Ghosts and Ghouls

Things that go bump in the night, monsters in the wardrobe and those moments that raise the hairs on the back of your neck and then the ones everywhere else!

If you play any RPG you will at some some point run into or through something that we could call a ghost. Possibly some sort of monster or crypt dwelling being might be lurking around the corner. A clutch of skeletal warriors might be lurking in wait or perhaps the shades of long forgotten teachers lurking with malice aforethought.
They give us the shivers and line up as fodder for our adventuring characters.

For some reason though they very rarely seem to make it into fantasy. Well, normally.

Vampires have taken over a corner of the horror and fantasy overlap and wont be evicted, not even by a man with a big stick, flame thrower and a script full of one-liners. So I'm not going to get into vampires, not yet.

Instead I'm going to look at the other beings that inhabit the dark and mouldering corners of Fantasonia.

Mogmush looked around and squinted down the dark tunnel, absently brushing cobwebs out of his hair as he did so. 

"Why're we doin' this again?" His voice carrie donly a hint of his usual slur and Gudguff felt reassured he had done the right thing in hiding the barbarian's supply of booze.

"There's a chamber at the heart of this barrow that..." Gudguff was interrupted as the huge man pushed the Wizard out of the way and ran down the length of the tunnel.

"Never mind!" Mogmush yelled as he headed toward the small square of light that marked the door.
A dry clacking sound filled the tunnel and drowned out the barbarian's fleeing footsteps.

"Oh...yes..." Gudguff hurriedly held his staff out power in front of himself and began to summon his magic.

Hold on, I know all about this. I've played Skyrim.
Oh, well! Why didn't you say so? I don't need to to explain about the Banshee, the Revenant or the Kobold then do I?

Err...the what now?
We'll start with Revenant's then shall we?
Revenants

William of Newburgh wrote the following in the 1190's:
"It would not be easy to believe that the corpses of the dead should sally (I know not by what agency) from their graves, and should wander about to the terror or destruction of the living, and again return to the tomb, which of its own accord spontaneously opened to receive them, did not frequent examples, occurring in our own times, suffice to establish this fact, to the truth of which there is abundant testimony"
Revenants appeared throughout the folklore and fireside stories of western Europe throughout the Middle ages. These stories were especially popular in England. Revenants would typically die, be buried and then rise again to spread misery.
Consistently they would terrorize their former neighbours and families (much like a clingy ex) and would be stopped with the removal of the head and possibly a sprinkle of holy water, the removal of the heart and a light garnish of Rosemary.

Well alright...I didn't know that. But it sounds a lot like a vampire!
Of course it does! The roots for most of our modern horror "Heroes" can be seen in all sorts of ancient tales. Mostly because the people who made such creatures famous, I'm looking at you Stoker, had heard the English versions of the stories as children and were introduced to the Eastern versions of the stories as they grew up. It was only a matter of time before the most chilling aspects of the various tales were merged together.

The major difference with Revenants (aside from the lack of blood sucking) is that they tended to prey almost exclusively on people they had known during their former lives, much like politicians. And, also like politicians, once they have inflicted an arbitrarily determined amount of woe of suffering they crawl back under their tombstone without the need for any passing Hero to banish them.

The Banshee

Known to the Irish as: Bean Si, the Banshee is a spectral female who appears to curse the living with the knowledge of their imminent death, often wailing in a hideous manner to speed said death. You will have seen a Banshee or two if you have had the misfortune to be out on the town and in the proximity of a Hen Do.
For US readers:
A Hen Do is a collection of cackling women who hunt down lost and injured men before devouring them, alive, through phallic shaped straws.

Banshees pop up throughout various tales and myths and never with a good outcome. They cannot be stopped, merely avoided and once their proclamation has been made there is nothing to be done about it. Much like a mother-in-law at a wedding.

But...I've seen horror films! What about the zombies and the Werewolves!?
Oh, you want Werewolves do you?

Lycanthropy
Werewolves, in the original myths, were most often created by the implementation of a single curse. This curse could not be passed on by the cursed and was limited to that person. The phases of the moon seem to have little sway over the original Werewolves and much of what is now gospel for Lycanthropes is in fact thought to be latter additions.

The original Lycanthropes were more likely a wide spread warrior cult of ancient standing. Copying wolves has always been a trait that sets humans aside and in the early years of our species we learned a lot from these apex predators. Pre-historical societies may have held strange initiation ceremonies in which men wore the pelts of the most dangerous animal of the woods and shambled around a fire in a laughable and drunken imitation of said animal's grace.
As time wore on and fashions changed, these ceremonies would have become increasingly rare and more villified as newer and more interesting temples opened up.

But, for Fantasy's sake there is nothing wrong with people being bitten or the full moon or curses or whatever else you fancy putting in there. Just remember that Werewolves are not actual Wolves. Real Wolves, quite sensibly, have as little to do with people as possible these days and really don't condone the sort of mindless slaughter that Werewolves get up to.

Riiiiiight... but what about the other one? The Cuphold?
Kobold. It's pronounced Kobold.

Right, yeah...them.
Kobold's are a hangover of Germanic Paganism. Most often they are described as house spirits. Now hold on a second before you start banging on about Poltergeists!
Kobold's are not overtly malicious. In fact, mos of the time they are quite handy to have around the place, doing chores and so on. If they are forgotten or insulted then they get peevish and play pranks, like hiding your keys or quietly shaving half an inch of one chair leg. Kobold's have been reported to look after whole towns or mines and are creatures imbued with strange and largely underrated powers.
In an interesting twist they do have a relative in England. The Boggart.

Boggarts
Boggarts are the same as Kobolds in all respects. They might help you or hinder you at their will but they tend to have a slightly malicious sense of humour about it. Boggarts are also almost entirely confined to Yorkshire (For non Englanders- Yorkshire is a very strange and very insular part of Britain that was once an independent Viking kingdom and has never really let the idea go). As such they are often imbued with the bitter and cutting wit of said county and have a robust sense of humour. For example:

Boggart: Where's my spice? Translation: Prithee sir, where is my recompense for mine hard work?
House owner: Bugger off. Trans': I'll have none of you, away foul Homunculus.
Boggart: Right then. Thy's for it! Trans': By God's wounds thou shalt regret this insult!
House owner: Aargh! Where has my liver gone? This hurts! Trans': Aargh! Mine Liver has absconded from the premises! It is as if the fires of hell were poured into my trunk.
Boggart: Joke's on thee! Trans': Such is thine reward!
House owner: What joke? My liver's gone! This isn't funny! Trans': I see not the humour in the black cloud of this day. 
Boggart: It's pretty fucking funny from where I'm sitting! Trans': In time you shall see the joy.
House owner: Gurgle. Trans': Gurgle.


