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.

Treachery Toast

Treachery.

Defined in the dictionary as "the betrayal of trust", Treachery is an important part of Fantasy. It has always been a core mechanic in the writer's arsenal. Recently there have been some seriously devious characters doing some seriously sneaky things.

So, inspired by my favorite advocate of the goatee, Mr Machiavelli, here is my offering on the subject of Treachery.

How do I do a Treachery?

Horses cannot be used in the same way as cars! They just can't! A horse is a living creature that requires thought, skill and core strength to ride. A car is a magic box that takes you to places that you wish to go with little or no effort. Cars also have the advantage of being able to travel hundreds of miles in a day, if your bladder can handle it. Horses however need to be rested regularly and have a maximum top speed of 30 mph which would be impossible to maintain for an extended length of time...

What!? What the hell are you on about? I thought you were going to explain Treachery?

Yup. That's exactly what I just did.

Masterfully I set up your expectations and led you to believe that I was going to perform a task which would benefit you. With no warning I turned around and gave you information that was of no use to your expectations or immediate needs.

This is the essence of Treachery. You put some form of trust in me, wonderful people that you are, and I take your simple hopes and do something unexpected and horrific with them: in this case, I stated some obvious, irrelevant and quite possibly imaginary facts.

Gudguff walked a few feet away before stopping and turning.

"So you will keep an eye on the eggs?" He stared at the campfire and at Ran. The huge yokel was prodding at the eggs in the frying pan with a long stick and grunting to himself. They were already filling their small camp with a delicious smell and Gudguff was watering at the mouth with anticipation.

"Ran, cook." The words came out slowly in Ran's glottal tones.

"Hmm...ok." Gudguff looked hard at his latest Hero. He seems to be paying attention...maybe he's changing? Gudguff thought.

Gudguff finished urinating into the undergrowth and sorted himself out before turning and heading back towards the camp.

"He's managed it. He must have, I can still smell the eggs." The wizard muttered to himself as he walked through the trees. 

He entered the clearing and stopped dead. 

"What the..."

Fire leapt from the branches of the trees around the opposite edge of the clearing and wreathed the grass around the centre of the campfire. Ran was stripped to his undershorts and holding one of the spare longswords over his head. 

"Ran!" Gudguff screamed at the stripped down hero. Ran Dom McGuffin screamed at the ashes of the fire and took a swing at it with the sword, scattering more ashes and sparks from the guttering fire. One of the flying embers struck his arm and Ran screamed before lashing out again. 

"What are you doing you arsewit! What have you done to my eggs?" Gudguff scrambled forward into the flames and grabbed for his staff before dropping it and screaming.

"It's sodding scalding!" The steel was red hot and the wizard hopped around waving his singed digits in the breeze to cool them down. 

OK I think I understand now...

Congrats! Understanding Treachery is a useful tool. Anything can become Treacherous, literally anything around you:

• String: advertises usefulness and becomes a snarled mess at the first opportunity.
• Technology: becomes indispensable and then decides to pretend it's a Cat for the foreseeable future.
• Batteries: tiny tubes of power with a minuscule AI inside that detects when they are most needed and vents all power through a trans-dimensional twist. 
• Money: speaks, promises to give you a good time, only ever says goodbye.
• The internet: advertised as a tool for...well, everything. Actually turns out to be full of porn and social media which sap your will to live, time and energy in no particular order.
• Ships: great for cruises but turn out to be vulnerable to pirates and storms. 
• Cats: pretend to love you with a beguiling purr, take every possible chance to show you their arsehole. Will  vomit, defecate and/or urinate in your shoes, porch, house, garden, pillow, wardrobe and face.
• Father Christmas (AKA Santa): Promises to give good children presents and abandon the bad children to the mercies of parental and familial generosity. Actually gives presents to seemingly everyone...even Benjamin Duggan, although he stole your lunch every day this term...ahem.

Riiight...so, your issues aside, I can now see that everything has the potential to do a Treachery. Great. 

Fear not! Not everything will betray you. In fact only a very few things will or can. Which is why we have a special word for it rather than it being the norm.There are several things you can look out for in people and objects, which might help you to know if they have Treachery on their minds/coiled into their atoms.

You mean I can predict who will do a Treachery?

...Yes. People or animals who are likely to Betray you will do so for personal gain. Now I don't mean that they will drop you in the cacky for a few quid (not to international readers, a quid is a substance that can render the stupid attractive, but not smart).

Rather, bear in mind that these individuals might Betray you for some sense of revenge or vindication. They might do it for some sort of sense of pleasure or because your demise/tears/incoherent rage/misery will feed into some grand scheme they have been working on and give them some sort of desired outcome.

These individuals are not always easy to spot: they can be masquerading as your best friend, a mentor or even a politician. Using their positions of authority and closeness to the victim results in a yield of maximum Treason. 

