Author Archives: natechen

Captain Marvel – A Case Study in Manifesting Bad Story

Posted by natechen on

Last week we talked about the role I feel the creeping influence of New Thought – more commonly known as “manifesting” or “affirmations” – had in the collapse of American storytelling. I originally intended to include a short discussion of what an affirmation film looks like but things got a bit out of hand. Last week’s post was nearly double my usual target length for an essay on writing without that section. It was already late and adding another 1,200 to 1,500 words to it wasn’t ideal. So this week you get that part of things.

Today we’re going to look at Captain Marvel (2019), a film from the MCU that was released near the peak of that franchise’s popularity. Also, a film I had not watched until just a few weeks ago. The things I do for this blog…

The story of Captain Marvel revolves around Carol Danvers (portrayed by Brie Larson), an American fighter pilot who is kidnapped and brainwashed by an alien race called the Kree so that she will use her abilities in service to their interstellar empire. 

In the beginning of the tale Carol was test flying a faster-than-light craft when it crashes, irradiating her in supernatural energy from the engine when it explodes. Instead of dying instantly, she gained superpowers. The energies that suffused Carol came from the Tesseract, one of the MCU’s six Infinity Stones, objects that govern the universe. 

As a fallout of this, Carol suffers from amnesia and is discovered by the Kree. They brainwash her to believe she is a Kree soldier and her different appearance and superpowers are a result of an accident. She wears a regulator that helps her use her powers safely and is told to control her emotions. She’s put under the command of a superior named Yon-Rogg, who answers directly to the Kree supercomputer called the Supreme Intelligence.

Eventually Carol returns to Earth, the lies that have been told to her are revealed and Carol chooses to control her power no longer. She awakens to her true potential, beats Yon-Rogg and throws the Kree off of Earth. 

As a story this narrative is not really interesting. Carol goes through the each stage of the narrative without playing much of an active role. She goes from place to place, listening to other people tell herself about herself. The events of the story in the present don’t have a lot of thematic ties to her past, revolving largely around Carol hunting a lost Kree on Earth while dodging shapeshifters called Skrulls. These events catalyze her learning she’s been brainwashed but don’t do much else.

However, as a vehicle for New Thought concepts the story is very interesting.

The first element in this is the kind of power Carol has, power drawn from the Tesseract and, from there, from an Infinity Stone. Carol is a literal conduit for a cosmological force. This is about as direct an analogy for the manifestation belief that you are a shard of the divine as you can get without putting the concept directly into the story.

The story itself, however, doesn’t establish this right away. It begins by showing us the “illusions” that Carol is surrounded by, the things that keep her from expressing her full potential right away. The movie opens on her talking with Yon-Rogg. In the course of this discussion he tells her not to get angry, avoid fear and most of all, don’t express humor. These are all framed as things that interfere with a soldier’s duties. Finally, Rogg points to her heart and tells her to stop thinking with that. Instead he points to her head and tells her to think with that, instead.

In affirmation calculus, clamping down on emotions is a way to cut you off from the divine, as negative emotions are signs you’re far from the source of your power and positive emotions help you draw out divinity. This is the first “lie” that New Thought insists people are taught. Modern society makes people too intellectual and too emotionless.

This leads directly to the movie’s second illusion, which comes about when Carol meets the Supreme Intelligence. Most of this exposition has more to do with the film’s plot than its themes, but it ends with an illuminating line. The Intelligence warns Carol, “What was given can be taken away.”

Manifesting is all about using the power you already have to get what you want using the divinity that is yours already. Since all things are divine by the nature of the universe, your divinity cannot be lost. However, the fear of losing something is presented as one of the most negative emotions a person can experience and one of the things most likely to keep you from realizing your own divinity.

The Supreme Intelligence directly threatening Carol in this way is an empty threat in this calculus, to be sure. But just making the threat can keep her under control.

Both of these themes are occasionally reinforced throughout the movie, especially in a flashback sequence where we walk through a jumble of Carol’s early memories. In this sequence she’s repeatedly told she can’t, or she’s too emotional. As Carol begins to remember her life on Earth she asks Rogg about it, who tells her she’s getting emotional and she should remember her training.

Finally, when Carol knows the truth and confronts the Supreme Intelligence about what happened to her the computer tells her, “Remember… without us…you’re weak. You’re flawed. Helpless. We saved you. Without us… you’re only human.”

Carol replies, “I’ve been fighting with one arm tied behind my back. But what happens… …when I’m finally set free?”

During this sequence Carol removes the regulator that the Kree gave her and manifests her true abilities, allowing her to defeat all the Kree in and around the planet without significant effort. This sequence is obviously the moment when Carol realizes she is divine and embraces it. With the power of the cosmos on her side she easily tramples over the lies that tried to hold her back. This is the emotional and narrative climax of the film.

As climaxes go, it’s not a very inspiring one. There’s not a whole lot of build up to Carol’s decision to stop controlling herself and cutting loose. She just goes around talking to people until she decides to change sides. Her self control is never shown as an impediment, keeping her from connecting to the people around her. In fact, most people who meet Carol like her immediately. She manages to make her way through life just fine before finding “freedom” so it feels as if she just has an epiphany and chooses to do something else.

That’s a feasible path for a person to go down in real life but it isn’t the most satisfying story to hear. Carol’s personal journey is surrounded by events but those events don’t feel very impactful either. She meets Nick Fury and Phil Coulson, agents of the SHIELD organization that runs day to day things in the background of the MCU. She meets some Skrulls, one named Talos being the most important. Most importantly, she meets Maria Rambou, her former wingman in the Air Force.

These characters are the third interesting New Thought thread in the movie. Fury, Coulson and Mari all serve as reflections of Carol as she goes through her journey. It’s harder to see with the first two, as they are already preestablished characters who are written somewhat in line with their previous appearances. Discrepancies can be papered over by pointing out both men are younger in Carol’s story than they are in other portions of the MCU. Maria is a new character and her presence is more informative.