The somewhat laboured point is that there are dozens and dozens of legends and myths to be chosen from and used. You can cherry pick all of the mythology of the world to fill your world with terrifying creatures and ghastly wails. Or, better still, you can combine what you find into some new thing to brown the trousers of your Hero and their band.
Speaking of which.

Gudguff swung his staff around and bellowd the words of power.
"Clap on! Clap off!" A blinding sheet of light flooded the tunnel at the words and revealed the spectre that had been rushing towards the Wizard.
It reared up and filled the tunnel. Vile, palid patterns wreathed across it's carcass and a rope of cold pearls coiled about it's neck.

Gudguff raised his staff over his head and breathed deeply as he wove the spell in his mind, giving the power that thrummed through him a lattice to give it form. It was quickly finished and only needed releasing. 

"You!" The tunnel shook. "Shall Not!" Gudguff felt the spell taking form around him, only one word remained. He drew breath again to complete the spell.

"Don't you tell me what to do, young man!" His mother's voice cut through the half formed spell like a hammer through custard. His concentration shattered, Gudguff sagged against the wall and stared at the flowery hem of his mother's nightie.

"Mum..."

"Don't you mum me, young man." She placed her hands on her hips for a moment before brandishing her feather duster at him. "Three hundred years I've been here and never once have you visited or done the cleaning!"

"But, Mum! There's this Dark Lord and...and..." Her eyes bored into Gudguff and his excuses dried up. "I'll get the mop then?"

Prophecy

There's something in Fantasy that seems to draw Prophecies in the same way a ambidextrous mitten sale pulls in a crowd of frothing maniacal bargain hunters. And yes, it annoys me.

Gudguff frowned down at the crinkled parchment and sighed. He couldn't make head nor tail of what had been scrawled on it. 

"Sodding mystics, all the penmanship of a mutilated Hraagothi up a tree." Scratching at his head Gudguff traced his finger along the wavering line of scribbled words and mumbled them aloud to himself.

"Right then. 'Onee shalle rise...shalle falle. The windes ofe change shalle shove'...no, 'shake?' that makes sense, surely. 'Thee achinge kump? Lump? Rump? Shalle no shadowes...nake,' no, 'make.'" He took a swig from the clay jug near his elbow and continued. "Has to be make, surely. 'The fated of the clns...' must be clans, or maybe clams? 'will bye hys arme sayve alle frome harme.' Rhyming couplets, yes of course, that makes things easier. Right what's that?"

Gudguff sighed and unwound the scroll a bit more. The rest of it was as indecipherably spelled and badly written as the first foot of parchment. 

"Sodding prophecies." 

Gudguff swore to himself before taking a bigger swig from the jug. He looked at the intricate brasswork of his astrological clock and did some quick calculations in his head. 

"So, at the rate I've been reading this, I'll just about have time to get downstairs before Sorebum turns the world into his personal amusement park..." He looked from the scroll to the clock and then back again. "Stuff it." 

Gudguff methodically and with great care rolled the parchment up into a neat coil. Reverentially he carried the ancient scroll across his tower chamber to the wooden casket under the window. With a sigh he planted one foot upon the lid and threw the lot out of the window.

You should know the format by now. So, get your predicting pants on and pop open those Pringle-esque snacks, we're dealing with the turbulent waters of fate.

So, what is a Prophecy and why do they appear?
The dictionary defines Prophecy thusly:

1. The foretelling or prediction of what is to come.
2. Something that is declared by a prophet, especially a divinely inspired prediction, instruction or exhortation.
3. A divinely inspired utterance or revelation.
4. The action, function or faculty of a prophet.

Now, I've got no problem with "Divinely inspired Utterances". None at all. Aside from sounding quite nice it is also perfect for the Fantasy genre. As a bare-bones description then number 1 works quite nicely as well.

However, the action/function of or something declared by a Prophet...well...

Prophecy in Fantasy, when it is of the Divine Utterance (or DU-TM) variety is absolutely fine. God/s and other such celestial beings are presumably so removed from the human experience of reality that time to them is an open book (possibly with pop-up pictures for some of the bigger events/atrocities). 

It would make sense that in order to avoid some particularly bowel-loosening moment of dire horror, some benevolent deity would communicate some information to one of their many humble slopmonging followers. 

It is also utterly within the realms of Fantastical possibility (not much isn't really) that the message might get a bit scrambled as it passes from the deity to the cretin, what with the somewhat vast differences in language and culture between a divine being and someone who spreads faeces across fields. 

I can even buy the idea that the message might have been written down several centuries before current events or even that the deity is using an out of date dialect-dictionary which stretches metaphors beyond breaking point and into strange new meanings that totally overshadow the message.

It's fine, really it is.

What I can't let slide is half arsed writing that uses prophecy to explain what the hell is going on in an overly complex plot that the writer doesn't fully understand. Or using Prophecy to railroad some Deus ex Machina ending that suddenly saves what had been, until then, a pretty shitty day.

Right, so they are messages about stuff that hasn't happened? But how can some words on paper do any of that stuff?
Yes, a Prophecy is usually a list of things, people and circumstances that will interact and make several somethings happen, which leads to some bigger event.
Prophecies are usually found in the hands of wandering Wizards, mystics and heralds of doom. They are transcribed by people who are technically Prophets, though they never seem to gain any of the popularity that real Prophets tend to and they are read by other people who then go and do the hard work.

Prophecies fall into three categories in Fantasonia.

