Gwythead and Goedwyn - Part 4

Gwydion fled north in the night, stealing away with King Peredur's twelve Golden Boars.

When Peredur awoke and discovered what his guest had done, he was furious. Gwydion had stolen his property and violated all laws of chivalry. He was filled with a great wroth, and quickly gathered his men about him.

"Lo," spoke Peredur. "Such injustice shall not go unanswered. We shall raise our arms and march against Gwydion and Math, who sent him. Let my armies be mustered!" His men cheered, and heeded his words.

When Gwydion reached the court of High King Math, the king was greatly displeased, forward had since reached him that Peredur's armies moved against him, but not yet of Gwydion's treachery.

"Gwydion," Math spoke. "Fortune that you have returned, for Peredur even now calls his banner-men. Make haste to join me and defend our lands from such inequity." Math summoned his armies, and girded himself strongly.

Math's terrible aspect bound him to forever rest his feet in the lap of a young maiden, lest his kingdom move to war; only then could Math walk freely, in order to defend his lands and people. Thus now, did he stand free and ride forth to war, leaving behind the young maiden Goedwyn.

It was thus opportunity for which Gwydion had long worked. With Goedwyn free, Gwydion sent word to his beloved brother,Gwythead. As the armies marched to meet Peredur's forces, Gwydion rode with them, leaving the two lovers behind.

Gwydion had united his brother and his love, but in so doing he had brought to kingdoms to war, the consequences of which had only just begun.

Gwythead and Goedwyn - Part 3

Gwydion had not lied to Math, stirctly speaking. It was the greatest of sins to lie to a kinsman, and even more so to lie to a king. But Gwydion was clever, and he was known for a silvered tongue.

For seven days, Gwydion rode flew south towards the Kingdom of Peredur, the King in Twilight.

On the morning of the eighth day he arrived, and was made welcome. For even in the far south, Gwydion's name was well-known. He wa sbrought before Peredur, and spoke thusly:

"Good king! I am Gwydion and I have come form the High King Math, lord of the third Realm to bring greetings. Math sends his honor and regard to you, good king. But alas, Math sits troubled upon his throne, for word has reached him that in this kingdom are twelve wondrous beasts, twelve great boars whose tusks are of gold and should those tusks be cut form then, why then, they are grown back by the next night. Moreover, Math has heard that such beasts have grown your coffers ten fold, and yet no word of this has come to him from you, King Peredur who he thought freind. Truly, As High KLing, my lord MAth is due tribute from you, his subject, and yet such beasts have been withheld form him."

Peredur heard Gwydion's words, and he was much troubled by them.

"Indeed, good prince," replied Peredur. "This is surely news to me."

"Do you deny the existence of such beatss?" asked Gwydion.

"Indeed, I do not," asnwered Peredur.

"Do you deny that Mah is Hgh King of this relam?" asked Gwydion.

"Indeed, I do not, " replied Peredur.

"Do you deny the fealty you owe him then, as your liege lord," asked Gwydion.

"Indeed, I do not," replied Peredur. "But, these great beasts, being hunted in my own forests are mine, and mine alone. Surely, I see no reason why I should not render unto Math that portion of the wealth they bring which is his rightful due; but these beasts belong here, in the lands they call home. Good sir, it would be unjust to so remove them. Let us do this: I shall render Math one half og these golden tusks, and these great boars shall remain here, tended to by mine own folk as if they were blood of my people. Surely, Math will not deny me that."

Gwydion heard the king, and knew that Math would surely agree to such terms, being so reasonable. This troubled the prince, for things were not going as he had expected. But Gwydion was clever, and he hatched a plot on that very spot.

"Very well," agreed Gwydion. "It shall be so, Come, let us celebrate so equitable an arrangement"

Peredur was only to willing to feast the young prince, for the matter had ended quietly and he had no worries of the trouble that was about to unfold.

That night, Peredur and his men celebrated, for Gwydion was good company. He told many stories of his adventures and performed great feats of magic for those who had gathered. The halls rang with song and laughter. But soon, the merriment ended as Peredur and his court made for bed. They would sleep well that night, for the wine had flowed heavily throughout the halls.

In the dark of night, Gwydion made his way from his room and through the silent halls. The guards and maids all slept soundly. Amidst the darkness, Gwydion saddled his horse and gathered together all twelve of the golden boards, and stealthily made his way form the house of Peredur.

NeverWeres

NeverWere

The NeverWeres are poor beings trapped outside of time. They area possible future, a choice that could have been made, one roll of the dice. They are now trapped outside of their own realities; trapped between timelines, they never really existed in the first place.

NeverWeres are being that do not and have never existed, so unless the NeverWere actively exerts his influence in the world, it is as if he is not there. People do not acknowledge him. Passers by walk through him. How can something that never was, really be?  NeverWeres can overcome this state of non-being while briefly interacting with the world around them. Because of this, NeverWeres can only be recognized while a character is directly interacting with them. As soon as the character diverts his attention, The NeverWeres natural non-existence reasserts itself and they are imeddiately forgotten and ignored.

 When a NeverWere is killed, he inflicts a very powerful curse on the creature that inflicts the killing blow: that creature immediately loses one experience. That element of the victim's past simply ceases to be. It never happened. Given the nature of causality, this can have drastic effects, severely altering the timeline of the players. For example, if the player was driven to adventure because of the death of a loved one, and that death is destroyed by the NeverWere's curse, then that character immediately returns to his peaceful life, having never been given the impetus to become an adventurer.

This element of the NeverWeres is extremely powerful, and dangerous to a game. It is best to work with each player to develop a list of moments in their pasts, of varying importance, that can be deleted.

Apart from these very special abilities, they are normal creatures, usually intelligent humanoids, and act in all other ways as a creature of that type would.

Gwythead and Goedwyn - Part 2

Gwydion traveled south, to the court of High King Math. While he journeyed, he considered how best he could win the hand of Goedwyn for his brother, Gwythead; and he formulated a plan. When he arrived at court of the high king, he was welcomed and bid to enter, for he was much loved there and Math was glad of his coming.

That night, whilst the two were in his cups, Gwydion addressed his uncle, the High King Math:

"My lord, it is true tat this world of ours if filled with wonders, and it must be impossible for any one man to know them all."

"Verily?" asked the High King.

"Indeed," replied Gwydion. "I have heard even now, that Peredur, who is known to you as a great king to the south, has recently come across 12 great board, whose tusks are of gold, and when these tusks are cut, they shall grow back again the following night."