We never see Maria Rambou on her own, pursuing her own ends. When she speaks it is almost always to Carol, almost always about Carol. She’s not an independent character, but rather a mouthpiece to speak affirmations into Carol until she’s ready to sustain them on her own. Consider one of Maria’s longest lines of dialog in the film:

“You are Carol Danvers. You are the woman on that black box risking her life to do the right thing. My best friend… who supported me as a mother, and a pilot when no one else did. You’re smart and funny, and a huge pain in the ass. And you are the most powerful person I knew, way before you could shoot fire from your fist. You hear me?”

Even when Maria talks about her own life in that line it is entirely about Carol’s impact on it. Carol is the only person who matters. It’s eerie, but very indicative of how manifestors look at other people.

Skrulls are another interesting element in the film. They can shapeshift, making them a simple metaphor for how affirmations shape our lives. They want to be someone else and then instantly manifest it, something that is noteworthy in affirmation culture. The fact that Skrulls are recast from definite villains in the comics to sympathetic figures in this film plays into the positive ideas the writers have for this idea. The fact that it might bother other people is never explored.

In fact the film doesn’t engage with many of the questions the movie sets forth. It doesn’t ask the hard questions about when emotions are more important than self control or vice versa. The movie isn’t interested in the effects Carol’s long disappearance might have on her friends and family. It doesn’t ask about the nature of the Kree-Skrull conflict. The idea that shapeshifters who lie about their appearance on a daily basis might be naturally more dangerous than people who don’t is hinted at but never expanded on. Carol simply strolls through all these things, decides how she wants to see them and proceeds as if her assumptions are true. These assumptions are never challenged.

In short, the movie simply manifests around its protagonist.

When Captain Marvel was first released I didn’t see much point in watching it. While I’ve enjoyed many offerings from the MCU I’ve never sought to partake right away and I’ve found the franchise in general to be a mixed bag. It has some high highs but there are very low lows in there as well and Marvel’s hit rate was fairly average to begin with and has declined drastically over the last five years. Captain Marvel was definitely near the beginning of that declining trend and reviews of the film didn’t inspire me to check it out. Now that I finally have watched it I don’t imagine I’ll go back to it again.

I don’t think Captain Marvel was the first New Thought film. There are probably many others, some that I suspect are much older than this one. Yet going back and looking through it was very informative for me. I hope you’ve found this discussion of the film’s religious threads interesting but we’re not quite done with it yet.

You see, affirmation culture isn’t just about manifesting the story. It’s about manifesting positivity around that story. That’s very, very important. So, if you’ll spare me just a bit more of your patience, in the next week or two we’ll take a look at how critics reacted to the movie, both positively and negatively. More importantly, we’ll take a look at how the critics reacted to each other, and try to draw some conclusions from that.

Since this will require a bit more work than just watching a movie and pulling up the film’s script I’m not sure when I’ll have this final installment into the New Thought Saga prepared but it will be before we return to fiction again. In the meantime, thanks for reading!

One Week Left!

Posted by natechen on

A brief reminder that there’s one week left until the Haunted Blog Crawl submission window is closed! Please try to have a link to your story posted as a reply to the original post (or to this one) by the end of the 17th! If you’re late you can’t get in!

Okay, I’ll most likely go back and add your link to the master list. But I can’t promise it will be in a timely fashion.

Find the full details on the Haunted Blog Crawl in the original post here:

Open Call – The 2025 Haunted Blog Crawl

The Gospel According to Southern California

Posted by natechen on

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last ten years or so trying to figure out how the art of storytelling has entered into such a prolonged decline. Any art form goes through swings and roundabouts, of course. Mediums ebb and flow. Trends are just that, trendy, and the public rarely hews to them for a long time. However, beginning somewhere around 2012, stories in all forms began to slip in quality in pronounced, drastic ways.

It began with novels and comics, where most storytelling trends begin. These are low risk mediums outside the mainstream, where experimentation is quick and cheap. However, over time this bizarre collapse in quality began to spread. What happened? Was it some kind of mass psychosis? A conspiracy of cultural revolutionaries? Perhaps the Aztecs were right after all and 2012 was just the end of the world as we knew it.

I have not been alone in my quest to understand the change in culture. Many, many other people have tried to analyze the trends and crack the code and, over the last five years or so, a few conclusions have been reached.

First, and most importantly, it’s not just a question of a decline in talent, although a certain amount of that has certainly taken place. However, some of the people producing terrible stories have produced excellent work in the past. Now they do not. Furthermore, the ebb and flow of talent is a part of any artform but this kind of collapse in artistic merit far outstrips the norm. So there has to be more to it than a question of talent.

Most pundits suggest artists have fallen into the grasp of a political ideology, a form of Marxism that reduces stories to a myopic obsession over the oppressed and the oppressor. This singular focus squeezes out many of the typical elements of good story. Character details, choices, consequences and more are all obscured behind the grandiose narrative of terrible, oppressive society and the virtuous but downtrodden masses.

There’s merit to this notion as well, because any kind of orthodoxy like this is going to put blinders on creatives that strips them of their ability to think artistically about their story. However, many great artists have fallen into this orthodoxy and still told great stories. This could even be a kind of Peter principle. Only so many good storytellers are out there and the bad ones are more vulnerable to this kind of groupthink, so we will see more stories toeing the party line doing terribly. While I think this is a factor I don’t think it’s the whole story.

About a year ago I wrote about the Empire of Southern California, which I believe is another part of the puzzle. If you want the full details you can read about them in the linked post but the highlights are simple. Most of our storytellers come from a handful of isolated, insular cultural centers like SoCal or university campuses. That limits their experiences to a very narrow sliver of real life. As a consequence they’re unequipped to tell stories that appeal to the majority of people. I still think that is the case. But when I wrote that blog post I said I still didn’t think I had all the pieces of the puzzle.

You may suspect, based on this long introduction and the title of this post, that I believe I have the missing piece.

If you did suspect this, you are correct.

In 1937 a man named Napoleon Hill published a book titled Think and Grow Rich, a book that has had a profound impact on American culture in the roughly ninety years since it was published. That may come as a surprise to you, since most people I’ve spoken to have never knowingly heard of Hill or his work. The reality is, they have heard his work. They just don’t know it.