1. Stuff will happen no matter what you do! Probably the purest form of Prophecy. No matter what the Hero and their band of idiots do, this form of Prophecy has not only predicted it but also listed the outcomes, what happens afterwards and the colour of everyone's underwear. Heroes faced with this type of Foretelling will usually take one look at it, decide to make their own fate and then look back only realise they have been dancing to Prophecy FM's programming all along.
2. Stuff will happen because you believe it will and then go and make it happen! A more realistic and deeply frustrating form of Prophecy. Often the Hero will be presented with the aged scroll of wisdom by someone from an Order who's existence is devoted to the fulfilling of Prophecy. The Order in question will almost never ponder the idea that by forcing the Prophecies into completion they are actually invalidating them, unless there is a clause in each of the writings which refers to the Order and mentions them doing all the leg work. This type of Prophecy reaches a 9.6 on my "Frustrating-shit-ometer(TM)"largely because you, the reader, never know if it is a real Prophecy or some cynical and world manipulating bollocks. Which can be a good plot mechanic when used well or a giant boil on the neck if badly thought out.   
3. Stuff might happen or might have already happened but you're so confused by the wording the event in question is probably history! Or as I like to think of it, Nostradamus territory. Real world Prophecies can often be linked to absolutely anything. The more convoluted the wording the less likely the "Prophet" in question had any clue at all about the looming future. Sweeping generalisations about the human condition and inevitable events will usually replace any of the wackier but more accurate Foretellings of the other varieties.  

Type 1 Prophecies are the most cloying. It doesn't matter what the Hero in question does because they are fighting against fate and destiny. Ironically in struggling against such things they are actually fulfilling their role in the grand cosmic scheme of things without realising it. But if they were to stop that would also be filling their role as it was meant to be at that moment...

Yes I know, it ties your head in knots. 

The Vikings had a very phlegmatic approach to this sort of universe. The loose philosophy was: 

Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, there's no point fighting it. Accept it and get on with your life until it ends.

There are other theories that give the sense of slightly more freedom and don't hint at some all encompassing intelligence running everything in everyone's life all the time, like google.

The foremost of these is that fate is driven by catalyst points in time at which somethings must happen. Depending on the outcome of these events the universe then lurches off down track A or track B. 

However, once again things are made more complicated very quickly. What size of event is important enough to warrant such a split? Is it only the huge things which happen at most, once or twice in a life or maybe once in ten generations of one family? Or is it the little things? 

Does my decision to wear red socks today mean that there is an alternate universe in which I didn't? Do these choices branch out infinitely from each micro-second and decision we make? Has your brain melted yet? If these alternative realities do exist for each choice we make, do they exist for the thoughts we have? If they do then doesn't that sort of make us like gods? Able to shape realities by dreaming them into being?

Or do all of the alternative choices just stay as potentials that never blossomed, is the world around us the only possible world because it is the world we live in?

If I'm honest neither of those is particularly comforting or easy to wrap your mind around. Hence Type 1 Prophecies being cloying and sticky like chocolate that has melted in your pocket. 

Shard looked around at the Wizard and his muscular companions dubiously. 

"So you're saying that I need to come with you?"

"Yup." The Wizard sounded either resigned or bored. Shard couldn't tell which.

"And that it's been foretold that I will do this, to help you kill the Dark Lord?"

"Yup." The Wizard was picking at his knuckles distractedly. The larger of his companions had collapsed to ground and was busy going blue in the face whilst the other, wearing some sort of loincloth, blew air at his face with a soft raspberry sound.

"And that it's all fated, so I will end up doing it regardless of what I want to do?"

"Pretty much." The Wizard didn't look up from his knuckles as he absently drove the heel of his boot into his suffocating companion's gut. The huge man breathed in with a whooping gasp startling the drunk in the loincloth.

"But I'm a twelve year old girl!" Shard protested. "My mum wont let me go to the village green on my own, never mind going to Mount Fwoom!" Her voice rose in pitch as she protested.

"Indeed lass, you are twelve. And yet your wits are as sharp as broken glass and exceed the minds of both of my companions put together."

He paused and looked behind himself briefly. 

"Admittedly, not difficult." He sighed and stared at Shard from under his bushy eyebrows. 

"If it makes you feel any better I could tell you that it wont matter what you want to do because the Prophecy is a glimpse of Fate. Fate which controls everything, men and beasts, plants and stars gods and weathermen."

"Weathermen?"

"Horrible tricksters who promise rain and deliver sun." He waved an irritable hand at the deep blue sky and then at his thick leather rain cape. 

"What I'm trying to say is that it doesn't matter what you do, because it is already Fated, so You might as well do what you want."

"But aren't I supposed to discover my fate in some sort of mystical accident or something?" Shard stared up at the Wizard in the intent way the young have. "And if I just start doing what I like how will I know it's what I'm meant to be doing?"

Gudguff could see the next question forming before the girl knew it was there. My own little prophecy. He joked to himself. 

Before she could continue Gudguff interrupted.

"If it makes any difference what so ever, you wont have to do chores or go to temple." He looked around and noted his companions had managed to stand up at last. 

"Can I bring my sister?"

Gudguff smiled in a kindly way.

"Of course not. She's not in the bleeding Prophecy is she?"

Type 2 Prophecies are much easier if more frustrating.

A Prophecy is a prediction for events that will happen in the future as described by a Prophet. If those events are then deliberately put into motion by a group of people dedicated to seeing that things happen. Without an all deciding fate-type thing in charge. Then surely what is happening is a bunch of people are reading a nice story by someone who might need medical care and then deciding to go out and change the world. Possibly by killing or arranging specific births for people, real people, who match a vague description in the story. Or worse, who don't have anything to do with the nutter's writings but who these Activists think might be better for the purposes of the Prophecy.

If that is the case then it isn't really Prophecy any more. Just some rather dubious Mission Statementing undertaken by people with a skill for reading a lot into something quite vague. Rather like anyone who gets offended by "Political Incorrectness". 

Gudguff stepped back and spat blood and teeth into the thin dust of the road, swearing lispily to himself. Spire simply stood where she was and looked pleased with herself. 

"Whaa 'id oo oo 'at 'or" He garbled. 

"For saying a naughty word to my sister." Spire replied. 

The Wizard noted that Spire was probably as strong as Ran Dom McGuffin or Mogmush. Easily as strong. He grimaced and spat out a tooth. 

"That's your sister?" He asked Shard.

"Yup." The tone was insufferably smug.