"Indeed?" asked the High King.

"Indeed, it is true my Lord. Peredur has grown rich indeed from the tusks of these beasts."

"I did not know of this," cried Math.

"How now?" cried Gwydion. "How can this be? For is not Peredur, being a lesser king than yourself, bound to send to you a portion of all his ttreasures as tribute on the first day of each year?"

"Indeed he is," answered Math.

"So he must have sent you word and tribute from these new-found beasts of his?"

"Indeed he has not," cried Math angrily.

"How now, my King?" asked Gwydion. "Indeed, this is not right. This must be some manner of mistake."

"Indeed it must be!" replied  the High King, for his anger was growing great. "I can scarcely imagine a loyal friend as Peredur doing such a thing!"

"My lord," Gwydion now said quietly. "If it would ease your mind, allow me to act on your behalf in this. I shall; travel to Peredur's holdings and inquire of him. I shall bring you three of these twelve golden boars, as proper recompense to your honor. Then Peredur will have satisfied you well."

Math considered this and agreed to Gwydion's proposal.

The next Morning Gwydion rode south to the kingdom of Peredur, smiling to himself along the way. He knew little what terrible heartaches his words would one day bring about.

Beginning Backgammon

In a far-away land, in a seedy, smoke-ridden establishment filled to the rafter with the seedy underbelly of the world's lowest classes, I learned how to play backgammon.

I learned from a fat sheik, from the lands far to the east, where the sands spread out like oceans and the noon-day sun boils a man's brains.I sipped watered-down beer and he smoked from a some sort of device made from hoses and bottles. His eyelids dropped behind shaded, half-moon spectacles. He smelled of salt and chamomile and sand. I could not tell if The rough tears in my eyes could have been from his noisome turban, or the sooty atmosphere.

I had met the sheik earlier in the evening,. I do not remember exactly how, and in all frankness I do not wish to. Some details are best left forgotten. But we had spoken of many things together, of loves lost and wars won; and, our conversation had led us into the game. The sheik carried a backgammon set with him, and as I had never played before, he kindly offered to teach me the game. I acquiesced.
He chuckled as he moved the ivory pieces across the inlaid board of his Backgammon set.

"Long ago", he told me. "In the lands of my great fathers there was a beautiful city. This was the most beautiful city in all of the world, filled with poets and scholars and artists. It was a peaceful city, for the people abhorred violence. They much preferred to sing, or to dance, or to ponder the inexplicable mysteries of the universe. Nowhere in the city was there anything more than a polite disagreement. It was a tranquil city, and because of this it was also happy."

I moved two of my pieces into a scoring position as he drew a long haul from his strange smoking apparatus.

"Then on day, "he continued. "There came to the city a messenger. The messenger wore strange clothes made from the hides of beasts, the messenger spoke with a strange accent, and the messenger carried a sword. This last was the most odd, for the peaceful people of this city never carried swords through their streets, as they had no need to. The messenger came to the lords of this city and he spoke thus:

'I come bearing word to you, the Lords of this city, from the great Kha Khan, which is Great King. The Kha Khan sends word that he is coming westward. He sends word that he is coming here. The Kha Khan has conquered many cities: cities of warriors and cities of sages. All of these have fallen before his mighty sword. But my Kha Khan is merciful and he makes you an offer. In the east, my Kha Khan has learned many games of strategy and skill. He has learned of the game chess, and his scholars tell him it is the game that most captures the true glory of battle. And so, the Great King has spread the knowledge of this game, and with it he test his generals and captains. The Kha Khan's scholars says that chess is most like life, of all games. As you are men of wisdom and learning, the Kha Khan makes you this offer: If you can create a game more like life than chess, then he shall be merciful, else wise he shall burn your city to ash, and salt the earth upon which it stand.' "

The sheik captured one of my unguarded pieces. I had taken a chance in my position, relying on luck. This time it had failed me.

"The messenger left, saying that he would return in five days for their answer. The Lords of the City considered his words. For many days they pondered, reflecting on the nature of life. They considered justice, mercy, honour, love, and duty. The things that sages try for, the things that young men die for, and the things that maidens sigh for, They thought in silence, they spoke in hast, and they debated in heat."

I considere my next move.

"Time passed." I rolled a double, releasing my captured piece.

"The messenger returned for the pious men's answer; and, they gave it to him. The messenger was bemused, and he returned ot his Khan. The khan looked at the game the scholars had sent him. He played it deep into the night, considering it's aspects, its strategies, it's nuances." The sheik moved two more pieces, scoring once and positioning himself well for the next gambit.

"In the morning he summoned his general's and advisers. 'Look,' he told them. "What do you think of this game?' This scholars considered. 'My great lord,' they said. 'This game is surely inferior to chess, the game of our generals. Chess requires constant strategy, a manipulative mind that sees far into the future. This game depends as much on the luck of dice as it does the sharpness of a man's wits.For this reason, Chess is the greater game, more mirroring the needs of life and battle' The khan nodded. 'Is this your answer, then,' he asked. 'Surely it is, great lord.' And the Kha Khan nodded."

I rolled again. A four and a six. A lucky roll, allowing me to move two pieces in unison.

" 'Indeed,' spoke the Great Khan from his high throne. 'Chess, the game of our generals and wise men, is a game of pure strategy. But in the heat of battle, victory often hinges upon the luck of a single man. A single misplaced step, a fortunate sword thrust, or a stray arrow can lead to defeat with but a moments notice. Truly, the greatest strategist will know only failure without the blessing of Fortune. Thus, it is this game that truly captures the essence of battle. Of life.'' The Khan's advisers bowed their heads at this, for the knew the wisdom of the Kha Khan's words and the folly of their own. The Kha Khan moved his armies, and spared the city. And this is how the game of Backgammon came to be." The sheik finished his story, moving his final piece into position. His strategy was perfect, leaving me no openings.

I rolled the dice.

We are the Quarriors!!!

So recently I had the opportunity to play  Quarriors.

Quarriors is a fun little game, whose essential mechanic is deck-builindg, a mechanic best-utilized in the game Dominion. But unlike other deck-building games, Quarriors uses dice instead of cards. It's a fun little twist. Each turn, you draw six die from your dice pool and depending on your roles, you have different actions you can take: anything form summoning monsters, casting spells or purchasing additional die for your dice pool. As the game progresses, you have the option to purchase new and more powerful die for your dice pool, and each die manifests different abilites based on its roll. So each round factors in a lot, and I mean a LOT of randomness.