• Politicians: These bastards will sucker you in with promises of free jobs and Bonbons. What happens is that no matter who you vote for, the government gets in and announces more taxes, no more jobs and new legislation involving the death penalty for the production, ownership, consumption or distribution of Bonbons.
• Viceroys/Most Trusted Advisers/Anyone with "Vice" in their title: Seriously! Have you ever met a single Vice-anything who didn't Betray the person they were closest to for a sniff of power so thin it might as well be a gnat's fart. They might be as close as a brother/sister but I tell you right now, they will turn on you quicker than a children's roundabout.
• Closest friends: Normally these are something to treasure. In the world of Fantasy however, they are likely to Betray you for the sake of gaining a woman, making an ideological point, rejecting the colour of your scarf or because they just don't like the way you cook the eggs. 
• Benign Demons: These are a total oxymoron. They don't exist. Just trust me on this, they really don't.
• Animal sidekicks/pets/trusty steeds: These are the most benign of all betrayals and universally motivated by comic timing and mischief rather than evil or a corroded sense honour that has finally given way to full blown bitterness, hatred and malice.

So now I know who might do a Treachery on me can I do one on them?

YES. Yes you can if you want, however I'd be careful about who you BETRAY. There is literally no upside in BETRAY-ing a demon from the deepest level of hell who has been your sponsor. Just because you feel like being contrary is no justification for going back on an infernal contract with Vath RA Trogothoz The Internal Face Devourererer.

If you are going to BETRAY anyone then you really need to know who it is that you are betraying, why you're doing it and what the outcome is going to be. Most importantly you will need to grow a goatee. Proper Treachery cannot be undertaken without access to a nifty goatee. It is a vital part of your attire, providing you plentiful mustache twirling opportunities and terryifying Pogonophobes everywhere.

Gudguff looked at the slumbering form of Ran Dom McGuffin and pondered their recent misadventures. In the space of a week, one single week, this gargantuan cretin has destroyed no less than three campsites. Flattened my hat twice. Ruined the etching on my staff of power. Accidentally set fire to half of the Wood Elve's realm and caused us to be chased and shot at by a horde of angry tree hugging arseholes. He looked around the rocky plain. The prat could set fire to those boulders.

Gudguff made a decision and stood. He snugged his hat down a little further onto his head before wrapping his cloak tightly around himself and struggling into the wind. What he was about to do weighed heavily on his mind. It was a monumental decision that would effect their relationship for years to come. 

Gudguff smirked and let out a manic giggle. 

This'll sort him out! "Ha!"

He strode toward the gibbous moon.

The tower reared into the night sky and blocked a large chunk of the bloated sphere that was the moon. Giggling to himself, Gudguff stopped and ducked behind a bush. He paused, noting the puddle and smell of urine.

"Probably not the best bush for this..." He stood and moved over to the next bush along, crouching behind it and taking out his writing gear.

"In the woods west of this stronghold I would bring to your attention...dangerous miscreant Ran Dom McGuffin...noted critic of the Dark Lord Sorebum..." He muttered the odd word aloud as he furiously scribbled his note. Stifling his laughter with a hand he ran toward the door of the tower, note in hand.

The tower was festooned in spikes and spines that seemed to almost have grown from the stonework as an extension of the Darklord's manifest general bad temper. Gudguff ran up to the door and rammed the note onto one of the spines that protruded at roughly eye level. He stood back and re-read his handiwork again.

The door opened and Gudguff found himself staring into the craggy and slightly jaundiced face of sergeant Shagrat.

"Oh. Hello," Gudguff burbled at the henchman.

"Hello." He looked from the Wizard's slightly panicked face to the note that was fluttering in the mild breeze. "That for me?"

Gudguff looked around at the note and then over his own shoulder, gauging the distance to the stinking bushes, trees and freedom.

"I take it you're working out how far you could run before I catch you."

Gudguff's head span back toward the minion and he took a half step backwards. 

"Possibly..."

"Right." The sergeant sighed and raised his bow. "You realise that a bolt from this bow will travel at around 310 feet per second. And that at a distance of, say sixteen feet, if you were quick off the mark I could puncture your liver in about a second or so."

The wizard paused and looked at the bow.

Snagrat continued in an easy tone: "Or I could just as easily shoot you through the arse and skewer your bollocks."

***

Gudguff sighed and twisted his hands around in his manacles. The view from his cell was uninspiring to say the least. 

"Well..." He addressed a rat sitting in the meagre pool of light that spilled from the high barred window above. The rat licked its whiskers and eyed Gudguff's dangling toes.

"I'd say that backfired pretty fucking spectacularly."

The rat chittered to itself and shat on the filthy straw. 

The Fantasy Writer's Guide to Alcohol

Given it's a weekend this seemed appropriate. So, you know what's coming now. Sit back, crack open a bottle of your favorite poison and prepare to enter the world of booze. Or go and boil an egg, whichever you prefer.