The truth is Napoleon Hill’s schools of thought have infiltrated a breathtaking swath of modern American thought. Everything from self help to multilevel marketing groups draw on his ideas. Many self styled “Christian” preachers actually draw on his ideas as gospel and many of the most powerful and wealthy denizens of Silicon Valley, Hollywood and DC swear by some variety of Hill’s theosophy.

The high priestess of Hill’s religion is known to practically every American and she wields incredible power among the nation’s largest cultural power brokers. If you haven’t guessed who she is I’ll give you a hint. She owns her own TV network, which she uses to promote Hill’s gospel on a regular basis.

Her name is Oprah Winfrey. She calls herself a Christian but what she preaches is the power to manifest. So what does that mean and why is it bad for storytelling? Let’s break it down.

The technical term for Hill’s theosophy is New Thought. It contains ideas which he updated for the modern age but they are not really very new. Since New Thought is a clunky term I am generally going to abbreviate it to “manifesting” or “affirmation” as these are the core ideas of the movement. The basic idea of manifesting is that you can think about a thing and reality will warp around you until it becomes real.

This is possible because you are divine.

Let me stress that I am not exaggerating nor am I making a joke, manifesting is a theological assertion grounded in the belief that all things are fragments of the divine and the divine is what creates the world we see around us. Since we are supposedly divine we have within us the power that creates the world. All we have to do is become aware of that power then apply it by manifesting the world we want to live in. In short, we can think and grow rich.

The simplest way to do this is with words. Affirmations are generally cited as the easiest way to begin exercising the power of manifestation. Repeating phrases like “I am healthy” or “I am loved” over and over supposedly sharpens one’s powers until these simple truths manifest. To do this we must be in touch with the divine. 

To get in touch with the divine we have to vibrate at higher frequencies, which bring us closer to our true natures. We vibrate at higher frequencies when we experience joy and love, so we focus on those emotions, we affirm ourselves and the world itself bends to our whims. It might sound like there’s more to it than that but there’s really not.

This is because affirmations and manifesting are fraudulent ideas.

However, many, many people have bought into this fraud and believe it whole heartedly. Oprah isn’t the only one. Again, it has wormed its way into a huge number of places. I’m not going to break all of that down in this blog post. If you want an introduction to the history of the New Thought movement I recommend Melissa Doughtery’s book Happy Lies, which I read as my starting point for understanding the concepts.

What’s important for today’s topic is the effects that an affirmation mindset has on creative work. In my experience, they are entirely toxic.

The first, greatest example of that is the demand for positivity. Now in general the concepts of joy and love do not have to equate to positivity but in creative circles that is an association that has become very pernicious. When a creator is discussing a story their thoughts tend to hinge on how positive the discussion is.

Creators of failed projects will often blame their failure on the widespread discussion of the weaknesses of their project. Talk around many of the recent flops in the realm of scifi and superhero franchises are good case studies. The failure of Star Wars projects like The Acolyte or DC films like The Flash are often blamed on Internet critics spreading negativity. Conversely, people who speak highly of projects are credited with positivity. They are trying to help the project manifest, so they are viewed kindly.

All this means that the creators of failed projects cannot hear any kind of needed, critical feedback. This, more than anything, is the greatest weakness of the affirmation mindset regarding creativity. A creator who cannot stand critical feedback is already a failure. Let me reiterate, if you are trying to manifest a successful story you will fail. Just sitting and muttering to yourself is not the way to make a story come about, you must work relentlessly and be open to feedback, revision and hard, hard work.

Things only get worse from there.

If anyone who achieves a state of joy and love is uniquely in touch with their divine nature then anyone who contradicts them is a blasphemer. Clearly, they aren’t in touch with the divine. After all, if we all are shards of the divine spark when we are in touch with the divine we should all agree. In this way affirmation culture is given a pass for viewing anyone who contradicts it as evil. Far from god. Worthy of any and all condemnations that fall upon them.

Many people have noted the hostility of creators towards audiences over the last decade or so and with good reason. However, the source of this hostility is often blamed on mundane factors. An entitled background. Cultural siloing. A lack of appreciation for the economic realities of the situation. However, since learning about the details of manifesting, my view on the situation has changed radically and I now believe it’s much simpler. Most creatives view their critics as ontologically evil because by taking issue with mainstream creators in any way they are resisting attempts to manifest the divine.

Thus the rift between creator and audience widens.

Yet at a fundamental level, even if the impulse to fight with critics and vilify feedback were resisted I don’t think the gap between affirmation culture and American culture could ever close fully. (I stress American culture here mostly because it is American culture that has gone through a nosedive in the last decade.) It is true that in American culture there is a spirit of exceptionalism, that we are special. However, the notion that we have all we need within us already, that the spark of the divine will change reality if we only attend to it, runs contrary to our culture at large.

Americans value hard work, hustle and adapting to circumstance. American men, in particular, are always on the lookout for the next thing coming up in the world around them. The idea that we magically have everything we need within us already is highly counterintuitive to us. That has created an ever growing rift between the culture at large and our storytellers. Feedback on the technical shortcomings of story craft will not close that gap.

The idea that words can change reality is very intoxicating to the creative mindset. Making your way through the world by artistic craftsmanship is incredibly difficult and those who achieve it might really feel like they’ve cracked some cosmological secret. As someone still looking for a way to break out from the pack, I sympathize. 

Yet it’s not true.

The people who have become drunk on manifestation as the secret to success, wealth and virtue have strayed far from reality and that makes them dangerous in more ways than one. In the arts, it puts them at odds with their audience and unable to improve. Thus, their work rots on the vine. As with many issues caused by misguided religious movements, correcting the errors will take time, patience and grace from men and God. The first step is realizing the problem is there. The next will depend on the individual.

Every person tries to usurp reality in their own small ways. Find where you’ve done it and get back in touch with the way things really are. Then make the best work you can while confronting your shortcomings and, most importantly, don’t fall for the false promises of affirmation culture. It will take a long, long time but eventually things will change.