Unlike Dominion, the die's abilities vary greatly depending on what you roll, whereas cards provide a constant effect. So whereas a deck-building game with cards hasn't a certain amount of constancy, Quarriors relies heavily on chance for the momentum of the game. This has a HUGE impact on the pacing and balance of the game....in that there really isn't any.

Quarriors either speeds to an end or drags on for the entire night, often with one player dominating for a quick victory, or no player being able to seize an advantage and everyone becoming bogged down in a six-sided quagmire. All in all, it's a very novel concept, but a few rounds into the game you realize why no other games does this: because it's not a particularly good idea.

Quarriors is one of those games you can play once, and put on your shelf for a few months until you've forgotten what playing it was like.

Gwydion and the Witch of Carran Tor - Part 1

One fine summer's day, Prince Gwydion was visiting his brother Gwythead. After a long day of hunting and feasting, the two were sitting at table with Gwythead's boon companions Auwyn the Stoic and Tolwen Ironhand. The four were drinking, and conversing, and playing at dice.

"My lords," said Tolwen. "I must say the strangest thing happened to me this day."

"Pray the gods tell," said Gwythead. "And do not leave us wondering"

"I shall indeed, my lord," said Tolwen. "Today I bore a remarkable thirst, such as I had not known for an age; and so I decided to visit the Tavern house of my good freind Brean, as Brean is known for making the best ale in the kingdom."

"Indeed," said Gwythead. "Brean's ale is unsurpassed in this realm, as well I dare say any other. Do continue, dear Tolwen."

"I shall, my Lord," said Tolwen. "And when I arrived at Brean's Tavern, I did drink heavily to quench my thirst. For as I said, I had not known such thirst in an great while. And as I drank, I began to converse with a most strange man."

"Strange!" cried Gwydion. "How strange, dear Tolwen?"

"It was this," replied Tolwen. "The man wore thick white furs, even though it is, as you well know, high summer. He said he was from the far north, a realm of Never-ending Winter, where ice and frost lay thick on the ground throughout the year. Given the state of his dress, I was not wont to doubt the man."

"Indeed not!" said Gwythead.

"Just so, "said Tolwen. "'Why my friend,' said I. 'What brings you so far south, and such great distance from your home?' It was then that he told me his tale."

"And what tale is this?" asked Gqydion.

"I shall tell it now, sir," said Tolwen. "He told me that in the far north of these lands there arises from the frosted tundras a high and great hill. And at the very top of this hill there grows a great tree, whose branches bear leaves of ice instead of leaves, and fruits of beautiful diamond"

"How now?" cried Gwythead. "A tree that bears diamond fruit! How could such a wonder be, Tolwen?"

"Indeed my lord," said Tolwen. "I scarcely believe the tale myself, but this stranger swore it to be true, and so I yet harkened to his tale.  He told me that his people had lived at the foot of the hill, making their living by herding the great white  reindeer that lived on the planes.His people, he said, lived simple and peaceful live. Until one day, a terrible witch cam to hill. This witch decided to make her home at the base of the great tree, at the highest point of the frozen hill. Because of this, the villager named the hill Carran Torr, which means the Hill of Cold Magic."

"That is an evil tale, my friend, "said Gwythead.

"I said much the same thing, my lord," said Tolwen. "But does not the tree of ice and crystal sund not wondrous?"

"Oh most wondrous," said Gwydion, for in his heart was stirred a great desire to see thus tree.

"But alas, this tree has such a fell guardian," said Auwyn."Good never comes form triflingwith a witch woman."

"How now!" cried Gwydion. "Are we true men here, to chafe at the threat of a woman?"

"Lord Gwydion," Tolwen protested. "You are unjust! It is not a quesiton of bravery, but of wisdom that begs our hesitaiton!"

"Is it not said," said Auwyn. "the two greatest dangers to stout-hearted men are magic and women? What then, is a witch?"

"Pah, cried Gwydion. "You seem naught but cowardly knaves!" And at these words, Auwyn and Tolwen grew angry, and the three would surely have come to blows had not Gwythead been present.

"Now brother!" said Gwythead, who had become most an\noyed with his brother."There is but an easy way to settle this dispute. I propose a wager: that Gwydion should travel north, acquire two of these fruits from this wondrous tree, and present them here, to Auwyn and Tolwen. Should he do this, we shall all laud know his true bravery and skill. But should he fail, then to these same two will he give five good horses from his own stables and 10 new born lambs from his own fields."

And so it was agreed, and that very same day did Gwydion journey north to the lands of Never-ending Winter.

Great American Beer

The Great American Beer Festival is held every year at the Denver city convention center.

The line wrapped entirely around the Denver Convention center, pressing steadily forward, unwinding in a spiral towards the center. A young, harried-looking young woman checked my ticket and my age before ushering me up a staircase. As I passed through the wide sets of double-doors, I was passed a plastic, half-pint cup and shuffled along into a seething mass of humanity.

The great hall was packed with every sort of person imaginable, all united in their love of good beer. Booths were arranged in an easily navigable grid, with large signs indicating sections and strategically placed caches of pretzels and water.

My cup in hand, I wound my way through the stands, collecting samples and snifters as I went. The hall smelled of salt and copper and sweat. The yellow lights left us all wandering through a dim, half-lidded, alcoholic wonderland. Periodically, there would be the loud bell-like clang of a sampling cup hitting the concrete floor, followed by a concerted outcry from the hoppy collective. The crowd would part to reveal the luckless fellow as he stooped to retrieve his mug, before being swallowed again by the drunkard leviathan.

The small drink sizes proved increasingly deceptive as the night wore on. The breweries presented beer with a wide variety of ABV's, and the small portions made it impossible to keep any accurate account of how much I'd had to drink. I simply had to rely on the speed at which the hall began to spin to gauge my drunkenness.

But eventually I was able to stumble back to my hotel room, and sleep for the next fourteen hours in order to repeat the experience the next night.

Gaming Update - 002

Two new Stranger Series One-offs.

1. Possession rules I used in a Halloween game recently.
2. Made a bet with a friend to make a game based entirely around a Cow. I think I managed it, but try it out for yourself. 

As always, have fun folks!