After a hard day adventuring, slaying wenches and saving dragons etc., your average Hero heads straight to the nearest tavern and sinks a couple of gallons of ale before quietly dissolving into a puddle under the table and being kidnapped, missing a raid or wetting him/herself. All of which is perfectly rational and understandable.

Yet you'd be amazed at the number of writers out there who don't seem to understand how alcohol works. Their characters stride manfully/womanfully around the tavern to deal with some problem even though they have drunk enough booze to sink a battleship. These leadguts have no problem with standing, walking or winning a fight (against outlandish odds of course), even though the collection of bottles before them is as thick as fallen leaves in a forest.

Mogmush the Mighty let out a booming laugh as he tipped the horn of ale back and drained it to the dregs. "More, wench!" he bellowed and thrust the empty horn out to the passing woman. She didn't actually work in the tavern but felt compelled to fill the horn anyway, such was the power of Mogmush's charisma. Laughing, he raised the freshly filled horn back and drained it again.

The local slopmongers who had been cowering away from the maniac Mogmush suddenly went quiet.  Mogmush looked blearily round and saw a patrol of the Dark Lord Sorebum's elite henchmen had entered the tavern. Suddenly the pleasant buzz that had been filling his mind was flushed away in a rush of anger.

"YOU!" roared Mogmush. In a single movement he rose to his feet, picked up the table and hurled it at the patrol. He laughed as he drew his mighty broadsword "Cabbage" and dove into the fray...in his mind. What actually happened was slightly different.

Mogmush looked around and saw a patrol of a dozen men. There were actually only three of them but he was totally smashed and couldn't count anyway.

"Yoargh!" He burbled something incomprehensible as he tried to stand. Somehow his foot got caught on something (possibly his other foot) and Mogmush stumbled, crashing into the table and breaking it to splinters.

Mogmush struggled to his feet spluttering a gibberish warcry and tried to draw his broadsword. The weapon was slung over his shoulder, the hilt pointing up over his head. He managed to tangle the baldric around his neck and got the long scabbard caught between his legs as he stood. 

"Glaugh!" Mogmush squealed as he stumbled and fell over backwards. There was a deep thump and an unpleasant cracking sound as the hilt of his sword broke two of his ribs. 

The soldiers of the Dark Lord looked at the fallen Hero and then at each other.

"What was all that about?" Snagrot the sergeant asked.

"Not a bloody clue sarge."

"Right... Evening Regie, three of the usual please." Snagrot greeted the landlord and leant on the bar. 


So, without further ado, welcome to the Fantasy Writer's Guide to Alcohol!


What is it?
Excellent question! In the modern world there are more varieties of alcohol than you can shake a slightly blurry finger at.

Alcohol is usually made by allowing a base ingredient to ferment. Fermentation is a fancy technical-type word for alcoholisation. Scientists and other such boffin types will try to convince you what happens is a by-product of yeast and other such micro organisms reproducing. What actually happens is that the Booze Fairy blesses every drop as it is made, giving the liquid its magical properties and changing it from basically being dirty water into some excellent vintage silly juice.

The types are almost endless but there are certain beverages that are more common than others in Fantasonia.

What types of alcohol are most common?
Ale: In England today Ale is everywhere and an excellent substitute for mass produced piss. It is also known as beer and more recently as craft beer. Which is the same but makes it more obvious that some poor bugger has to brew it without drinking it.

Wine: Wine is the fruit of the vine...squashed. Grapes are picked by the local slopmongers and diligently and exhaustively crushed between the delicate toes of the largest woman in the village. Wine tends to be supped by the richer members of society and lonely princesses in high towers. It also tend to be an excellent delivery mechanism for a variety of poisons. As an interesting point, the colour of the wine dictated by how the skins are left in the crushed pulp and what mood the Booze Fairy is in.

Gin, whisky and other spirits: Otherwise known as "The Hard Stuff", this section of the alcohol world tends to be the preserve of the recently bereaved, anti-heroes and villains. It can often be found in slim flasks and clay jugs marked with a number of X's.

Mead: A potent smelling brew of fermented honey. Invented by the Vikings and loved by role players and nutters of all kinds. For maximum effect it should be quaffed (read consumed) from a horn.

Right...Who drinks the stuff?
In short, bloody everyone.Viking children were weaned from milk straight onto beer or mead. The average fantasy city or town will treat their local river as a highway and open sewer combined, making the water more or less undrinkable. Wells would also be hit and miss. In order quench one's thirst and not die of dysentery, the water would need to be filtered and purified. The brewing process is  an excellent way to get rid of the nasty bugs and bad magic that cause illness. That being the case everyone and his dog (literally the dogs too) would drink some sort of booze.