"Riiight... She can come." Spire stepped forward flexed muscles that Gudguff was certain he didn't have. He thought for a moment. "If she would like to, we would be very happy to have both yourself and Spire to accompany us on our quest."

The girls beamed in unison, from behind him Gudguff heard the intake of breath from Ran. Grinding his remaining teeth together, Gudguff started to swear to himself as he started walking.

Right, now my brain has stopped bleeding, where do they appear?

In most Fantasy, Prophecies tend to appear in lands that are being dominated, against their will, by some sort of Dark Lord or other evil presence. They usually have something to do with the renewal of the world or the toppling of the said evil.

How can I find a Prophecy?

Well if your Fantasy world is in need of one you can always find a mad Prophet lurking under a stone somewhere. Perhaps in a swamp? Or living as a hermit atop some gods awful mountain. Prophets are the easy part. The difficult bit is working out what effect, if any, your Prophecy is going to have on your realm. As we have now discussed a Prophecy is actually a hint as to the nature of the universe and will effect the things far beyond its remit. Or not, as it's Fantasy and therefore totally up to you!

But what about false Prophecies?

What about them? They happen all the time! Do you remember the Millennium Bug?

At the worst you could include a few to throw your characters off of the scent for a while. Or possibly as a task in its own right to be sorted out. Or you could have a True Prophecy which then turns out to be a load of crap even though it has led your characters to something important or vital.

The sky's the limit!

The group came to a halt at the Wizard's instance. He waved the two love struck simpletons into silence and their laboured conversation ground to a halt. 

"What are we doing here?" Shard whispered. 

Gudguff had not bothered explaining why they had made the trek into the mountains, he wasn't in the habit of explaining anything to his companions as up until recently they had trouble remembering their own names and how to breathe.

"We're here for a prophet. HE guided me to you...and your sister. I need his advice now."

"Oh. OK." Shard whispered her understanding and went to stand with the others. 

Gudguff laid his satchel and staff onto the rocks and approached the cave. Off to his right the Tree Of Telling rattled in the wind as the thousands of dead Prophecies pinned to it's dry branches shook as if trying to tear free and be released into the world once more.

The cave was noisy. Gudguff could hear the slapping and spattering noises from ten feet outside. He had been able to smell the place from thirty. Stepping very carefully he moved around the corner and out o the pool of sunlight into the ruddy glow of a fire. 

In the crimson glow two figures worked their very special brand of magic.

Shrot the Blind sat and wrote on the Prophecies on a never ending roll of cheap toilet paper. His brother Rolf the Thick scooped up his brother's turds and dashed them on the spattered cave walls before calling out the portents and words of the gods. 

Gudguff looked at the scene before him for a long moment before coming to his decision. 

"Bollocks to this shit."

Castles

What would classic Fantasy be without Castles? Or fortresses, citadels, ruins and Doom Forts for that matter.

Castles stud the landscape of Fantasonia like the bolts in an oak door. They rise out of the forests of imagination, soaring above the crude and slovenly lean-to's of the local slopmongers and generally remind passers by that here lives a person of Importance. Or a villain of great power and fear generating.

For millenia Castles have sheltered, excluded and impressed various different people around our world. In Fantasonia they often form the backdrop for a climactic battle or the starting point for some young, idealistic and utterly thick pleb's journey to fame and possible evisceration.
My problem is that a lot of authors don't do justice to these monuments to war.

So, put up some hoardings, heat some sand and prepare to defend the breach. Or go and weigh your dog after the nightly walk to see what difference that walk made.

What actually is a Castle?
We'll start at the basics then?
A castle is a purpose built fortification made to;

• Intimidate the locals
• Protect some noble 
• Remind the peasants who is in charge
• Provide a garrison to protect/dominate/control the local territory
• Employ a lot of masons and carpenters 
• Provide something to have an epic battle on top of
• To create a vital node in the network of leylines 

Basically it is a collection of stones and earth and wood made so that soldiers can go to sleep safe at night without the fear of throat slitty death. 

So I should probably invest in one?

Well if you're that concerned about your home security then you might as well. Castles have a whole host of handy and easy to use/figure out selling points.

1. Murder holes: More or less what you'd think, holes which you murder people through. Usually found above gates, doors and in corridors. Arrows, boiling water or sewage. Whatever you fancy!
2. Drawbridge: A bridge you can draw back/up. An excellent extra layer of wood between your door and the hordes of disgruntled peasantry howling for your head on a stick.
3. Arrowslits: Windows that work on the same principle as bullet wounds! Very small on the front and much larger at the back! The narrow frontage stops enemy missiles from skewering your crack-troops and the larger space behind lets you move around and pick your targets at will.
4. Hoardings: Not a bell for the ladies of negotiable affection. Hoardings are wooden platforms that extend beyond the battlements. Usually roofed they are an excellent way to drop all sorts of horror onto the heads of the slopmongers bellow. They also provide your minions with excellent cover from the elements, which is not to be sneezed at if you want to avoid a cold.
5. Portcullis: Not a strange variety of harbour. A portcullis is a grate that drops down in front of the gates, usually made out of wood or iron it is an excellent way of preserving the integrity of your doors and by extension, your head.
6. Moat: A bloody big ditch filled with water, sewage, pointy sticks, fire or whatever else is to be had. In successful defenses a good moat will be filled with the bodies of your enemies. It also stops people from tunneling under your walls. Which is nice.

Huzzah, I've got my castle from a fleeing Baron and I'm now lording it over the local morons. What happens if they attack?

Well, this is a difficult situation. People attacking a castle is what is known as a siege. Sieges were far more common in our history than battles. For starters they involved less people. The average standing garrison of a Castle in the middle ages was, maybe, fifteen or twenty. That would have included the cooks and sable boys etc. It might sound daft but a number that small could, assuming they held off the assaults, keep a much larger force at bay. Most by having more food per mouth and a food supply of fresh water. 

Mogmush the Mighty sighed and rattled the jug. It was totally empty. He stood, braving the inevitable hail of arrows and stones. Ignoring the missiles that whipped past, tugging at his hair and rattling from the stonework, Mogmush carefully took aim and loosed. 

He grunted as the stream of urine splashed into the empty jug. He grinned as he shook the last drops free before turning and hurling the jug over the wall toward the hordes of evil. 

