical preparations if you ask me: where are the wagons filled with rations? Do the blacksmiths’ weapons ring out all hours as they produce spears and helms? What exactly is the Duke doing?
Damn him. Lord forgive me but I curse his name.
The forest is lovely in the autumn. Crisp air all day, touch of frost riming orange leaves. This is a good life here. Clean, cold water. A few apples. I can hear the faintest whisperings of the nature spirits at dawn and at dusk. Oh! How the bishop would huff and pinch his face up to hear me say it. Fuck those people, I’m never going back.
The Wise One
Thoughts on the avarice that binds us all: Greed/
Fascinating, that even in the face of disaster the flock finds a way to profit. I went to the Market this morning in the hopes of finding some fresh baked bread — as luck would have it, the smell reassured me well before I arrived — and sure enough, there’s master profit whipping his servants to put their backs into it. Cows are awkward but dried meats, very portable. Smart. That’s worth a pretty penny. Milk will spoil but cream may last a while. The whole of the town is bent to the task of wringing out every last efficiency.
I did not see one of them pray. Not one, not once. God will inhale the aromas of their cooking flesh as he received burnt offerings from the patriarchs. I smiled, of course, but not at their enterprise. The sacrifice shall, finally, be adequate.
Regarding the Mines: Monster/
I’ve withdrawn the last of the workers and guards from the mines, finally. They were scared but so brave to remain working even as the stench of brimstone wafted up (so I’ve been told) as the beastie rouses itself in the mountain’s depths. It might even be a blessing if the mines were to be destroyed, what with tales of rock goblins emerging here and there and stealing the occasional sheep. Filthy buggers, surely a danger and just impossible to hunt down. Good luck surviving dragon fire, you little green rats.
Maybe the hardest thing about leaving the village was the look on the children’s faces. Their parents had taught them to be disgusted but the little monsters…oh that’s rich. They laugh and call me a monster! The Bishop’s god didn’t see fit to give me a perfect form and the children laugh and laugh at me. Unbearable.
I’ve chosen a safe place in the forest where the brooks run fast and clear but I am not faced with staring at myself in still waters. Not even my own father’s lies about acceptance sank in. I can only laugh, or be disgusted, by what I see. So, no still waters. No reflections.
I have prayed every night that my wife will come home to her children and me. The gossiping neighbors may think she’s, I don’t know, honor-bound by the family history to go forth in righteousness. What they don’t understand is the ferocity of her love, of our love really. She’s not fighting to save the village, although it may end up saved. If it comes time to choose, she will save only us.
Well, preparations are complete. The walls are barricaded. Our secret did not last, though, and those left outside are mobbed and furious. The village will go on, of that I am certain. The survivors will surely hang me for my duty, though.
The Wise One
I have prayed for the last time. Put away the sacred texts, sent the brothers down the mountain at great haste. I have prayed until I have nothing left and damn me for my weakness, I don’t understand. And God will not tell me: why? Why does he allow Satan to consume these people, surely sinners all and yet their children, too? Has God been demanding absolute sacrifice all along, and only now shows us that He means it? I have nothing but questions left, and perhaps some suspicions.
When the dragon finally comes I intend to watch from the highest tree I can climb. And I will laugh and laugh at their despair. Us monsters need to stick together.
The Dragon emerged from the mountain to begin its flight. The Mines were destroyed outright, utterly and quickly, and the damage was such that fire rained down onto the village’s markets and the survivors huddled outside the Duke’s walls. The Market was consumed in flames and the Dragon flew on, sparing the forest.
When the Dragon approached the church, the bishop’s blessings were for naught. It was consumed, but it was a close thing.
At the Duke’s walls, the Dragon was repelled by the Warrior’s bravery backed by a few spearmen heartened by her screams of rage. The beast was struck down, finally, en route to the Warrior’s own home, slain finally after generations of terror by the very sword that had failed the task before.
Drakevale survived and was not abandoned. As he predicted, the Duke was summarily hanged by the mob. And the Warrior was greeted at her home by her loving family, all but the Warrior’s deformed mad sister cackling in the forest, where she continues to cackle to this day.