Gwythead and Goedwyn - Part 1

Math was High King, but cursed to forever rest his feet in the lap of a virgin; so, wherever he went he was accompanied by the fair maiden, Goedwyn, in whose lap he rested his feet.
It is said that when Gwythead first looked upon Goedwyn, his heart was filled with a great love. As his longing for Goedwyn grew greater, he eschewed all of his former pastimes.He stopped his hunting. He ceased to join his companions in contests of strength. He did not eat; and at meals, fell heavily into his cups.
He forbade poetry and music in his presence, and became churlish at the smallest sounds. His halls  became somber and dreary, where once it had been boisterous and lively. His companions, who loved their lord dearly, could make nothing of the changes in Gwythead's mind and manner; and they knew not what to do. For some time, Gwythead continued in this manner, his color and form wasting away because of his love for Goedwyn.
One day, Gwydion, wearing the mantle of a great eagle as he oft was wont to do, chanced to fly above his brother Gwythead's keep.
"Ah," thought Gwydion. " I have flown very far today and I am now quite weary; moreover, it has been too long since I have seen my dear brother. Thus, I shall call upon him, and perhaps spend a night or two in his  famed hospitality."
And this is what he did. But upon his arrival, the gates were closed against his entry.
 "Ho there," he called. "What is this, that the gates of my brother, Prince Gwythead, should be closed and barred against me?"
"My lord," the guards called down form the gates. "on our good lord's command, we have shut these gates to all those who would enter. Our good lord has forbade all visitors, even the wandering bards that once were so well received here."
Gwydion was incredulous at these words, for they sounded most unlike the brother he had long known.
"Sir," cried Gwydion. "by the gods themselves that does sound most strange.  If ever you had love for your lord my brother, you shall open these doors to me and bring me at once before your lord and I shall see for myself what strange spell ails him."

And so  Gwydion was brought into the great hall of the keep, and when he beheld his brother, Gwydion was shocked.
"Brother," he said. "What has happened to you?"
"Why brother, "said Gwythead. "what is wrong with me?"
"Indeed," Gwydion replied. "You have lost all of your his color and your form is wasting away."
 "My dear brother, there is no point in me telling anyone what has happened, for I am sure there is nothing that can be done about it. I do love the fair Goedwyn, but alas she is bound to serve the good high king, Math, and so remains ever out of my reach."
At the Gwydion let out a heavy sigh, for he knew the turmoil in his brother's heart.
"Say no more, brother." Gwydion counseled. "For have we two not ever sought and striven for the impossible. Hear me now, this very day I shall set forth form your good house and rest not a single day until the fair Goedwyn's hand is yours."
And on hearing this, Gwythead was cheered, for never before had his brother failed once he had set his mind and hand to a task.
And so as he said, Gwydion set forth that very hour to some way win for his beloved brother the hand of Goedwyn, the most beautiful maiden in the Nine Realms.
But none knew then, to what lengths Gwydion would needs go in order to achieve his quest, nor what dire consequences his actions would hold.

The Steps to Rome

The city of Rome is many things, but short is certainly not one of them.

I had heard of the Seven Hills of Rome long before I reached the ancient city, but it really wasn't until I set foot on the banks of the Tiber that I fully comprehended exactly how many stairs accompanied those hills. Almost every inch of the city comprises a staircase or gradient. I ended up walking not so much around the city, and far more up and down through the city. Combining this with a puerile obsession to reach the top of almost every site I came across and we achieve a recipe for idiotic exhaustion.

View from the Top of the Palatine

Every building in Rome offers the "unique" opportunity to climb to it's top for "spectacular views". That's the phrase bandied about: "spectacular views". The phrase has become some code-word, or mantra used to ensnare tourists.

"Come," they call. "See the Eternal City from *our* vantage point! Not that this view is in any way different to the view you would get from the house next door! But Com! Trust Us! The view is Spectacular!"

Lying Bastards!

 *Citation Needed*

And like lams to the slaughter, we follow, following blindly up tight spiral staircases to the top of basilicas, up wide marble steps to beautiful gardens of long-forgotten cardinals, up stairs carved into the hills itself.  There are stairs of polished marble, that echo in vaulted reliquaries. There are stairs of antiquated granites that have been worn down over a thousand years worth of mendicant footfalls. There are shining, aluminum steps that old men slip on during rain storms. The are old steps with industrial mats placed over them, to protect them from metal detectors and X-ray machines. The are Spanish steps that go to French Embassies, and French steps that go to Spanish brothels. They wind backwards, forwards, through, around, betwixt, crouching down , turning sideways.

I can't say Rome is not a beautiful city. While walking through Rome, I can't help but feel as if I am walking through a fairy tale. It's a place of ancient history and culture, and as one ambles through the streets it's nearly impossible not to the feel the weight of those years bearing down upon you; on the other hand, that burning in my calves might have less to do with the history of Rome, and more to do with the Goddamned Stairs!

Star Wars X-Wing: Miniatures Game

I recently had the opportunity to play the new Star Wars X-Wing minis game, and I have to say it is utterly fantastic!

Opening Salvos between Imperial and Rebel Forces

As always, I love anything that allows me to play with little space-ships, but this particular game added a level of structure that actually improved my normal child-like interest. The mechanics are extremely simple, with enough variation to keep it interesting by no means too complicated for people to get confused even after one or two or eight drinks. They handle the movement through space in a very novel and engaging way, that detaches miniatures combat from a game board or rulers, a feat rarely achieved at all and I would say never this well. The play-time is about half an hour, which is short enough to keep things well-paced and everyone engaged .


All in all, an excellent and easy game for almost any number of drunk people.

X-Wings Blast Apart a TIE Fighter

Commander positions his Squadron

Gwythead and Gwydion

Math had two nephews, Gwythead and Gwydion.

Gwythead was a strong warrior, whose skills in arms were unmatched throughout Math's realms. In trials of sword or lance, Gwythead was always first among Math's liege kinsmen.When he was a young boy of nine, he bested two of the kingdom's greatest swordsman. He was perhaps the greatest swords yet seen. But still, he was merciful in as well, never drawing his sword in earnest lest it be to protect the weak or to defend the honour of his liege lord or kinsmen.

Gwythead spent his days hunting the forests and wilder lands of his holdings and spent his evenings in his Great Hall. His table was always well provisioned, and any traveler could find a night of safety and refuge in Gwythead's hall. He had a particular love of music, and the wandering bards found themselves well-received in his keep, so much so that they often spent several weeks in his company. As such, his halls were always filled with music and laughter.

Gwythead's younger brother Gwydion, was a powerful sorcerer and could change his form into that of the beasts of the land and the birds of the air. So too, was he able to converse with the many beasts and birds, and so he learned many secrets of the untamed places that men dare not go; but spending so much time with the wild things instilled in the prince a similar wildness as well. It was rare for the Gwydion to spend more than two or three nights in any given place.