"Have a drink on me!" He giggled to himself as the jug broke on the head of a particularly ugly looking minion. 

"Subtle. I like it." Gudguff groused as he gnawed on the end of his belt. Ran Dom McGufin was asleep on an empty pile of potato sacks. Between them the two gargantuan Heroes the carefully stored food had lasted about a week. The  Castle's vegetable patch had lasted about an hour after that. 

Gudguff moved the leather to his other cheek and peered around the corner of the battlement. He quickly saw the massed ranks surge forward silently before an arrow tugged his hat from head. 

"Looks like they're coming again." He sounded weary even to himself. 

"Why do they try?" Mogmush was more sober now than the Wizard had even seen him before. Unfortunately it didn't do much for the man's sense of decorum. The giant Barbarian was unsheathing his sword, Cabbage.

The first head to appear over the parapet was very quickly dented by a titanic blow which shattered the rungs of the ladder as well. The next face was a few feet away and fell victim to Ran's perfectly timed punch. 

"Well, he might be as thick as two short planks, but by the gods he can punch things." Gudguff watched in horrified awe as his Chosen Moron hammered each head to appear. The huge youth chortled with glee each time he deformed a helmet with his huge fists. 

Gudguff rolled up his sleeves and brandished his Staff. 

So, lets say my tiny garrison has held my fortress. What if I were to attack my enemy in his Castle?
Well, the easiest way to do it is to block off the ways in and out of the place. You can do it with a few people and not need a huge force. Just sit back, block the roads and don't let any food get in. If you feel like being a bit creative then you could throw some rotten meat in over the walls, this will hasten the spread of lovely diseases like dysentery. The biggest problem with this is the cleaning up required when you have control of the place. Assuming you want control and you're not just going to burn the place to the ground.

If you're pressed for time then you could try rushing the walls, if you're lucky and especially fierce then you might just about manage it. Lucky or no it will cost you a shed-load of men. So be wary about it.

You could try mining under the walls. A number of sieges in England were ended using this method. Take a wall, preferably one with no moat. Then dig a bloody big tunnel under it. Once you're sure you're under the wall you can extract your miners, or not, then fill the tunnels with pigs. Once the little oinkers are in, set fire to the lot. Pig fat burns seriously hot. Hot enough to crack stones and break foundations, meaning the walls come tumbling down. Once the smoke and dust has cleared you can run up the rubble and take the place. The redecorating might be a pain though.

The major disadvantage with a siege is that the people in the Castle might just have friends who could come up behind you and cause some damage. Not fun.

Gudguff coughed and hacked as the smoke cleared. The blast had been titanic and his ears were still ringing from it. 

"Waazat!?" Mogmush lurched out of a pile of rubble and dust trailing fine particles like a shoddy comet. Ran simply kicked a boulder out of his way, simply grunting slightly as the stone cracked under the blow. 

Gudguff looked, the original line of the curtain wall was now a series of piles of rubble. Smaller stones slid from the tops of the heaps and caused miniature avalanches. Beyond the line of the wall, the Dark Lord's forces were in disarray. Most of them had been flattened by the concussive force of Gudguff's blast. Those not on their backs were stumbling away from the ruins of the Castle. 

"What...What...?" Ran stood and stared around dumbfounded.

Mogmush tugged his loincloth straight as he stood and stared at the Wizard in fear. 

"I..." Gudguff looked around at the devistation and began again. "This is what happens." He paused and tried to justify what he was about to say, finding he couldn't he said it anyway, reasoning the two idiots wouldn't notice. "If I don't have a hat, things go bad." 

The two bigger men looked at each other and then back to the abashed Wizard.

"'S a bit much though." Mogmush said it quietly and made a badly written mental note to not annoy the Wizard. 

Hack and Slash- Swords Part 1

Swords.
Long, short, straight, curved, named, unnamed, broken, reforged, lost, found, magical and beautiful. Swords are everywhere in Fantasonia.

There are other weapons out there that I could write about but swords are the most commonly written about and the most often mishandled by writers.

So, buckle on your helmet lurk behind your shield and brace, we're going to go mental with some pointy metal. Or you can go and repaint that wall that's been bugging you.

What is a sword and what do you do with one?

The dictionary defines a sword as:
"A weapon with a long, sharp blade, often used in the past".

Swords are the weapon of choice for warriors, henchmen, elves, orcs, goblins and champions of the tax office. They are carried with distinction and pride by anyone lucky enough to own several kilograms of forged metal. You can't move through Fantasonia without falling over some tit waving a sword around, which would be fine apart from all the sharp and pointy metal around.

In our world, swords were (and still are) half status symbol and half purpose made weapon.
In the past, to own a sword was the equivalent of a Ferrari with machine guns, an ejector seat and an automated speed-camera destroyer.
They were expensive and beautiful. Each was the outcome of hundreds of hours of work by a skilled craftsman who, contrary to most fantasy had probably trained his entire life to turn lumps of iron and steel into weapons.

Now that we have established what a Sword is we can move onto the meat of this treatise.

Most Overused And Misunderstood Weapon In The History Of Anything:

• The Katana

What is a Katana?

To be technical about it, the Katana is a single edged, cutting blade. Designed with cavalry action in mind and endowed with a slightly curved blade to facilitate maximum damage in sweeping cuts from horseback.

To give it it's street name the Katana is also known as a Samurai Sword.

Now don't get me wrong, I actually have a lot of admiration for this family of swords (there are several varieties from a number of periods). As with all weapons, it takes a lot of skill to wield a Katana with accuracy and excellence.

Also, when used for what it was made for a Katana is an excellent tool and very capable of dealing a lot of damage.

Right,  so what you're saying is that they are good. Right?

Yes. Yes I am. 

However, it annoys the crap out of me to read about Katanas being used out of their original context. They evolved in a very specific culture, with very specific requirements and very frightening men using them. 

Goramog laughed and turned in a slow circle with his arms spread wide.

"Is there no-one here who will challenge me?" A purse, heavy with gold, hung from his belt and Goramog had put it all up as his stake in the tournament. 

A long moment stretched out and Goramog felt his grin widen. He eyed the prize purse hanging from Earl Faritha's booth.