An Unfortunate Delay

Posted by natechen on

Due to a very busy schedule this week I am unable to bring you a post of a quality that is to my satisfaction. I apologize for this. Two major, looming deadlines synchronized this week and I’ve been very busy. More on this at some point in the future. I hope to be back with you next week,

Nate

Pebbles in an Avalanche

Posted by natechen on

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”

Like many lessons we learn in our youth, this one has the ring of truth but frequently fails on contact with reality. In point of fact, this is not a truism. It is an attempt at manifestation, a practice we will talk more about soon but that we’ll pass over for the moment. The idea of the sticks and stones adage is simple. We should be injured by physical things and not by nonphysical things thus when ephemeral things like words seem to cause pain we should take comfort in the fact that words cannot cause actual pain.

The problem with this way of thinking is that it crunches words down into nothing, ignoring that words are tools. You can use them to build or destroy. When words are used to destroy a person then the saying becomes meaningless pabulum. We have all seen this. Words used to reduce a spouse or child to a nervous wreck, fearing the constant disapproval of their own family. Words used to destroy a reputation, taking away a person’s livelihood. Words used to accuse, dragging the innocent to jail or an early grave.

“Words will never hurt me” is one of the most empty, worthless lessons I learned as a child. There is a reason so few people in the generations after mine repeat the saying. I was made to repeat the saying not because it was true but because those who taught it to me hoped that my saying it would make it true about me. The irony there is palpable.

If words do not have the power to hurt a person they do not have the power to shape a person at all, as causing pain is the simplest task there is.

So let us dispense with this childish fantasy. The lesson we learned about words in the past were conceited and contradictory. Let me propose a new standard for understanding words.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through Him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.”

In this understand, words are the foundation. They set the structure and shape of our lives, rooting us in the world and giving us an understanding of what is and is not. Words all rest on a foundation of truth, a single Word that we find at the beginning of all things. Like sticks and stones, words can be used to build upon the foundation, creating monuments, homes and communities.

The problem with words, as with sticks and stones, is when they are used irresponsibly. When you don’t build on the foundation the structures you make quickly collapse. When you casually drop debris on the ground it doesn’t vanish, just stacks up in ever more unstable piles. A diligent person can clear up the rubble and stack the pebbles into new, useful structures but it takes time. Far, far more time than it takes to scatter new loads of gravel along the ground.

All this detritus is unstable. As it grows deeper and deeper it becomes unsafe to cross. And sometimes it moves on its own. Titanic piles of self serving lies, reckless hyperbole and malicious slander can sit stable for years or decades, until a single word, said a bit too loud, shakes it all free and the avalanche sweeps aside everything in its wake.

It will crush institutions.

It will demolish careers.

It will end lives.

I know it. You know it. We have seen this happen, not just in the broad sweep of history but in this, the year of our Lord 2025.

When these avalanches come along they are as indiscriminate as any other disaster. Those who have build studiously and responsibly on the foundation of truth are as vulnerable to this as those who haven’t. When they come, if you aren’t prepared the carnage is shocking.

You realize the gap between stones and words is not so wide as you thought and you begin to wonder how to fix things. You begin to think of ways to deal with the problem. Certainly, you think, an avalanche so large requires an equally large solution. We must seize institutions! We must change laws! We must win elections!

This is the natural response. We see this happen, not just in the broad sweep of history but in this, the year of our Lord 2025.

Yet none of this is true. It’s just more rubble, scattered recklessly over the foundation of truth, laying down a foundation for the next disaster and nothing more. The problem is not the avalanche. It’s the pebbles.

There are many people building many things on our cultural edifice. Very few seek to build them on the foundation of truth and, so long as that remains the case, these disasters will continue to sweep over us. Yet the truth is a mountain and it cannot be moved by the wild movements of a few pebbles. If we seek to build on that foundation we must clear away the lies from it.

To do that, we must first confront the lies we’ve been told about the nature of words. In my generation it was sticks and stones. Now, it’s something much more sinister. The lie of today is thoughts are things. But that is a topic for next week.

For now, clear away the rubble. Find the foundation. Build on the Word. He will always be there.

One Month to Go

Posted by natechen on

This is a brief reminder that the deadline to submit a short story for the 2025 Haunted Blog Crawl is one month from today! The full details for submissions are found on the original post!

Fiction as Refuge

Posted by natechen on

Hello, hello, welcome back! It has…

Well. I can’t say I had a great couple of weeks off, all things considered. Still, I have vacated and now I am back so it’s time to get down to work. It’s time to talk about fiction and its purposes in our life, a topic which those who enjoy the creation and appreciation of fiction hold near and dear to our hearts.

However, I want to take look at it from a different direction. Generally the fiction aficionado loves talking about the creation of fiction, the care in construction, the integration of timeless truth with a transient narrative. The casual fictioneer looks at things differently.

That is not news. Anyone hardcore storyteller who has tried to discuss movies, TV or books with their casual friends has come to this conclusion. The structure and techniques of story rarely mean much to them. Yet if we want to be storytellers who can captivate a large audience we still need to understand why they look at stories the way they do.

That brings us to the topic of today’s post. Fiction as refuge is an idea I’ve been slowly coming to understand as I watch the gradual disintegration of the stories that formed the cultural zeitgeist for most of my life. This collapse of the narrative integrity of some of these tales is something I cared a great deal about. In this I was not alone. But over time I came to realize I didn’t look at the issue in the same way as many of my peers.

Again, this was not new to me. That’s the way things have been most of my life. Yet the reasons for these differences is something all storytellers need to grapple with, as I believe it is a significant part in what makes some stories last in the eyes of the public and others fade away.

I strongly believe that most people who appreciate fiction look to it as a place of refuge from the world.

Let me try to explain this using the classic TV franchise Star Trek as an example. The essence of Rodenberry’s vision of the future is that humanity would change and mature until they no longer suffered from internal strife and division. Instead, they would travel into the stars, using their newfound cooperation to learn, grow and conquer the stars.

Was this vision a bit naive? Hopelessly optimistic? At times painfully detached from reality? Certainly. However, when you are tired from the constant conflicts in life, slipping onto the decks of the starship Enterprise with your favorite crew to sort out some sort of nonsense science project without any of that drama is mighty appealing. You’re not looking for craftsmanship. You’re not seeking moral lessons or political insight. You just need to feel some sense of meaning with people you know and like. Fiction offers that.