It was not uncommon for the young prince to take the form of a hunting hawk or a great eagle. He would fly throughout his lands surveying the works of his people, from the highest lord to lowliest waif. Ofttimes, he would stop here or there at the halls of his liege lords or the cots of his craftsmen to inspect the planting of grains or the sheering of sheep. Indeed, in this way Gwydion became well known to every petty knight and artisan  in his holdings, and for this he was well-loved.

The Princes had many great adventures and the tales of their deeds were sung by the bards in the far corners of the Nine Realms, and some of those stories and told herein.

Inadvertant Movie Stars

A good friend and I were traveling through Rome; and as always, our navigational skills are finely tuned, so that we never get where we want to go in a timely manner, but often we arrive where we need to be.

We were making our circuitous way towards the Vatican, attempting to decipher the ancient, indecipherable script of the Roman Bus Plans, I think, in our over-eagerness, we perhaps stepped of our bus one, or perhaps seven stops too early. I'm not entirely sure how wrong we were, but I am sure that we were wrong, because the place wen ended up was certainly not the Vatican but rather a small side street to the South of the Ponte Sant'Angelo.

The Ponte Sant'Angelo is a beautiful piece of architecture, where the medieval Romans held their executions, and a lovingly cared-for mixture of Roman engineering and Renaissance elegance. We two marveled at it's subtly wonder, but also at our own stupidity, because as beautiful as former Aelian Bridge is, it is certainly not the Vatican. So we had a bit of a walk ahead of us.

As we made our way across the bridge, I noticed the Romans on the bridge were especially well-dressed. The men sported vintage coats and hats that you would see in 1920's gangster movie. The women's dresses were conservative, with a hidden refinement, matching the 1920's ambiance of the men they were with. Even the cars parked on the side of the streets displayed this mastery of style. Old BMWs and vintage Mercedes. All of it lent itself to the feeling of having stepped into the roaring twenties, age of vice and gambling and jazz.

And then as we continued walking we passed a young man in jeans and t-shirt, holding aloft a boom microphone, as if he was filing the 1920's movie we had just stepped into. It occurred to me that the ambiance we felt was very deliberate., almost a goal. Looking around, I noticed the other tell-tale signs of movie production: a woman with a portable make-up kit, several men in folding chairs with scripts, a man with a megaphone, and the collected exasperated expression of the Italian crew at having a pair of tourists walk into the middle of their shot.

Having already committed to being anachronistic movie-extras, there wasn't much else to do but go along with it.

So the next time you take your boyfriend or girlfriend to the next hit, Italian period drama, look closely in the background of the Ponte Sant'Angelo for two Americans, in bluejeans and baseball caps.

Rome

The ancient city squats across the the Tiber, its spires encroaching on the heavens in every sense of the phrase. The houses blend together time into an absurd and awe-inspiring architectural goulash, the ancient forum butting up against the baroque domiciles of the faithful that form the foundations for glass and steel towers of modern Italian governance and fashion. Romans live their meager lives in the shadows of Emperors, Popes, Inventors, Poets and Painters, and the wreckage of a shattered economy.

A city that has lived so long can be nothing but a contradiction; and if the city itself does not know what it is, how can I?

 

Math the High King

Math ab Mathonwy was High King

And he was by all accounts a good king, generous and open-handed with his banner men and steadfast against his enemies. Men were free to come and go as they pleased, trading their goods and wares between the great lords' holdings and the townships. Craftsmen plied their skills, farmers saw to their crops, and the drovers kept their flocks. Under Math's rule, the land prospered and the people were content.

But Math was also a sad king, for he bore a terrible curse; for at all times, he must needs rest his feet in the lap of a virgin, lest he be struck down and die on the spot. Only whilst his kingdom was at open war, could Math stand and defend his people from the dangers that beset them. And so wherever he traveled. he was accompanied by the lady Rhiannon, whose was remarked beyond fair. And she was always beneath the High King, his feet resting in her lap.

Closing Times

The closing of a bar is an odd thing.

Regardless of the region, every local bar seem to subscribe to some collective agreement on closing times. As soon as that first bar decides to close its doors, those around it quickly follow suit, one by one in a most profoundly sad domino effect.

The deserted streets are then flooded with the human dregs of the evening. Men and women either unable or unwilling to go home, thrust themselves onto a black asphalt river that carries them to their respective harbors of safety, if not rest. They're like water, flowing through the gutter, carried out and away to the far-off sea. How strange a phenom.

A young man looks desperately for a woman to warm his bed during the night. A group of maenads, released form the Dionysian trance, slowly slip away leaving behind a shop-girl, a seamstress, a secretary. A bachelor party, still drnk on their companion's upcoming nuptials, sings a bawdy song, meandering through the crowd. A stoic police officer wants to go home to a tolerant wife and blue-collar children.

The streets smell of salt and copper. Shoes splash through the low points, where water has inevitably pooled into oily puddles, even though its has not rained in several weeks. Pale yellow street lights reflect in the windows of shops that closed hours ago, catching reflections of sad, weary faces.

I'm always saddened by such scenes. By the people who've stopped laughing. The people who are left to wander god-knows-where under the neon street lamps.

Do they also have no home to return to?

Gaming Updates - 001

Updated the Gaming Section.

Feel free to check it out!

The Wolfish Grinn - Prologue

The rain pours down.

It splashes off the shingled roof, and collects in muddy pools. The walls of inn, though stout well-made, lose none of the grime collected over uncounted years.One of the shutters comes loose in the wind, banging out an Apollonian rhythm. The thunder cracks and the horses are startled, but the grooms have been attentive this evening, and their stables are bolted against the storm. Outside, only the rain moves.

Inside, the patrons huddle together to conserve what little warmth there is. Firewood is expensive, and the inn, though popular, has seen better days.

In the center of the room, the Fat Man holds court. The guests surrounds him as he tells a bawdy tale. It concerns a miller and his wife. The men around him laugh. The Fat Man swallows down another mouthful of brown ale, spilling some onto his tunic. He's had three this night, and is likely to have a few more by the time the rain finally lets up. He wipes his jowls in between guffaws. The men laugh with him. All but one two.