Where is made or consumed and such?
It is made wherever men gather and posses an overabundance of food of some sort. These bearded pioneers will throw anything and everything into a pot and leave it to brew. They possess the secret brewing knowledge of the ages and will be in the first in line to taste their (potentially lethal and/or rancid) creation.
On the whole it is consumed everywhere. If you're thirsty and you know that the water will kill you then booze is the best way forward!

When did people start doing it?
When they realised that drinking the river water they'd been shitting in was probably a bad idea.

So what happens to a hero who drinks too much?
In short, they become a non-Hero for a varying amount of time. Permanent loss of Hero status is possible, aka death. Contrary to popular belief and a chronic lack of knowledge, if someone drinks too much, be they Hero, slopmonger or Henchman, they will suffer.

What kind of suffering?
In common terms, a hangover will appear. Hangovers are the shadow of the Booze Fairy, displeased for the disrespect shown to her magical liquid.

Symptoms that appear with hangovers:

• The screaming shits
• Feeling as though your head is about to pop
• Feeling as though every sound you hear is a physical shard of glass being dragged through your skull and deep, deep into your brain
• Feeling as though every ray of light is individually raping your eye with a burning red hot poker covered in spikes, acid and fire ants
• Sausage fingers
• Shakes
• An inexplicable caving for a kebab (note to international readers: the Kebab is a dangerous animal that can only be killed by a spear from arse to mouth and is best eaten after being slowly rotated in front of a warm lightbulb for six weeks)
• Vomiting
• Projectile vomiting
• Projectile shitting, aka "The Pebbledash"
• Beer sweats
• Beer poo
• Beer wee
• A sudden aversion to work
• All of the above at once

Those who have really annoyed the Booze Fairy through repeated and consecutive offences (e.g. performing the unholy rite of the Three Day Bank Holiday Bender) can expect to sample the delights of a special torment known as Delirium Tremens. DT's are a waking nightmare. Literally. Full body spasms, severe shakes and trembling, hot, cold, wet and dry sweating, hallucinations and appearing to be going through the menopause even though you are a 23 year old man are the norm. Anyone unlucky enough to be in the grip of the DT's is grateful to be hit over the head with an ornamental brass duck and left for dead. 

But Mogmush the Mighty is a hardened drinker! He can handle it!
It doesn't matter! A Hero who has drunk two gallons of gut-rot will be out for the count for the better part of at least a day. Anyone who was expecting a rescue from Mogmush is going to be sorely disappointed. If he does manage to turn up he'll be a shambling mess covered in his own vomit and unable to walk more than a few yards at a time without groaning and doubling over. Assuming he completes the slow and embarrassing stagger up to the Triple-Headed Hardassian Mammoth without it goring him or just taking a step sideways to evade his random childlike flailing, he might as well be armed with a wet towel. It doesn't matter how strong he was yesterday: today his muscles will be sore and flaccid, much like a burst puffer fish. In the grip of a hangover he will be as strong as a damp duckling and as resilient as a wet cake.

If what you're saying is true, why the hell does anyone drink?
Well, if you have the option of drinking water that won't kill you then the only answer is that it's fun.
Being under the influence of the Booze Fairy is a lot like being mad. You know you can't dance but you dance anyway! And not only do you dance but you dance well! You can do anything! Nothing is beyond your reach!

In your mind that is.

At least until the morning when everything is beyond you and it's as much as you can do to breathe.

Well, I hope that's cleared up some of the questions you didn't ask.

Now let's find out how all that quaffing has influenced Mogmush.

The challenge had been laid down and Mogmush could no more refuse than he could spell the word 'no'. He strode manfully toward the arena and dropped into a low position that gave him the advantage of leverage. His silk loincloth wafted around in a small breeze and Mogmush felt the expectation building in the gaggle of slopmongers around them.

The drummer stuck a beat, the lutist followed it and Mogmush danced.

The slopmongers moved further out of the way as Mogmush twirled and span across the tavern's dance floor. The coloured lanterns splashed pools of illumination across the boards and Mogmush swam through them like a shark through a rain of shrimp. He smiled and laughed for the joy of laughing, gyrating his hips for a moment as he passed an attractive slopmonger. The bright pink silk of his loincloth fluttered around him as he span once more, completing a perfect pirouette. The slopmongers gasped in awe and joy as they witnessed his skill. Mogmush came to a graceful halt and struck a pose. 

"Shouldn't we do something sarge?" Rathathathakkk asked. Snagrot eyed the rookie Minion for a moment before shaking his head.

"Nah, you have to know when to strike." Sergeant Snagrot took a deep pull from his tankard and wiped his mouth with back of his hand, being careful to avoid the excess of spikes on his gauntlet and watched the horror unfolding on the dancefloor. 

The giant tit who'd smashed a table when they came in was now molesting the general area of the dancefloor. Snagrot watched the small band continue to play despite the dangerous pinwheeling of the giant barbarian stumbling around.