Most fiction franchises rise or fall not on the strength of their plots or their twists or their moods. They stand on the strength of their characters. The crews of Star Trek are packed full of fun, relatable and memorable characters who often carried their TV shows through poor scripts and network hostility. The original cast won over audiences to the point that some of them survived the years after Star Trek was cancelled on the generosity of their fans. James T. Kirk, Spock and Leonard McCoy remain the measuring stick for effective ensemble casts to this day.

When Picard gathered the crew of the Enterprise-D together one more time fans rejoiced. It was a bit like slipping on an old, comfortable pair of slippers one last time. The comfort and relaxation provided by spending a little more time with long loved characters is a precious thing. The timeless nature of fiction makes it possible to find that respite at any time, even if all you can do is talk about stories with others who have enjoyed them with you.

Fiction’s power of refuge is special. It can be horribly misused, both by tearing down the elements of a story that offer shelter and by manipulating others through the way fiction lowers a person’s guard. Audiences can also be tempted to crawl into fiction and abandon reality entirely. None of that is healthy.

Yet, when the boundaries and purposes of fiction are properly respected, fiction as shelter is not just good, it is great. Don’t let the drive for that to replace all the other things fiction can do. Moral teaching, craftsmanship, timelessness, empathy and many, many other benefits come from fiction as well. It’s fine to work them into a warm, comfortable story. But if you want those other elements to reach as broad an audience as possible, studying your fiction as a source of respite may be the most important element of all.

The Drownway – Afterwords

Posted by natechen on

Well, another adventure in the books. The Drownway is one of the two stories I had bouncing around in the back of my mind that drove me to begin playing around in Nerona in the first place. I’ve had a particular soft spot for Renaissance Italy as a setting for stories since I read The Prince of Foxes way back in high school. Being a fan of science fiction and fantasy putting my own twist on the historical setting seemed like a natural extension. Some echoes of the Renaissance inspiration can be seen in characters like the Borgias or Cassian’s fascination with fashion.

I said at the beginning that I was also interested in story as an exploration. The Drownway was concieved as a search because I wanted to go to the edges of Nerona as I’d concieved of it and see what I could find. The Benthic started as a vague idea to explain why large portions of Nerona might be viewed as lost ruins. I had not originally intended to discuss them more than as a sea dwelling species that had once sunk part of the Neronan peninsula into the ocean.

The story served to flesh them out more and I’m very pleased to have taken a slightly closer look at who they are and what they are capable of. Will they come into play more in the future? Perhaps. I’ve greatly enjoyed writing stories set in Nerona whether in novellas, as with The Drownway, or as short stories. I intend to continue with them as time permits.

That said, I don’t think my next project on this blog will involve Cassian Ironhand and his companions. For that matter, I’m not sure it will involve Nerona at all. Right now I’m more inclined to check in on Roy Harper again and see how things are going in the Columbian West.

Whatever happens next, it won’t be for a little while yet. I normally take a week off after completing a project but this time around I plan to take two. I have several irons in the fire right now and I’m going to take a little more time to get things lined up before I return with my usual between-project musings. Keep an eye out for those beginning on September 13th.

In the meantime, one of the projects I’m working on is the 2025 Haunted Blog crawl! If you’re interested in knowning more about that and perhaps even participating yourself you can find out all the details here:

Open Call – The 2025 Haunted Blog Crawl

If you’d like to support what I do here consider picking up a copy of my book of Roy Harper stories, Have Spell, Will Travel on Amazon. You can find it using this handy, dandy link:

Thank you as always for reading. I’ll see you in two weeks!

The Drownway Epilogue – Rumors in Renicie

Posted by natechen on

Previous Chapter

“I’m very glad to see you here, Signore Teodoro,” Grigori said, his smile warm and broad. “The trip across the Drownway must have been very trying for you but I hope my men made it as easy as possible.”

“I regret that they didn’t, Signore Borgia.” Teodoro sat on the chair in Grigori’s chambers with enough force that it seemed it would break. The bulky man paid it no mind. “I regret that I have not had the pleasure of hearing from you since our last correspondence a month ago. I am sure a man of your means has already learned the outcome of that.”

“Indeed?” It wasn’t surprising to him but disappointing none the less. Grigori studied the gray layers of Teodoro’s clothing, noting that he did seem unusually moist and bedraggled, even for someone who had gone through Nerona’s dampest passage. “Perhaps the unnatural waves that lashed the islands three days ago were the cause. By all reports they were quite violent.”

“That much I can confirm myself,” the other man replied, leaning back in the chair and staring into the distance. “I never felt as close to death as I did when I saw the water coming. It seemed like the whole Adriatic Ocean had come for my life, as if there were some score it had to settle with me.”

“Yet here you are.” Grigori settled into his own chair in a more restrained fashion. “Shall I send for something to refresh you? Or would you prefer rest?”

“I haven’t the time for either, I’m afraid, not if I wish to remain a free man.” He gestured weakly towards the outside world, presumably referring to whatever forces still sought to imprison him. “The successor to the Prince of Torrence may still be an open question right now but such matters rarely go unresolved for long. Whoever rules from the citadel next will eventually have to turn their attention to affairs of state. The murder of a Conde by one of his brothers will not be low on the list and I intend to be far from here by then.”

Grigori winced to hear such an important matter put so tastelessly. “Wise of you, Signore. I will not detain you then. Find Evincio in the stables, tell him you require the chestnut stallion and he will see you well mounted.” He motioned to Gunter and the Eisenkinder brought him a bag, small in size but heavy in the hand, which Grigori passed on to Teodoro. “This will see you well on your way.”

He weighed the bag for a moment, clearly debating whether he should examine the contents, then nodded and secured the bag in his belt. “Thank you, Signore. You have always been very kind to me. I hope we will meet again.”

“As do I, Teodoro. As do I.”

Gunter kept himself from scornful noise until after the door closed and their guest was gone. “What a nearsighted fool.”

Grigori sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and massaging at a sore spot in his stomach where a shallow cut was still healing. “Teodoro was a loyal man. Perfect for his role in every respect, save for his lack of imagination, and a very valuable weapon in the courts of Torrence. If he could have inherited his brother’s title it would have benefited us greatly. Pity he never made it across the Drownway.”