The Innkeeper runs a towel across his bar. He's never been overly fond of the Fat Man's stories, but he's good for business. He can always be counted on for a joke or a laugh, especially on a Stormy Night like this. In times like these, a laugh can have m,ore value than gold. The Innkeeper lets out a sigh. He is tired. His wife is putting out the candles. Candles are even more costly than firewood, and what few they have are spent sparingly, during dinner on crowded nights.

What little light there is comes from the massive fireplace built into the south wall. Of all the things in the inn, the fireplace is by far the most grand. The mantle  is dark oak and as tall as a man, carved into the shapes of great beasts. A lion catches a young stag. Wolves howl towards a moonless horizon. Hawks, and Eagles fly between and around serpents, boars, and foxes. The two cornices are carved into the likenesses of great Ravens. They watch the room, with eyes filled with though and memory.

The hearth is warm and dry, but the the guests stay gathered in the center, around the Fat Man. They don't approach the roaring warmth of the fireplace. Not yet. That will come later. For now, the fire is only for the Old Man.

He squats on a stool, facing into the flames. His back is bent and his face is weathered. His gnarled hands wrap around an ashen staff, carved with ancient  runes and sigils whose meanings have been long forgotten. He watches the shadows the beasts and birds cast with a single, sunken  eye. An eye that has seen many thing, perhaps too many.

The Fat Man laughs one last time and falls silent. The guests murmurs, muttering and chortling at the cleverness of the Fat Man's tale. The Innkeeper's wife blows out the last candle. The only light and warmth left comes form the fireplace, from the Old Man.

The guests move closer to him. What few children there are sit on the floor before the older members of the crowd. The Fat Man, a fourth ale in his hand, takes a seat in the second row. The Innkeepers puts down his cloth and sits next to the him. His wife joins him. They wait. They are silent. The old man closes his eye. It is time for him to decide.

In the great library of his mind, he walks between endless rows of shelves. As he walks slowly down the halls formed from the ancient stands, his hands brush the bindings of ancient tomes, the pages of unbound manuscripts,and the edges of faded scrolls. Which one will be tonight's?

His eyes drifts along the shelves towards one book. It sits alone on the shelf, rough brown leather binding together crisp white pages. Amongst a world of dust and cobwebs, it alone is clean, as if newly made. And of everything here, that book alone belonged to the Old Man.

Would this be the night? No. Not yet. That book would be last,when all other tales had been told He moved on.

He stopped. Yes. This tale has not seen the air for many years. Had it's time come again? The Old Man reaches for the book. Yes, he thinks. This tale would do.

He opened his eye, facing the guests. The fire casts his shadow over the Inn's great room. The light dances across their eager eyes, and they lick their lips.

The Old Man smiles.

"Once Upon a Time..."

The rain pours down.

Horse Play

I had spent a long night drinking, making friends and enemies of the various people around me. As usual, I was by far the most boisterous person around. Hoover, the closing of the bar was about to bring my tom-foolery to a premature end. I was not yet ready to go home. I still had buckets of energy and the enthusiasm and foolhardy will to apply it. I followed the ebb-and-flow of wavering humanity into the gloomy night, in search of some new and greater mischief. Such mischief materialized in the four-footed form of an equestrian nature.

The horse stood three hands taller than me, brown fur and dark eyes staring mutely amidst a crowd of half-bent and stumbling louts. It stood firm like a butte of sea stone upon which morning waves would break and split themselves. I immediately recognized an opportunity to make, if not a true friend, than at least an amicable acquaintance. The question of why exactly a horse should be standing in the middle of a New York street at three in the morning did not seem all too important to me at the time. I stumbled forward and introduced myself to the beast.

I explained that as I was from Texas, I was familiar with how to properly handle horses, and that the fellow need not be worried about being lost in the large city, as I would gladly see it home. The horse whinnied in acknowledgement.

My comments sparked the interest of several passers by. One fellow exclaimed that he, too, was from Texas. He quickly joined in the discussion and the three of us amicably reminisced about Texas, ranches and the open prairie sky. All in all, we had a most enjoyable conversation.

Our talking was brought up sharply by a gruff cough. I looked around, but could see no one other than myself and my two companions. A second cough drew my gaze upward to the man, who had presumably been sitting astride the friendly horse this entire time. A man, I might add, who looked eerily similar to a a police officer.

The man frowned down at us. He seemed incensed that two drunkards had spent the last ten minutes talking with his mount. A can't imagine exactly why he would find this frustrating. Realizing that I had, technically,, just assaulted a police officer, I sheepishly retreated, chased by the glowers of one of New York's finest.

So, it would behoove one to remember that horses that wander around city neighborhoods at night tend to be attached to people who might not be amused by your attempts at befriending their steeds.

The Queen of Air and Darkness

Her strong enchantments failing,
  Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
  And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness
  Begins to shrill and cry,
`O young man, O my slayer
  To-morrow you shall die.'

O Queen of air and darkness
  I think 'tis truth you say,
And I shall die to-morrow;
  But you shall die to-day

From Last Poems by A.E. Housman 

Hostile Suitemates

Among my experiences with sharing a room at a Hostel, two incidents in particular always come to mind. Both stories involve young couples.

While traveling with a friend, we stayed in a Hostel in Rome that was particularly popular with students and young people. The rooms had two sets of bunk-beds, housing four people in each room. While there, we were housed with a young couple who was traveling through Europe on vacation from the schooling in the city of Chihuahua, Mexico. Now, I call them a couple, but throughout their stay they gave no outward display of affection between the two of them. They were quiet and reserved , keeping to themselves so much that they bordered being downright secretive. We spoke little with the couple, leaving before they awoke and returning after they had already gone to sleep. In fact, most of our interactions consisted of silently tip-toeing around the sleeping pair. Those few times our groups were awake at the same time, they spoke only in Spanish, using hushed tones and shooting furtive glances to either our pair or the door. They never smiled, They never laughed. There was always a somber atmosphere around their serious faces.

Then one morning, my companion and I awoke to an empty room. Evidently, they had departed in the early morning on short notice, surreptitiously gathering there belongings before sunrise. Looking back, I ask myself who these two wayward travelers could have been. Why were they in Rome? Was is something as innocuous as a vacation? They often seemed to be waiting, or watching for some thing. Perhaps some sort of signal? What nefarious business could have brought this humorless couple to the ancient city? I doubt that I shall ever be able to alleviate my doubts entirely.

The second couple was, perhaps, opposite in character to the Mysterious Mexicans. The young couple in question was from Australia. They were friendly and talkative, explaining their journey from Sydney as a quick respite from their university. Unlike the Chihuahuas, this couple had no qualms about displaying their mutual affections. All in all, they seemed amicable tenant; at least, during the day.