Snagrot and everyone else in the room winced as the prancing twat started to spin around with his arms out. The motion caused his ludicrous and heavily stained loincloth to float on the air, showing the room at large his genitals flopping sadly.

Snagrot, a veteran of numerous Tavern Atrocities, saw the lean before it began. He nudged Rathathathakkk. "Any minute now, lad."

They watched as the stumbling barbarian staggered ever more to one side as his abused inner ears gave up the battle to determine what gravity was actually doing at that moment.

"And, three...two...one." With perfect timing Snagrot counted out the seconds during which the barbarian seemed to hang in the air, defying gravity for one brief moment before crashing through a table. As he landed, breaking his nose with a sickeningly loud crunch, the barbarian flung out his arms and wiggled his hands in some pathetic attempt to complete his performance with the classic manoeuver known as Jazz Hands.

"Come on then lads, we'll give him a quick hiding then chuck him in the river." Snagrot sighed and put down his tankard.

"Won't he drown?" Rathathathakkk was't entirely comfortable with his new job yet.

"Hopefully." 

"Sarge?"

"Yes, lad?" 

"Why is he humping the floor?"

They paused and watched for a moment as the downed barbarian's arse pumped up into the air a few more times before coming to a halt with a pained groan.

"To be honest, lad? I'd say it's because he's a tosser."

Peasants

So, this week's blog is devoted to the most misunderstood, unrepresented and prevalent member of any Fantasy writer's world: The Peasant. 

The dictionary defines a Peasant as: A poor smallholder or agricultural labourer of low social status. Or as a casual method of insulting your mother-in-law: An ignorant, rude or unsophisticated person: 'That is a civilized drink, you peasant."

That was the actual quote given and it made me laugh quite a lot. 

You know the format by now. Buckle in, strap down and assume the crash position...or sit back and scroll down. Whichever takes your fancy.


Who are the Peasants?
Bloody good question that. Peasants appear all over the place. Your average dim-witted Hero and his entourage of slack jawed hangers-on and light fingered opportunists can't seem to move six inches without stumbling over a Peasant or ten.

They are the unheard of (though sadly not un-smelled) masses of Fantasonia. The average folk, the common people, the inhabitants, the populus, the great unwashed, the gawking mob, slopmongers, the uncaring crowd! 

People! 

When a fantasy writer uses the word Peasant they are using a not-so-secret shorthand that means "people". Just average (or possibly stupider than average) people who try to get on with their lives and often don't contribute a lot to any given story.

They are found in peaceful kingdoms and evil realms alike. They work the fields, fill armies, get killed by armies, starve as their crops are taken away or just fail... And occasionally they give the protagonist and incumbent Wizard something to care about, if only in a remote and aloof way.

Ok, so what do they do?
Weren't you reading that last sentence? 

Peasants are the grease that makes Fantasonia go round. Without Peasants everything pretty much grinds to a halt, as will be illustrated in the following examples.

EXAMPLE 1
Gudguff the Wizard and his stalwart gimp/prophesied Hero rode through golden fields of wheat. They argued back and forth about the meaning of their quest. Quite literally. Ran Dom McGuffin, the chosen hero, didn't understand what they were doing and was insistent they were going to his mum's for dinner. Gudguff was tired of trying to convince the witless prat otherwise. 

To the humble slopmongers working the fields, the conversation was both lofty beyond their comprehension and endlessly attractive for reasons they couldn't express. They stared and gave out the obligatory "Ooh" and "Ahh" whenever Ran's sword shone in the light, he breathed in and especially when his horse let out an earth-shattering fart.

EXAMPLE 2
Gudguff the Wizard and his stalwart gimp/prophesied Hero did not ride through golden fields of wheat because there weren't any. Ran Dom McGuffin had drawn breath for about a week before dying of starvation along with his Hero mother and father who were out of business having no-one to save due to the lack of Peasants. Gudguff had in fact gone into business making professional nests for the giant eagles who were the only way to get any food. It was also a good way to stop them from eating him. 

Sorebum the Dark Lord reigned over an utterly vast stretch of bugger-all and spent a lot of his time trying to teach his orcs chess. Except for once a month when they spent the week avoiding the local Dragon who took great delight in burning the bollocks off of the countryside for no reason they could make sense of.

The point I was just about making there, is that without Peasants, no Fantasy world could survive. Peasants are the people who clear away the forests (over time) and replace them with fields of future food/pestilential shit (Example 1). Peasants are the ones who suffer under Dark Lords and inspire the Hero/Wizard to do something about the spikey-headed bastard at the top (Example 2).

In addition Peasants often serve as Hero-Incubators, protecting and nourishing the Proto-Hero, providing him/her with gritty backstory and slave labour that conditions him/her to perfection. Thus the Proto-Hero is ready for the day some wandering bearded git decides to take him/her on an adventure which is ostensibly in the name of the local Peasantry but will likely not yield them any concrete benefit (assuming any of them survive). 