“If you say it then it must be so, Papa Borgia. Will Evincio need my help in the stables today, do you think?”

“No, no, Gunter, you always sell him short. Leave him alone and he will surprise you.” Gunter chuckled but knew better than to comment on his master’s joke. “Besides, I need you to go into the square today and start making inquiries among the bravos again. Our quiver is out of arrows and at the worst possible time, when Torrence is in chaos and ripe for the picking!”

“What about the Blacklegs? They are still here, aren’t they?”

Grigori cracked one eye open to glare annoyance at the Isenkinder. “I don’t need a whole company of condottieri to shield my investments, Gunter, I need a few arrows I can loose into the squealing runts of the herd. Besides, I have heard a dragon was spotted along the Drownway recently. The Prince will likely buy up all the large bodies of troops to mount an expedition against it and I have no desire to bid against him. What about those Hextons you know?”

Gunter scratched at his pale beard. “The Herakleans took a contract headed north a few days ago. I believe they were headed to Lome and from there to Fionni as caravan escorts. At wagon speeds it will be a month before we can expect to hear from them even if they were a good fit for the job you have in mind.”

“I haven’t told you what I want them for yet.”

“I’ve arranged hundreds of tasks for you over the years, Papa, and I can only think of three or four I would trust them with. They’re Hextons. Their conscience dictates far more of their behavior than is wise.”

“I see.” Grigori closed his eye again and considered his options. Three of his men lost waiting to ambush Teodoro on the Drownway, many of his others tied up dealing with business in Lome. He had not had as much need for bravos since he brought Gunter into the family and his connections among them were not as strong as they had once been. He ran down that list of names, quietly eliminating them one at a time, until he arrived at an unenviable conclusion. Grigori sat up and opened his eyes to the grayness of the world to find Gunter quietly watching him. “You know what that leaves us with, don’t you?”

“We wait a month to see what new options appear before us?”

“Fortune favors the bold, not the passive. Someone will succeed to the throne of Torrence and I will have a blade at his belly or my name is not Grigori Borgia! Now, bring me the Blind Man.”

Gunter let out a breath that might have been a sigh. “Very well.” He crossed to the chamber’s exit, opened the door and summoned a page, telling him, “There is a Blind Man enjoying the master’s hospitality in the kitchen. Fetch him here.”

There was a bottle of wine sitting on the sideboard and Grigori helped himself to a generous serving. “He was here already?”

“I was on my way to report it to you when you summoned me on account of Signore Teodoro. It didn’t seem wise to mention it while he wasn’t here.”

“Your discretion is praiseworthy. It can be difficult to know how to deal with things when I am not entertaining guests. Your own position became available because your predecessor couldn’t parse such delicate matters.” Grigori drained his cup and waited for the bracing warmth of the wine to hit him. He was going to need it.

The servants in his household were nothing if not swift and less than three minutes after Gunter sent him the page returned, knocking on the door and announcing, “The Blind Man requests an audience with Signore Borgia.”

Grigori fixed his eyes on the door and said, “Enter.”

The page stepped into the room, holding the door open for a man dressed in a simple gray tunic and hose with a gray cloth wrapped around his eyes. He held a rough wooden staff that came up to his leather belt. The man’s hair was dark, bordering on black, but streaked with silver. In a few years Grigori suspected the situation would be much the opposite, with gray the dominant color and the black fading into obscurity. In spite of his incredible plainness the newcomer had an unsettling air to him.

Grigori marshalled his full faculties, doing his best to attend to every small change he observed, but he still found no indication of when the Blind Man began seeing through his eyes. Perhaps he was using Gunter’s or the page’s instead. Grigori raised his wine cup in salute.

“Papa Borgia,” the Blind Man said, bowing deeply from the waist. “I hope I find you well on this blessed morning?”

“Well enough.” Grigori motioned the page into the room. “Pour my guest something to drink, boy.”

“I am content, Signore,” the Blind Man said, a thin smile on his lips. “If you enjoy your wine that is more than enough for me.”

Grigori ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, wondering if his guest was picking up on that sensation as well. Then he waved the page out of the room and made eye contact with Gunter. The Isenkinder nodded. “I should see if Evincio ran into any surprises. Excuse me, Papa.”

Once they were alone Grigori turned his attention fully to his guest. “Well, Fabian. Here we are again.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it, Papa Borgia,” the Blind Man said. “Have I done something to displease you?”

“I can’t help but recall that every time you come to me it seems like I get swindled out of something.”

“I? Swindle the Prince of Plunder?” His expression turned to one of mock horror. “How could I? Who can cross you and live to make the mistake a second time?”

“Perhaps I should give you your eyes back after all.”

The Blind Man’s expression lost all hint of mirth as he said, “You would value them more if you could see as clearly as they did.”

“The color of a thing has little to do with its value. My eyes work well enough, as you can tell for yourself. If you don’t enjoy seeing the world as I do then you shouldn’t have paid your debts as you did. Or you could just visit less.”

“Have you heard the latest news from the Drownway, Papa Borgia? And I don’t mean Teodoro. Clearly you have already learned about that or Evincio wouldn’t be on Gunter’s mind.”

Grigori pursed his lips, annoyed at the way the Blind Man seemed to learn everything there was to know in Renicie the moment it happened. Even if he could listen with every ear in the city he couldn’t use them all at once. Could he?

“It seems you haven’t.” The Blind Man folded his hands around his staff and sat back in his chair, looking as satisfied as a pick pocket with his first purse. “Signore Marelli’s caravan has arrived at last.”

Grigori sat up straight as an arrow. “Have they? They’re more than three weeks overdue!”

“Well, not the entire caravan, no. The word on the docks is that they were attacked by the Benthic and the wagons were lost. But not the crown jewel of the collection.”

For the first time since Gunter mentioned his presence Grigori started to feel like he might get something useful from the Blind Man this time around. “Are you saying…?”

“There were three survivors from the caravan.” He held up said number of fingers and wiggled them as they were named. “A bravo hired as a guard. One of the junior merchants who was driving a wagon. And a young woman with eyes like sapphires. They arrived just after low tide this morning in the company of their rescuers.”