 After a long day of wandering, my companion and I returned to our room for a much deserved rest. The two young lovers had not yet returned; but being so tired, my friend and I simply decided to go to sleep rather than awaiting their return. We were, as I said, quite weary. We were awoken somewhat later by something horrible. The young man was crying out in pain, in what was half scream and half agonized moan, like some pitiable spirit bound to wander the mortal world until judgement day. Imagine being startled out of your relaxing slumber by such a horrible sound! Imagine the confusion! Imagine the fright!

What's more, one we were fully awake my companion and I had no inkling what our response should be. What, exactly, are the rules of etiquette for midnight screams of terror? In neither of our collective upbringings could we find any manner of ingrained social response to this situation. Should we help? Perhaps give him something to bite on, as if he were having a stroke. Should we wake him? Perhaps rolling him over onto another side, as you would for a particularly loud snorer. We simply had no response. We were utterly flabbergasted. We were left, staring up at the ceiling, enduring the haunting cries of the young man until the small hours of the morning.

In the morning, we convened to discuss our options. Is this a matter to bring to the management? Perhaps complaining would only make things worse. We imagined confronting the management about the issue:

"Excuse me."
"Yes, hello? Are you enjoying your stay?" asks the manager.
"Yes, but..."
"Everything is working out?"
"Yes, but..."
"Excellent!" The manager returns to his ledger with a satisfied air.
"Well yeas, but we've been having some trouble with our suite mates..."
"Pardon," says the manager, returning his gaze to us  with a confused look on his face.
"The young Australian couple. They're quite lovely, but the young man has been keeping us up all night"
The manager frowns, furrowing his brow.
"The young man seems....to be...screaming during the night..."
The manager look worried, even disturbed by this comment.
"And well, we've been unable to sleep very well. So would it be possible to move rooms?"
"Umm..." the manager appears to be sweating now.
"Like we said, they're lovely. We just can't sleep."
"Umm...What,"  the manager's voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. "...Australian couple?"
"Pardon?"
"There's no one else assigned to your room. You have the room to yourselves..."

So, having decided that the young Australian were in fact ghosts, we decided no to anger these two tragic shades. We endured.

So, hostels are excellent ways to save money and meet new people. Even people who might be spies, or people who might be ghosts.

The Curse of the Traveller

I recently ran across an interesting account of something called the Curse of the Traveler.

An old vagabond in his 60s told me about it over a beer in Central America, goes something like this: The more places you see, the more things you see that appeal to you, but no one place has them all. In fact, each place has a smaller and smaller percentage of the things you love, the more things you see. It drives you, even subconsciously, to keep looking, for a place not that's perfect (we all know there's no Shangri-La), but just for a place that's "just right for you." But the curse is that the odds of finding "just right" get smaller, not larger, the more you experience. So you keep looking even more, but it always gets worse the more you see.

At the same time, the more you travel, the more numerous and profoundly varied the relationships you will have. But the more people you meet, the more diffused your time is with any of them. Since all these people can't travel with you, it becomes increasingly difficult to cultivate long term relationships the more you travel. Yet you keep traveling, and keep meeting amazing people, so it feels fulfilling; but eventually, you miss them all, and many have all but forgotten who you are. And then you make up for it by staying put somewhere long enough to develop roots and cultivate stronger relationships. But these people can never know what you know or see what you've seen, and you will always feel a tinge of loneliness. You will want to tell your stories just a little bit more than they will want to hear them. This gets worse the more you travel, yet travel seems to be a cure for a while.

None of this is to suggest that one should ever reduce travel. It's just a warning to young Travelers, to expect, as part of the price, a rich life tinged with a bit of sadness and loneliness, and angst that's like the same nostalgia everyone feels for special parts of their past, except multiplied by a thousand.

This was paired with an excerpt of a letter that Thomas Jefferson wrote to his nephew on August 10, 1787: 

Travelling. This makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country; but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret; their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects; & they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men, who travel, are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood; it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile & condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, & its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first & most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, & they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this, that a habit of idleness, an inability to apply themselves to business is acquired, & renders them useless to themselves & their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, & be industrious, & you will not want the aid of travelling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself. I repeat my advice, to take a great deal of exercise, & on foot. Health is the first requisite after morality. Write to me often, & be assured of the interest I take in your success, as well as the warmth of those sentiments of attachment with which I am, dear Peter, your affectionate friend.

Thoughts on Abortion - 1

I think the break-down between Pro-Life and Pro-Choice Advocates is the contention that a fetus constitutes a Person. This represents a fundamental philosophical gap, with no clear way around.

Assuming for a moment that a fetus is actually a Person, I've run into a few interesting thought experiments.

If a fetus is a Person, then it follows that it could most likely be treated as a child. But if it's a child, then it's the parents job to look after it. The parents are responsible and liable for its well-being. If a child is malnourished, then the parents are criminally liable. If a child arrives at school bruised, then the parents are criminally liable. Given the expansive reach of Child Protective Services, parents responsible for almost every aspect of their children's lives (except for raising the damned things, we let our teachers take responsibility for that!)So let's say that the fetus's parents are entirely responsible for its well-being, as if it were a child.

What happens if the mother has a miscarriage?

Is that potential manslaughter? Are the parents criminally responsible for that death?

In his work the Everlasting Man, G. K. Chesterton argues that man is not simply a specialized animal, but rather a unique and special element of God's creation. Although his prose are beautiful, but his logic is fatally flawed.

The basis of Chesterton's claims lies in his interpretation of man's inherent desire to create art. He claims that Man is the only entity known to create Art; thus, he is far more than an animal, an uneducated brute. Man's Artistic Intent forms the foundation for the arguments Chesterton present during the rest of his work, culminating in the conclusion that Jesus Christ could have been nothing other than the true-born Son of God. But alas, Chesterton's arguments crumble like a Grecian temple amidst the passing of time.

My counter-argument is quite simple: Elephants. It is a solid fact that Elephants can and do paint. Painting produced by these Elephants are often sold in order to raise funds for various conservation groups. So, immediately we come upon an example of yet another creature that can, at the very least, paint. Scientific fact proves wrong Chesterton's basic assumption, and any logical construct founded on wrong assumptions is also wrong.

But now we must really dig into the meat of the issue. Chesterton did NOT claim that Man alone can paint, but that Man alone can create Art; and, herein lies the rub. What constitutes Art?