Be you a Dark Lord, Noble King or Mildly Incompetent Baron, a Peasant workforce is a must. 

The benefits of a large workforce include: Vast tax rewards. Food! Comely wenches/lads/food (for the vampiric lords and ladies). Characterful interactions at every turn. Comic relief. Target practice. Untrained masses to pad out an army. Mobs. Worshippers. The list goes on...a bit.

Ah, ok, so Peasants are useful. How do I recognise one in order to add it to my collection?
Well, if you already have a collection you should know this...but go on then.

The average Peasant can be located and identified thanks to three instantly identifiable characteristics:

1. Aversion to eye contact
Peasants will not make eye contact with anyone perceived to be their social better. When addressed directly by a Hero, Wizard, Noble or even another Peasant, they will look to the ground and mumble an incoherent answer. Peasants are the product of hundreds of years of their social betters selectively slaughtering anyone who looks like they have a shred of intelligence or a spine. Such survival instincts run deep. Having said that, a persuasive Hero can whip them up into a dangerous mob, thanks to their shared heritage and his/her stumbling attempts at rhetoric.

2. Toil
Peasants unlike townsfolk, merchants and slaves, do not work. Instead they have access to a special form of labour known as Toil(TM). Toiling(TM) is much like work and labour but has neither the half decent wage nor regular doses of pain to incite the poor shite involved in it to perform any task with anything other than extreme reluctance. Toil(TM), as the UK Conservative Party well know, is a self-replicating series of border-line pointless tasks. For example, shovelling mud from one corner of a field to another, a.k.a. Monging Slop. 

3. Stench
A Peasant in full reek is quite a thing. Long days and nights of Toil(TM) in the Dark Lord's frilly knicker factory produce an odour that is four parts body sweat, three parts manure and three parts cabbage (which is more than enough to drown out the others combined). It has been theorised that the stench is a form of self-defence mechanism that keeps the minions of the local Dark Lord at bay most of the time, thus preventing the Peasantry from being overly abused by any but the most zealous enforcers of evil.

Riiight...So, now that I know what they look and smell like...what do I do with my collection?
Once you have your Peasants you can do all sorts of things with them. Popular historical accounts include such entertainments as:

• Bake the chronically foreshortened into a piecrust as a joke and surprise your chums! 
• Make them dance for your delight!
• Make them work for the promise of a wage that never materializes because you've spent it on cleaning out your duck house or having your moat dredged (Conservatives again I'm afraid).
• Dress them in ridiculous costumes and laugh!
• Hunt them through the woods for sport! To really liven things up, why not give one of them a crossbow and a single bolt, to give the poor little fucker an illusion of hope.
• Target practice! Exactly what you think it is!
• Re-decorate! Use dismembered limbs to give your Doomfort a foreboding atmosphere! Multiple torsos impaled mouth to arse on a six foot stake are an excellent boundary marker!
• Make them fawn! Arrange some flimsy pretense for a party in your honour and have your Peasantry cheer and wave their stunted limbs in a crude mockery of a celebratory dance!
• Give them holidays! Watch them sigh with relief as you allow them to stop working for a day before choosing the prettiest girl in the village as this month's wife/dragon sacrifice! It's a lot of fun! 

That all sound so...so terrible! Why would anyone want to be a Peasant?

Peasants don't choose their lives, they're lucky if they get to choose a shade of shit-brown to wear for the next twenty years (the average Peasant lifespan). Peasants are locked into their place by social convention and a system of governance that keeps the important people at the top by any means. 

It all works fine until some Hero comes along and starts spouting-off about "individuality" and "rights". About the worst thing that can happen to slopmongers is the dawning of intelligence. 

Ignorance is bliss after all.

I see. All of a sudden the Hero I was writing about doesn't seem to have much impact.

Nope. If they win then the Toiling conditions might get better by a bit, if they lose then culls and starvation will probably be ordered as a punishment.

Wizard Gudguff looked proudly down on his drooling Hero. Ran had managed to knife the Dark Lord Sorebum in the back of the head before Heroically twisting the blade and emerging from the fires of Mount Fwoom! unscathed. 

Ran stared at his bearded mentor. "Now the bad one is gone." He paused as the next few words hesitantly lined up behind his muscular tongue. "Do we make good...stuff...happen...for my fam'ly?"

Gudguff was torn from his inspection of the deceased Lord Sorebum's collection of Spikey helmets. "Are you off your tits!? Do you have any idea of how much that would cost!?" Gudguff's beard stood almost straight out from his face as his eyes bulged. "Your cretinous family should think themselves lucky! Now they're part of something good! Something permanent! Now I can build a kingdom to last a thousand years!" 