Just like that Grigori saw all his plans for Torrence coming back together in a new shape, possibly one that would bring him even greater returns. There was only one little detail that gave him some hesitation. “Their… rescuers?”

“It seems the surviving bravo had a brother who heard he hadn’t arrived and set out to rescue him. Touching, really. The people on the docks seem as excited about the Ironhand and his party as they are about the survivors that were rescued.” The Blind Man offered a helpless shrug. “So fickle. Just last week they were bemoaning the loss of all that good Fionni cheese Marelli was dealing in.”

“They must be an impressive bunch if they managed to rescue prisoners from the Benthic, survived a falling star with the waves it raised and made it all the way here afterwords.” Grigori rubbed at his bottom lip, considering the facts. Given his current position and the fact that these bravos had somehow retrieved a key weapon he’d thought was lost he couldn’t afford to ignore this development. What he wasn’t sure of was why the Blind Man had brought the matter to him. News this significant would have fallen in his lap sooner or later. “Do you know where these bravos are?”

“Of course Papa Borgia.” The Blind Man got to his feet, his covered eyes still pointed towards Grigori’s own. “Would you like me to bring them to you?”

“Yes. As it happens I was in the process of searching for just such skillful individuals.”

“Then search no longer.” He sketched out another bow. “I shall return with them in a day or two, if not before.”

“I look forward to good news, Fabian. Until then.”

The Blind Man let himself out, the thin smile back on his lips, passing by Gunter as the Isenkinder returned with his usual impeccable timing. He made sure the door was firmly closed behind the Blind Man then approached Grigori’s desk. “That one may be reaching the end of his usefulness, Papa.”

“Reaching the end, Gunter. But not there yet.” He took a sip of his wine, wondering what his next move ought to be. “Evincio?”

“It’s a shocking thing, Papa. It seems he found a horse thief who broke into the stables! Thankfully they have kicked the villain to death but, alas, his skull was cracked like a chestnut in the process. His face is unrecognizeable. I fear we’ll never know who he was.”

“Tragic. The horses?”

“In good health. Unfortunately it seems Evincio was hit by one of the mares. His arm is broken.”

That was one problem settled and another in its place. Grigori got up and headed for the door. “Start putting together a sling, Gunter, and we’ll go and look in on poor Evincio. I leave for Lome in ten days and I need those horses in their best shape. I will take the break so he can return to work.”

“Of course, Papa. Of course.”

If only every problem House Borgia faced could be handled so easily. Still, there were new bravos at hand. If they proved sharp enough they might be a worthy weapon for the next duel. Time would tell.

The Drownway Chapter Twenty Seven – The King of Stars

Posted by natechen on

Previous Chapter

Cassian washed up on shore on a wave of exhaustion and bruises. The moon was setting overhead and, if he closed his eyes and ignored the four Benthic scattered along the sand, he could almost imagine their entire trip beneath the ocean hadn’t happened. Almost.

He flopped onto his back and put one arm over his head, hiding from the stars overhead. If he was going to slip into total fantasy he might as well try to pretend that Cazador hadn’t gone missing in the first place and all he had to do to find him again was head home to the farm. Problem was, that fantasy wasn’t going to help anyone. Not himself. Certainly not Cazador. So Cassian rolled onto his front and slowly pushed himself up onto his feet.

“Are we all here?” He asked. “All alive?”

“Can’t be alive,” Adalai croaked. “Hurts too much.”

“The dead don’t feel pain,” Marta replied. She had a lot less trouble getting to her feet than the rest of them. Cassian wondered if she knew that she’d grown a thin layer of scales holding her shield against the rush of water that came in when the cavern under the ocean collapsed. He wondered if they were permanent.

“I beg to differ.” Adalai refused to move anything other than his lips. “If this is life it’s too miserable for anyone to survive it.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Verina said, looking down on him from a perch on top of the Linnorm’s head.

He finally lifted his head up off the sand but only to glare up at her. “Pedantry.”

“Stop wallowing,” Cassian said, reaching down to grab him by the collar of his doublet. “Just because you died once and Returned doesn’t mean you can become a whiney misery for the rest of us.”

Adalai finally started moving for himself, brushing Cassian’s hand away and pulling himself upright. “What makes you say that?”

“The whining, mostly.”

“No, what makes you think I Returned from Eternity?”

Cassian blinked once, wondering if the other thought he was some kind of idiot. “I watched it happen. Adalai, your body vanished from the cavern for at least five minutes then the mists parted and you popped out of them like a spring saying the King of Stars was coming. I’m not a deeply religious man but even I can figure that out.”

“When you put it that way it does sound awfully compelling,” Adalai murmured. “I wasn’t exactly dead, though. That place was nothing like the outskirts of Eternity.”

“How is this place still here?” Verina said, her voice echoing over the sodden beach as the Linnorm lifted her higher and higher so she could survey their surroundings with her own eyes. “How are we? That star fell and the waves were like mountains! They should have ground us on the rocks like a millstone and shattered these islands as well.”

Cassian glanced at Trill, who still hadn’t moved, and said, “I wonder if they have anything to do with it. The Stellaris have some kind of pact with the King, perhaps he arranged to spare them.”

“Well either way we should probably get them back into the sea,” Marta said. “I don’t know how long it’s been since we washed up here but they have to be running low on water to breathe by now. After all they did for us I’d hate for them to die in such a pitiful way.”

“Of course. Stupid of me not to think of that. Are you in any shape to help, Adalai?”

“Give me a minute.”

In point of fact Marta and Cassian managed to get all four Benthic back in the water before Adalai rallied enough to move about. It was hard to hold it against him. Regardless of what the others might think, Cassian was fairly certain Adalai had died and Returned in that cavern. That kind of ordeal would leave anyone exhausted.

Trill and her guards came around after a couple of minutes in the ocean which was a bit of a relief to Cassian. “We’re all alive,” he said, sitting on the seabed so he would stay submerged with them. “So are you. I hope that’s enough to convince you we bear you no ill will because I have no intention of going back to the Ursus Nest with you.”