Can we really classify an Elephant's trained chicken-scratches as art? How can we know that the Elephant possesses no creativity?

Now that it has been shown that Animals can also create, Chesterton's arguments rely on making and proving distinctions between those respective creations of Men and Animals.

One of my gaming groups recently had a bit of a TPK, the fallout from which led to an interesting discussion regarding  some epistemology between myself and my Game Master.

My lines are illustrated in Blue, while his are in Red.

 

So Role playing has a really unusual dynamic when it comes to Player and Character knowledge.

 

The idea is that there is a vast set of things that a Player *cannot* know, but that a Character *must*.

Examples: If I'm playing a Forest-type Ranger, it *must* be assumed that the Ranger knows how to clean and prepare a deer, while Blue has trouble opening cans. A Magic-User has a grasp of how magic *works* that Blue can't have. A Fighter can use a sword to defend himself, while the most Blue knows is that the pointy end goes in the *other* guy.

 

These are basic examples, and may seem fairly obvious. But if we extrapolate to the rest of the campaign world we see that there are fundamental aspects about the Game World that a Player can't know, but that a Character would. We get to things like the name of the local Sherriff to the names of specific flowers.

This might seem obvious and reasonable thus far, but here's where it gets tricky.

*It is impossible for the Player to know that he doesn't know.*

 

We boil it down to this

There are two kinds of ignorance.

A) Primary Ignorance is when someone doesn't know something; but, he knows that he doesn't know. For instance, I know I can't clean a deer, but I know someone else does. I know it can be done, and I just have to find a way to learn.

B) Secondary Ignorance comes when a person doesn't know that he doesn't know. For instance, an Amazonian tribesman has no inkling of what Quantum Mechanics is, so it doesn't even occur to him to ask about it.

 

The Player's knowledge of what his Character knows falls into the latter category.

As a Player, I have no idea how the Game World works, born as it is from the deepest, dankest recesses of a mind so nightmarishly twisted and vile, fueled on the soulless soda-husks of diet mountain dew and and dessicated corpses of stale Cheetos (i.e. the GM thinks it up).

So the Player is forced into a state of imposed pseudo-ignorance, knowing that he doesn't know a thing, but not knowing what that thing is, left ever-grasp at the gray edges of his consciousness.

This is just something that I've been pondering over the last year.

Its a problem that simply can't be avoided, and it's literally only one of two things that can rub me the wrong way about GMing.

Side Note:
The other thing is actually what Red was mentioning about the oil flasks as grenades. When the players can get away with completely stupid stuff, it takes away a critical sense of consequence. But that's another discussion.

But issues that fall into the domain of this Knowledge Gap always irk me. It's really the only thing that bugged me when Steve or our freind Mike GM-ed. It bugs me more when I do it.  But it literally cannot be avoided. It persists.

And whats weird is that the more in-depth a GM makes their world, the more he prepares, the worae the problem becomes. A rigid game world creates rigid world-physics (i guess ill call it that), which makes the problems more apparent and blatant. So the "better" a GM is, the more he faces this challenge.

Its a problem endemic to roleplaying, not any one person

 

Generally, I find discussions about epistemology as frustrating as I find discussions about physics. When they involve epistemology or physics within the context of gaming, I have even less interest. 

Sorry I'm not going to be any help here.

Biblical Truthiness

One of the tenants of Christianity that causes quite a bit of fuss is the assertion that the Bible represent the literal Word of God. This tenant of the faith never fails to stir up men's emotions, causing harsh and even bitter arguments, even among the truest of friends. While I have come to understand the positions of those on both sides of the issue, I've reached a point in my life at which I can confidently say that I just don't care.

My position, one that I believe to be unique amongst both the Faithful and the Godless, is that the question of whether or not the Bible comes unadulterated from the word of the Almighty is moot. It simply has no practical implications for me. and my reasoning is quite simple: It's because I've READ the Bible.

I know what's good about the Good Book; and to be utterly fair, it really is good. The message carried by the New Testament: one of Faith, Hope and Love (I usually ignore Leviticus) is one so profound that I think it speaks for itself. I think the words stand on their own.

I don't think the Bible needs the additional credibility associated with Divine Mandate. The lessons learned from it's parables carry no more weight when narrated by the Angels than by a Jewish carpenter who never went to work. It makes absolutely no difference to me. I don't agree with the Bible because of Heavenly Writ, I agree with the Bible because I think it's right: an opinion utterly unaffected by it's origin.

I treat the Bible as a useful moral and philosophical tool, providing insight in moments when I find myself sucked into a the depths of a moral quagmire. I don't care if I buy a hammer from Home Depot or Lowe's. I care if the hammer helps me build a fence. By the same logic, I don't care with from whence the Bible comes. It's there. It's useful. I'll use it.

If the issue of it's authorship is really so crucial to your Faith, then by all means continue the arguments; but I'm going to grab a beer, I've got a fence to finish.

I recently gave a speech at a memorial for Howard Terry, the founder of the Terry Foundation, which provides scholarships for students to attend Texas Public Universities:

My name is Charles Cliff.
Some of you may know me. Some of you may simply know of me. Some of you may be surprised that I am speaking to you today; I confess I'm a bit surprised myself.
When Blythe asked me to speak on behalf of the Terry Scholar Alumni, I set ut to collect my thoughts and compose an epitaph to honour Howard Terry.

But, to be honest, I found this extremely difficult. I met Howard Terry only in short, sparse encounters. I cannot honestly say that I knew the man; and, I have never been entirely comfortable speaking on subjects with which I am so unfamiliar.

So I found myself doing something I had not done in several years: I opened my Bible.

And in Mathew, I found something not entirely unlike an answer.

This particular verse says: "Thus you will know them by their fruits".

Reading this, I realized that perhaps I knew Howard Terry better than I thought. If I wish to know Howard Terry, I need only look to the young men and women here today.

Because I know Chris Moore, I know Howard was hard-working.
Because I know Alexandra Wilson, I know Howard was kind.
Because I know Tania Foster, I know Howard was a bit bossy.

But above all these things, I know Howard was immensely proud of each of you, because I am proud of you.

I have seen each of you grow into bright and strong men and women. The works that you have done leave a testament that can never be over-written.

Howard Terry's memorial will extend beyond this one day to the rest of ours.

Howard Terry will be known through the lives you scholars choose to lead.

The Things we do will continue to etch his story into the pages of history.

My friends, let's make that story a good one.