Ran stared dumbly at the Wizard. "Can we make good...stuff...?" he repeated with the implacability of a homeless man lurking near a cashpoint.

"Yes, yes, fine. They can have one extra turnip a month." Gudguff waved his hands impatiently and wished to all the gods he hadn't killed that Ran Dom McGuffin would fall off a cliff.  

Wizards

Hello once more.
Today I would like to talk to you about wizards.
Wizards are a linchpin of Fantasy. They crop up in each and every established Fantasy novel I can think of and in most new writer's work as well.

What makes a Wizard?
In order to answer the above question we must understand all the parts of this strange beast.

The word Wizard comes from a combination of old English words. Wys meaning; knowledgeable, philosopher-like or...wise...
And ard meaning; "hard as nails", "wouldn't want to mess with him" and "Arrgh! He turned my left  knee into a black hole that's tearing me apart but which will stop short of consuming the entire planet!"
Honestly I have no idea at all what the ard means. Neither does the internet or my dictionary.

In 99% of cases Wizards conform to a certain appearance. Almost a uniform if you will. Each aspect of the uniform fulfills a specific function whilst also projecting a general sense of Wizardliness that calms the slopmonging peasants and reassures them that, despite the vast, amorphous cloud of borderline-personified-evil, all will be well, anyone who can pull off that beard must know what he's doing.
The Wizard's uniform lets the world know who he is, what he is likely to be doing in the area and that his credit is good in any bar that wants to remain a building and not a pile of steaming feces.
Beard
All Wizards (with the exception of the pre-pubescent Potter, beloved of millennials everywhere except the States) own or wear a beard.

Hair, as so eloquently theorised by Danny in "Withnail and I", acts as a form of cosmic satellite dish. If not attracting then certainly capturing what he calls "Cosmic Rays" and what I call Magic/k. All the best Wizards have a beard, the ones who don't have a beard and fly around on broomsticks (you know who I mean) are in fact witches, which is a different kettle of fish altogether.

The beard (along with all body hair, regardless of length/density) allows Wizards to capture and focus the ambient background Magic'k of Fantasionia to be channeled into their magic works and mad-cap schemes.

Using the scale of Magic/k energy provided in Dragons Part Three, we can surmise that an average sized shovel beard (a beard which looks like a shovel, but which should probably not be used to muck out a stable) we can assume that a Wizard is able to harness 0.25 Giga Kadabra(TM) per day. Now, this is actually quite a lot of magic enabling the Wizard to do all sorts of amazing things that have the power to wow a peasant into a state of blinded awe.

Gudguff rolled up his sleeves and flexed his ancient knuckles in preparation for what was to come. From windows all around, frightened faces peered through ragged curtains and a layer of filth at the mighty practitioner. 
Gudguff focused all of his powers onto a single point three inches in front of his nose. His tongue protruded from his mouth slightly and his crossed eyes began to water from the strain. Ethereal energies coursed through his bushy beard and crackled into the ground at his feet. 
Fifty yards away the cooking fire burst into life, the kettle on top of it immediately coming to the boil. Gudguff sighed as he was able to uncross his eyes. The screaming began not long afterwards. Gudguff span to see a hideous apparition coalescing from the village's communal shit pit. 
"Ah. Bollocks." Gudguff stared at his stinky adversary and knew only he could stop such a monstrosity. 
Wasting no time, Gudguff flung a hastily summoned fireball at the Crapper, realising too late what effect the naked flame would have around that much methane. 

Hat
Hats were, at one time, the height of Wizarding fashion. Quite literally, as the standard pointy hat could add as much as three feet to a Wizard's height. Hats were used predominantly for the storage of excess magic/k, akin to a Wizarding lunchbox. A wizard's hat would commonly be lined with a mixture of clay and Elf pubes in order to replicate the storage abilities of a Wizard's beard.
However, according to a number of market survey questionnaires, hats are no longer considered a necessary part of a Wizard's uniform.

Robe
Robes are an essential, if not the most essential, part of a Wizard's uniform.
As well as acting as a sign, letting all who tread in the vicinity that the man before them is in fact a Wizard capable of turning anyone and everyone within a ten mile radius into a very confused chihuahua, Robes are also used as a grounding mechanism.

Un-grounded Wizards are prone to a whole host of problems. Given the effectiveness of a Beard's magic/kal storage capabilities, if a Wizard is not grounded the pent up Magic/k will accumulate until the Wizard is accidentally ripping holes in the fabric of reality just by sneezing. The Robe allows a Wizard to safely disseminate the unused Magic/k from his beard back into the wild and prevent him from transforming innocent passers by into steaming piles of ice cream with his farts.

Robes fall into one of two categories. Spangled and impressive, decked in runes etc. Or, plain and weather worn. In either case the robe works in the same fashion.