Trill made a dismissive gesture. “At this point I don’t believe there is much to be gained by bringing you back with us. If you were a threat to the Stellaris you’d have shown it by now. In addition the dragon you killed was a threat to us, so I suppose we also owe you a favor. Return to your arid lands. All I ask is that you take the time to ask for permission before entering our waters again.”

“Wait.” The Benthic paused on the brink of departure. Marta struggled for a moment as she tried to frame her question. Finally she just blurted out, “What about Braxton? He has been your prisoner far longer than is just and his own people need him back.”

She needed him back, although Cassian wondered if there was a future for her with the man she was so obviously smitten by now that fate had conspired to make her devour part of a dragon. However, whether or not that would matter was largely up to the Benthic. Trill did little to set the issue to rest. “I will do what I can,” the Benthic captain said. ”But I can’t make you many promises.”

Cassian cleared his throat, which didn’t sound quite as impressive under water, and said, “Forgive me for being a pessimist but are you even sure Ursus Nest still exists? After that star fell I have to wonder. The islands in the Drownway absorbed far more of the impact than I expected them to but the waves still must have dealt terrible destruction to anything in or along the Gulf.”

Trill swished her tail to cut off the Hexton woman’s protests. “Worry not, Marta Shieldbearer. Ursus Nest is quite safe, as is anything along your shores. Matriarchs are far more powerful tide turners than the normal Benthic. The reason these islands remain here instead of being swept into the Gulf is most likely because the Matriarch we saw put the whole force of her power into calming the waves caused by the star’s fall.”

“Your people have that kind of power?” Cassian asked, disturbed by the notion.

“We couldn’t survive without it,” Trill replied. “Stars fall in the ocean far more than upon the arid lands. Even without a Matriarch the Stellaris have found the power to turn back larger waves than these. We will be well. In time, when the needs of the treaty are upheld, we will return your Baron to you.”

Cassian returned the speaking pearls to Trill and they parted ways. As he waded through the surf back towards shore he glanced at Marta and frowned. “You’re still showing scales.”

She rolled up one sleeve and showed him the reptilian patterns there were fading. “I think it will go away with enough time. I’m not sure why they chose just now to finally make an appearance.”

“I have an idea or two but it’s pointless to guess blindly. In the forge we would have to hammer things out and I suspect this will be much the same.” Somehow, in the midst of all the insane underwater antics, he’d managed to keep ahold of his bag. Once he opened it up and looked he found his map was still in its oilcloth. Not a huge stroke of luck but he would take it.

As he waded the last few feet to shore he unfolded the map and tried to match the contours of the shoreline to the outlines on the page. He took the position of the stars. He looked east, then west, then east again. Finally he came to a stop, still ankle deep in water, staring blankly at the paper.

Adalai came out to meet him there. “Are you okay, Cassian?”

He kept staring at the map, unseeing. “Where… where do I go, Adalai?”

The other man took him by the elbow and gently dragged him back towards shore. “How about we go to Renicie?”

“But… the caravan… we haven’t found the caravan yet, I can’t even pay any of you and…” The map swam in front of his eyes.

“It’s all right, Cassian,” Marta said. “We all take some losses here and there, this is just one of them.”

“But…”

“You can’t stay out here searching for him forever,” Adalai said. “Come on, it’s time to head back to dry land.”

The map slipped from his fingers and crinkled softly as someone folded it again. Cassian staggered forward as the full weight of the day settled in on him. They had found dozens of Clayhearts like Cazador in the dragon’s lair wrapped in coral and, while they hadn’t looked at every one of them, it was a foolish fantasy to think his brother wasn’t among them. A caravan was a natural target for a dragon. And if Clayhearts were a part of whatever sorcery or ritual the creature was undertaking that made Cazador’s group even more of a prize. They had gone missing in the same general area the dragon hunted.

Now the dragon’s lair was destroyed by star fall.

A flash of rage cleared his vision and Cassian spun around, ripping his breastplate plate off with his Gift. “What a stupid…”

The breastplate skipped more than a dozen times of the waves. “Waste…”

He ripped off a gauntlet but before he could throw it Adalai grabbed him in a bear hug, dragging him back from the water line. “Let me go.”

“Calm down, Cassian.”

“I have to -”

“There’s nothing left to do. It’s time to move on.”

He finally let himself stop, staring out at the waves as they rolled in endlessly, rippling with the reflection of the heavens. Perhaps the King of Stars had come to Return Adalai, perhaps to destroy the Benthic’s gods. Perhaps it was just his duty to guide Cazador and the others into Eternity.

“Let go of me, Adalai.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re right, it’s time to head back to land.”

The other man relaxed his grip and stepped away, leaving Cassian unsteady but upright. The rush of anger that energized him a moment ago had vanished, somehow leaving him even more tired and sore than before it arrived. He sighed and squinted at the ocean, absently wondering if he could catch the gleaming of his metal armor. All he could see was waves. Then he caught a brighter point of light that he focused on it. But it didn’t have the glimmer of metal he’d come to associate with the dragon sight he’d inherited from the sea dragon.

It was more of a cluster of lights. Seven of them. They were rushing inland and quickly separated into a seven pointed crown that raised itself up out of the ocean, seeming to reach all the way to heaven. Beneath them was the outline of a man. Terror washed over Cassian as a living representation of forever stepped up and out of the ocean, steam rising off a body filled with the power of the constellations, and bent down to the shoreline. He shrank back from the entity as one closed hand came to rest on the ground.

The fingers flexed, full of blazing comets and shimmering starlight, then opened to deposit three unconscious human forms on the sand. Then the King of Stars straightened up, paused for a moment to look at the four people who watched him in frozen awe. Then his body vanished and his crown stretched upwards until it merged with the stars above.

Cassian wasn’t sure how long he stared up after the King before he came back to himself. At the very least it was still night when he did. He wasn’t sure why they’d been chosen to see the vision, nor did he care. There was only one thing that really mattered to him.

Reenergized, he dashed forward to the bodies on the beach. It was clear at once they were all breathing. One was too small to be an adult and the second had long, graying hair so Cassian ignored them. The last was the right size. Before any doubt could build in his mind he grabbed the man and rolled him over so he could see his face.

That was how Cassian Ironhand found his brother at last.