"No-one at all?" He turned again, his boots stirring the fine dust of the tourneyground and making some of the shorter slopmongers sneeze. "Well, I'll just take the full prize then." He smirked at the peasantry and strode toward the Earl's booth. 

"I'fdss yuo!" The badly slurred challenge rang above the muted mutterings and occasional flatulence of the crowd.

Goramog turned, a witty reply ready and eager to fly from his mouth. He saw who his challenger was and put the reply away for future use on someone who would understand it. 

Before him stood a huge, scarred barbarian. The hilt of a massive sword rose a long way over his shoulders, a clay jug of the local cider dangled from one hand. The man seemed to be swaying with the breeze. 

"You?" Goramog stared at the bigger man. "You're drunk!" 

The barbarian seemed to think about this for a moment. "Prbobly." He nodded amiably. "Bt, wre skint." 

A shorter man in a tall and pointed hat pushed his way past the towering inebriate and glared at Goramog. 

"This will be a fair contest! It will! By Dora's Knockers it will be or I'll visit such horror on you that you'll wish your father'd had a tug on the night you were conceived!" 

Goramog winced and stared at the Wizard, an eldritch glow was starting to appear around the older man's head and Goramog didn't want to push his luck too far. 

"Very well, in two days!" He addressed the gathered simpletons, hoping to gain a bigger audience. There was a pause as the idiot populace worked out when the titanic struggle would take place before becoming excited about it. 

Gooramosh spoke over the growing noise.

"I feel your champion needs a demonstration of my skill, raggedy Wizard." 

Goramog reached out and snatched the purple silk scarf that was hanging from the front of the Barbarian's belt and threw it into the air. 

In the blink of an eye he had snatched his slightly curved sword from its scabbard and, in a demonstration of dazzling excellence sliced the floating silk in half.

 

The blade whispered through the cloth as it fluttered on the breeze. Goramog used the momentum of the first cut and span, slicing the floating pieces once more. He dropped into a crouch and sliced once of the strips again before rising and quartering another section in a flurry of motion. 

To finish he impaled a tiny fragment of cloth and sank to his knees, the cloth pinned to the earth before him.

"...Two, three...wait for applause..." He muttered to himself as he knelt. Goramog waited for the applause. The he waited a little longer. Nothing happened beyond a lot of quiet muttering and some giggles.

Raising his head Goramog saw that the cretins gathered round were staring at his opponent. 

"What the..." He rose and turned. The words he was gathering died on his tongue.

Mogmush the Mighty stood and swayed with the breeze. Before him, Gudguff the Wizard was intently studying the carvings on his staff. Goramog gawped.

What he had mistakenly believed to be a scarf, perhaps a token from an absent love interest, had in fact been the barbarian's sole piece of clothing that wasn't a weapon belt. Goramog felt the blood rising in his cheeks as the mostly naked man realised he was exposed and took the opportunity to urinate.

But I've seen that in films! Samurai swords can do that!

Well, I hate to piss on your cornflakes but most of them couldn't. Silk is a lot tougher than writers and film makers seem to think for starters. 

The cutting edge of a sword would have to be monumentally sharp in order to slice through silk that was hanging in mid air. 

A blade that was that sharp would be as fragile as an glass hammer. It would probably cut flesh very well but once it hit bone or armour then there would be a very high chance that the blade would nick, fracture or break.

So unless your enemy is a giant amorphous blob of flesh with no bones you probably don't want t have a blade that is too sharp.

Also, just to really upset you now. Films are not real. The swords used in films are lighter than "Live" blades, Aluminium, tin and ever foil wrapped wood have been used as props to allow the actors using them to perform combat scenes with dazzling speed. 

So the films lied to me?

They lied to all of us.

But Samurai swords look so cool! And they cut things so well!

Well, yes they do look very pretty. There is a very simple elegance to their form. 

Cutting is the only thing a sword is good for though, not a robust one anyway.

In a melee/scrum/Christmas sale you don't have the room to perform the sweeping and elegant moves that a Katana would need to be effective. Instead what you might want to do is bash people. A heavy pommel is very useful in this instance. There are also other parts of Western Swords that are useful, like the quillons (read cross guard). These pointy bits of metal are good for more than just protecting your digits, they can be used to seriously prod someone in the face or squidgy bits. 

But...but...My character has been using one...

That's fine, so long as you can explain why it is so effective. 

If it can cut through carbon steel plate armour then you need to explain why this is possible because the real article can't! 

The following is a check list of things that will let you get away with this sort of stuff without having to change your plot (or your character) too much.

• Is it a Magic/k blade?
• Is the armour broken/shit?
• Is the critical blow struck in a place which has no plate steel?
• Is the weapon made of a strange rare/unique metal that gives it great density, little weight and uber sharpness?
• Could the target be under a spell of corrosion?
• Is it a blow against something unholy?
• Does it need to be an overkill type hit, or would it be more interesting if it was more uncertain?

I didn't think of it like that...

I'll bet you didn't, you little scallywag. 

In short, a Katana shouldn't be terrible shorthand for "Amazing-cuts-through-everything-sword". If used properly and with thought to its limitations then it could be a great weapon for a character to have. If not...well...

Goramog danced toward Mogmush, his light blade twirling in effortless patterns.

Around them were seated hundreds and hundreds of slopmongers. They watched in rapt stupidity as the duel played out.

Somewhat unsportingly the barbarian had turned up wearing full plate armour. Goramog was not bothered by this as his blade, "Deathkiss" would happily chew through leather, copper and even bronze armour.

Mogmush stayed where he was and moved his enormous sword, "Cabbage", in lazy figures of eight around his body.

Gormaog snarled and glided forwards. He flowed around "Cabbage", getting inside Mogmushs's reach. A flurry of blow landed on the thick, black armour and Goramog moved away just as quickly.

Something was wrong.

Instead of lying on the ground and bleeding, Mogmush was moving forward with intent. He bellowed something through his visor and swung his blade toward Goramog. 

Goramog raised his own blade in reaction and started to move backwards. Too late. He realised as the longer blade crashed into "Deathkiss". 

Goramog watched as the world seemed to slow down. Fragments of his beautiful sword span away past his head. Several impacted into his face.

Suddenly the Barbarian's bellow became clear.

"It's called Steel, arsewit!"