Robes are able to do this because of the Law of assumptions(TM), which states that anything assumed to be true by a being sufficiently divorced from any commonly held facet of reality is transmuted into a fact by the power of their belief. Quite literally; I assume, therefore it is.

Robes are also used by Wizards to circulate air around the body and prevent sensitive, dangling, areas from overcooking. A Wizard's bollocks are well known to hold the store of their knowledge, not their brain as is commonly thought. The convenient location (out of sight, protected by the bulk of the body and provided with its own Magic/k capturing apparatus) allows for Wizards to get away with some truly absurd ideas and still maintain an appearance of wisdom.

In fact, a Wizard's Bollock-brained ideas are often so stupid that they succeed just because nobody could plan for their level of sheer dumb-fuckery.

Gudguff stared at his witless but prophesied hero and began to explain his scheme. 
"The dark lord must be overthrown for reasons which I wont go into but with which I'm sure we're all au fait. In order to do this, I will lead this witless, pubescent simpleton away from his/her friends and family in order to obtain the last Whyn Gumme of Throckoff the White.
Once obtained it will be completely forgotten as it was just a training and fact-finding exercise anyway, the true purpose of which is to round up a band of misfits, mercenaries and nutters to form the core of an army of simple farmers with which we shall overthrow the Dark Lord's crack troops, leaving him open to our final move." He paused for far longer than necessary to build the tension before realising that the crowd of slopmongers before him were staring vacantly at a bird which had chosen to shit on his shoulder from the tree above.
"Our final and devastating blow will be..." Gudguff raised his arms in a dramatic motion, startling the cursed bird out of the tree. "A brick through his window! With a really mean note about his mum...and how he is fat...and...and..." Gudguff struggled for a moment before inspiration struck. "Then McGuffin, our Hero can run up behind him while he's reading the note and stab him." Gudguff looked around, pleased with himself. The gathered peasants were as vacant as before, except for a young woman at the front of the crowd who had forgotten how to breathe and was dying of anoxia.


A set nifty set of robes are also (for "reasons") a bar to the purchase and wearing of heavy armour, thus creating a necessary Achilles heel in a being all too capable of tearing a hole in the arse of reality. Allowing a great Wizard to be threatened by a goblin with a pointy stick.
Beards, Hats, Robes... Pubic hairs... I see... what about the Staff?
A Staff is an additional method by which a Wizard may focus his energy or ground any excess Magic/k. It can also be used to light gloomy caverns, batter unsuspecting highwaymen and solicit services from That kind of tavern wench in a suggestive but fairly subtle manner.

Where do they come from?
Wizards are actually what happens to the weedy kid that everyone bullies in school. At some point around puberty they stop shaving (men and women both) and grow a beard to make themselves look tougher and stop "Tiny" (Six feet eight inches tall) from using them as a tent peg on school camping weekends.
The beard undergoes a magical transformation after three months, turning it into a Magic/k superconductor that creates a Wizard.
Or they make a deal with a Demon or a God for franchised power rights and as many crispy souls as they can get.

What happens to Wizards once they have knocked off the local Dark Lord?
They go back to their tower and hibernate in a chrysalis made of hope and duct tape until a new Dark Lord rises, at which point the hope will be corroded by the Dark Lord's natural evil aura and the duct tape will eventually fall away because it's a bit shit.

...What have you been eating recently?
Gone off dehydrated orange juice.

Why are Wizards central to most Fantasy?
Wizards are a great way to introduce your main character(read someone sympathetic to the audience) to the wider issues of the world and to keep them on track in their role as a good person. Without the stabilizing effect of a Wizard, most Heroes would do one of the following;
1) Never leave their remote and forgotten corner of the world, marry their childhood sweetheart and spend the rest of their life as their parents did, perhaps complaining about the occasional child-cull or rate of taxation.
2) Get killed really quickly.
3) Get bored/lost/distracted by something shiny so that the required window of opportunity is lost and things stay as they are.
4) Go over to the Dark Lord's side because; a. He pays. b. The uniform is much better. And, c. It's a lot less scary working for the Dark Lord than it is fighting against him/her/it.

Are there any examples of Fantasy without Wizards?
Yes, but I'm not going to tell you what they are because that would spoil the enjoyment of discovering these things for yourself.


So there we have it. Wizards, what they do, why they do it and why they wear those odd clothes.
The best reason for Wizards being (in 90% of cases) old men will get 10 Dietrich points, answers below.

Some news on Part II of The Broken Lance

Time for some news!

The second installment of The Broken Lance is now at the editing and proofing stage. Excitingly, this means it will be ready for purchase and enjoyment in the not-very-distant-at-all future.
The plot unfolds a little more and several key characters introduce themselves.
Also, this Sunday will be Blog-day once more. A new shiny Blog about another mainstay of the Fantasy genre. The Wizard.

So, enjoy and stay tuned for further info and entertainment.