Steel. Must be magical metal to resist Deathkiss. The world became slower still and Goramog became aware of each hair on his face moving in the wind of the approaching blade. His eyes twitched toward the sky. He saw the clouds begin to move at a normal pace for a brief moment.

And then he saw nothing. 

The Undiscovered Countries.

This blog is dedicated to all of those budding/frustrated cartographers out there.

Fantasy needs a stage, a place for the wonder to happen and somewhere that its characters can be, in the most arty sense of the word. Despite the occasional jaunt into demon infested alternate dimensions or visits into the nether regions of existence, fantasy tends to take place in/on/around worlds. Some are like our own perhaps now or in the past. Others are totally different from anything you or I would recognise.
However, I have some issues with a couple of things that seem to crop up with alarming regularity.

SO! Grab your compass, some stout walking boots and a coat (it looks like rain), we're going to delve into adventuring! 

Or you can go and watch Castaway and skip over the bit where Wilson "dies", as per.

Worlds? What can go wrong with Worlds? Surely they are just big balls of dirt orbiting a sun?
HA! Shows what you know! For years, Pratchett has been creating stories set on a giant disk which travels through space on the back of a giant turtle. So there goes your "Ball of Dirt" theory.

The genre is called Fantasy. Not "History but with Magic/k and Dragons" or "Elves and Dwarves: Area specific evolution in action." There seems to be a lack of truly bonkers ideas at the moment. Where are the night-time worlds with no sun that are kept warm and illuminated by rivers of lava? Or the worlds which are orbited by a flock of tiny suns? Where are the worlds with sporadic gravity and migratory grass?

Gudguff looked around and sighed, the Murdergrass had moved beyond their precarious position.

"Is...Safe?" Ran asked from his perch atop a boulder.

Gudguff looked around again and counted to thirty under his breath. 

"Yes, we should be alright now. Just...try to walk softly." He glared at the gimpish cretin on the other boulder and tried to will the message home. Normally he could have implanted the suggestion with the force of a nail being hammered into a plank. However, Ran was more or less immune to his own thoughts, someone else's didn't stand a chance. 

Gudguff slithered painfully down his boulder and, closing his eyes tightly, ever so gently placed his pointy shoes onto the scoured earth. He waited for a few moments before letting out a sigh, taking care to point his face toward the sky just in case. 

There was often no telling what might attract the Murdergrass. Some people claimed that it moved to the will of some dark and savage plant god. Others said it was the result of a battle between a Sorcerer and a Demon. Most people didn't really care where it came from, they just started running when they saw the stuff apporaching. 

He twisted his head to eyeball Ran for a long moment. Already knowing he would regret it, Gudguff nodded.
Ran blinked, his eyes taking it in turns to complete the task before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. With his tongue between his teeth, Ran slowly uncoiled his legs. Gudguf winced again and stared in horror as the Savior of The World stuck his legs out at a right angle to his body and lent forwards. 
Time seemed to slow as Gudguff watched his protege slid off of the boulder and toward the dirt. The Wizard's body performed a series of involuntary spasms as he stared in horror at Ran.
"No! No! No! Don't just drop off the rock, you tit! The grass will come back!"
Ran ignored the wizard's near hysterical scream and gave himself a little push before raising his hands above his head.
"Weeeee!" His voice was deep enough that Gudguff could feel he vibrations through the floor.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Wizard screamed in horror as Ran's massive feet thumped into the dirt with a resounding crash.
Gudguff turned, put his head down and ran as quickly as he could.He didn't give his Prophesied Hero a warning, the Murdergrass could catch and devour Ran for all the Wizard cared. 

Well, that was creepy. So, you're saying that there should be more murderous vegetation?
No, not necessarily. SF writers have no problem with populating their worlds with migrating trees and creatures that have more in common with balloons that animals. Why is it then that so little of that ingenuity makes its way to Fantasy?
A world has as much to do with the plot as the characters, more so in fact as without a world the characters would be explosively decompressed quite quickly.

So the world is important then?
Yes! A lot of writers go into huge levels of detail. They agonize over every moment of their world's history. creating timelines and back stories which become part of the universe and integral to the understanding of the plot. It is essential for writers to do this as without it they would be unable to move freely around their world and their characters would become stilted cut-outs going through the motions.

Unfortunately because they have spent so much time on creating their unvierse they feel the need to share every last detail with us, the reader. Shoehorning information into the general plot by any means available and even writing characters whose sole purpose is to expose this lengthy history.

Mogmush paused at the edge of a vast tract of torn and exposed earth. Great gouges and gashes scarred the naked soil. Not a single blade of grass was to be seen and Mogmush realised that he could not hear any animals or see any on the plain.

"What the shitting hell happened here?" Mogmush uncorked the wineskin and took a long pull.

"Well, this should be the start of the great grasslands. About seven hundred years ago king Argolass commanded that all the trees be cut down and used to build his armada, the forest never recovered. Since then the locals have adapted their economy to a migratory herding base." Blee Dingobvious The Expounder, paused for breath and Mogmush eyeballed him.

If I punch him in the mouth would he try to tell me who invented the punch?Mogmush wondered.

"Indeed, the horsemen of the grasslands are a force to be feared, lethal with a compound, re-curve, horsebow at ranges of up to five hundred yards." Blee took another breath and Mogmush jumped into the momentary pause.

"Alright! Fair enough. But you haven't told me what the hell happened. It looks like giant locusts have eaten everything!" He paused as he took another swig and eyed the sky warily. "It wasn't locusts was it?"

"Oh, no." Changing tack without blinking, Blee blathered blithely. "These are the marks of Murdergrass. A violent species of grass that travels in huge Lawns and devours everything in its path. I saw this once before, as a child, shortly before I began a series of unimportant but ultimately fact-filled quests which helped me become the man I am."

"Riiight...Do you hear that?" Mogmush slurred. "Shh! Listen!" He rammed a filthy finger in the general direction of Blee's mouth whilst holding the other hand to his ear. Any sound was blocked by the wineskin dangling from his fist.

In the momentary pause a faint rustle reached them. It sounded like a breeze rushing through a forest or a weirdo doing something in the bushes.

"What is that?" Blee, for once without an answer to his own question, pointed to a dot on the horizon that was growing rapidly larger.

"I don't know...but it's mine!" Mogmush tried to sound less drunk than he was and ended his sentence by pulling his broadsword Cabbage half out of its scabbard, before choking himself on the baldric and falling to the floor coughing. 
Blee's first aid was interrupted by a rising scream.

'K. So now I've written some stuff about my world, how do I come up with a name for it?
Simply? Don't.
I know it goes against the grain and is the opposite of every author out there but I would genuinely leave the world unnamed.

Er...Why?
Because once you give something a name you give it a shape and a loose identity in the minds of your readers that is utterly beyond your control.
Once it has that shape it is no longer infinite. You can't parachute in a new and exciting thing just because you feel like it because it might not fit with the name or what the name implies.

Also, trying to come up with fantasy names is a headache at the best of times. Characters, Nations, your World? Utter nightmare.
It's a difficult thing to do! In our universe it happened by accident.  Have you ever wondered why the generally accepted name for our world is the same as a nice word for dirt?

By the point that a World gains it's own name, the place must be pretty well mapped.
Serious minded, pipe smoking men in cardigans with pencils and Theodolites will have been all over the place. Scribbling down distances and heights and muttering about pugnacious rock formations.
Once that has happened and there are no spaces on the map, empty but for the legend "Here Be Dragons" a lot of the sense of adventure is missing.
Once it is known that Dragons inhabit a three hundred mile stretch of the Friebum Mountains then no one will go there. At great public expense a new road will be constructed around the troublesome Dragons and adventurers start having to deal with the threat posed by multiple wagon pile-ups, franchised Inns with inedible food and brainlessly grinning staff and trying to unfold a map whilst travelling and trying to keep one eye on that sign approaching.
All of which is a little too close to reality for my liking.
So, stuff the world naming. Let you characters wander off into the blank spaces on the map and let them have some proper adventures.

But what if I really want to name my world?
If you absolutely have to...
What follows is a list of things to avoid like the plague when coming up with names for worlds, nations, characters and pets/children.

• Trying to make it exciting: All too often writers try to make their invented names sound exciting onomatopoeic. There is no need, if you look at real history there were far more notable actions attributed to names like John, Paul, Ringo, Joan and Susan than there ever were to names like Vlad or Exoterrocitrix.
• Make it complex: This is a link to the above. Far too many writers think that because it's fantasy they have leave to create names that are utterly unpronounceable and never take the time to say their invented names aloud or ask someone else to puzzle them out. For example. 

1. Valathalatrix. 
2. Morbedniaritus
3. Velocidaronella
4. Trantularmustoleph
5. Mark

• Not bothering and just using real names. No one was ever intimidated by the Dark Lord Neil, scourge of accounting.
• Not saying their names out loud: I know I've already said this one but it really bugs me to have to stop in the middle of a half decent plot to try and figure out how to pronounce the name of the lead protagonist, after a while I just stop and start paraphrasing the names, for example:

1. Valthalatrix - Valium tricks
2. Morbedniaritus - Morbid Arboretums
3. Velocidaronella - SpeedyD
4. Trantularmustoleph - Transplanted Muscle Left
5. Mark - System of denoting interest/place or grading.

So you're saying to keep it simple?

In a nutshell. Simple names are easy to remember.

• Vlad
• Ghandi
• Adolf
• John

You don't always have to use short names, but if you are going to invent a longer name then it needs to have a music to it that makes it stick in your readers mind like the theme to The Poddington Peas. Examples are as follows:

• Napoleon 
• Ghengis
• Aristotle
• Vladimir
• Ozymandias

So you're saying keep it simple unless it's a good name that can be pronounced quite quickly...

Yes...more or less.

The thing is, in a lot of Fantasy names have power. The same can be said in our universe. A dull and uninspiring name is as bad as an exciting and unpronounceable name. 

Often though, a simple descriptive word, used in the right context and given the right weight of dread/longing by a character can be an elegant solution.

Gudguff pumped his arms and ran a little faster. He had tucked the trailing ends of his robes into his belt after his first tumble to the earth and now his knobbled knees were seeing their first glimpse of sunlight in almost fifty years.

He could hear Ran gurgling with delight as he ran along behind. The Wizard didn't bother too look over his shoulder. He could smell the rotting meat and fear that Murdergrass always reeked of. It wasn't far behind them. 

As the world jolted in his vision Gudguff realised he could see something in the distance that was growing closer. Taking a risk he slowed for a few strides to get a better look.

"Yes!" He gasped. "Ran, come on! We're almost safe!"

 He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to tell Ran the good news and nearly stumbled.

Behind the lumbering cretin was a wall of Murdergrass. It was by far the biggest Lawn that Gudguff had ever seen. Easily half a mile across it rustled forward with the deceptive speed of a glacier. The lush pink fronds swayed against the breeze as their roots hungrily quested through the shattered earth for morsels even as they gained ground on the Wizard and his Hero/gimp.

Gudguff put his head down and ran for all he was worth. He heard the sound of voices in the near distance and grinned as he ran. Raising his head for a moment Gudguff bellowed at the two men standing on the edge of the stone plateau.

"Fucking ruuuuuuun!" 

By the time he finished bellowing he was a hundred feet past them and halfway up the sloping stone rise. His legs gave out and Gudguff tumbled to a halt.

Breathing hard, he looked up into the stained silk loincloth of gigantic barbarian who would give Ran a run for his money when it came to redundant musculature. 

"Who'ru?" Gudguff realised the man was trollied and sighed in defeat, looking for the other man he had seen on the edge of the stone.

"Where's your mate?" 

Mogmush pointed back toward the encroaching sea of grass.

"Oh shit."

Gudguff watched in horror as Ran pounded up to them and stopped. The three men then stood and watched as the figure of Blee appeared to try to explain something to the Murdergrass.

Gudguff couldn't help but watch in morbid horror as the root system burst out of the earth. Blee took it in his stride and moved his arms gently as he explained the relevance of thousand year old crop rotation methods to a carnivorous hive-plant. He didn't so much dissapear as evaporate.

"I think I might be quite ill now." Gudguff wheezed before vomiting copiously. 

"Nah, don't be. Little Goblin Bollock deserved it." Mogmush groused as he took another swig and handed the skin to Ran.