Due to the fickle nature of aging hard drives, I’m playing Dragon Age: Origins again, in an attempt to reconstruct the history lost before firing up Dragon Age II. I know I can choose from one of the pre-determined backgrounds BioWare included in their new fantasy role-playing game, but one of the things I’ve always liked about BioWare’s games is the ways in which the things we as players do matter to future titles. That, and their well-written, well-rounded characters.
In an age where graphical hardware is pushed to its limits and gaming action is kept as repetable and generic as possible to maximize repeat success and profit, it’s heartening to see games that take their subjects and characters seriously, as a nuanced narrative rather than a brainless distraction. Games like Dragon Age also free characters from rails, allowing the player to modify the storylines of those around them as well as their own with means outside of violence.
I’m not saying that a game like Call of Duty can’t have well-written, well-rounded characters. It’s just been my experience that allowing the player a measure of freedom in their interaction with the characters around them creates more opportunities for those characters to develop. Character growth can be difficult to depict in video games, outside of numerical stat increases, and when it’s done well it can be inspiring for those looking to grow characters in more traditional means of telling stories.
Most works with which we toil as storytellers have a cast of characters in support of the protagonist. Assuming these characters have at least a passing resemblance to human beings, they should be affected by the events that take place in the story. They should be shocked, shaken, disturbed and disgusted by things. They should celebrate with each other when goals are achieved, and mourn when loved ones are lost. I think it’s vitally important that these things, mentioned even in passing, will help make the story in question more palpable for the audience, drawing them in deeper and delivering a more fulfilling experience.
I griped previously about the length of Dragon Age: Origins and yet here I am playing it again, end to end, with nary a complaint. It’s partially because I’m something of a completionist with this stuff, and partially because I feel I know the characters well and want to spend time with them. Even so, I’ve learned more about them this time around, and I’m curious how some of their interactions play out amongst each other. By letting the characters have breathing room, and including a variety of reactions and suggestions instead of leaving them entirely blank, BioWare deepens what could have been a somewhat generic MMO-styled RPG into a truly memorable storytelling experience.
I hear Dragon Age II is different in some regards. As long as the characters are good, I’ll be willing to forgive some stylistic changes.
Dozil Tumbledown is not the only bard familiar with the Heroes of Harkenwold. Making her way through the southern lands of the Nerathan Empire is Azarya Dawnborn of Daggerport, a deva fascinated with learning and telling tales of the brave and the selfless. Here you will find her perspective on events befalling Andrasian the elvish warrior, Krillorien Brightsong the eladrin priest of Pelor, Melanie Good-Melons of the Arcane Tower, and Lyria Thorngage of the Junction Thorngages.
Tonight I sing of Dar Gramath.
You will not have heard his name. He was a hard-working man of common birth, like many of you. Before the coming of Lysander, he was one of the premiere horse-masters of the Nentir Vale. The Lord Marshal of the Vale, barons and free knights, all came to him for the shoeing and barding of their steeds. It was for this reason the Harkenwold became known outside of the Vale. It was for this reason Antonious Vhennyk sought the land as his entry point to his claim on the north.
Yes, that very same Vhennyk, Lysander’s Lord of War, master of the Iron Circle. He wanted lands befitting his title and stature, for he was a large man with large appetites. Half-giant, some called him. Still, with Sarthel uncertainly held, Adamanton loyalists creeping in the alleys and the dwarves ominously silent, Vhennyk could not leave that place with which he’d been charged, so he sent his lieutenant, Nazin Redthorn, to secure the Harkenwold and the land beyond it.
He anticipated peasant resistance. He anticipated guerrila assaults from the Woodsinger Elves. He anticipated Hammerfast closing its gates only to open them onto his very keep in Sarthel.
He did not anticipate Dar Gramath, nor the heroes that came to his aid.
For his part, Dar Gramath feigned compliance. He knew most Harkenwolders were no soldiers. Still, he sent whom he could to harrange the supply lines of the Iron Circle. The smallfolk beyond the towns of Harken and Albridge could render no assistance, as they had fallen under assault from vile frog-men with a grudge to settle with the druid Reithann. Gramath knew he had little time, that his resistance would be discovered eventually, and without help from elsewhere in the Vale, he and the freedom of his people were doomed.
But then came the Heroes. You’ve heard the tales of their part in the Battle of Albridge, yes, how they set Redthorn to retreat before tracking him down to Harken Keep and ending his short but brutal career as a mercenary leader. But this foursome numbered five that day. Dar Gramath stood with them at the battle, a general in all but name, an inspiration to the brave people of the Harkenwold, as if he was twenty years younger and once again adventuring with other names you know – Zeradar Brightsong, Azariael of the Tower, Tulwyr daughter of Bahamut, the Silent Lady. Those are tales I’m sure you know well, from happier times, the times before the Empire.
When Baron Stockmer was freed and Harken Keep liberated, Dar Gramath feasted these new heroes. He traded stories of battle with Andrasian. He served Lyria ales even larger than those of her compatriots. He introduced Melanie to a traveling hedge magician. And he told Krillorien that he was the spitting image of his father in both form and action, yet the elder eladrin had never been so inclined to help smallfolk as the priest of Pelor had been.
It was after the Heroes departed for Fallcrest that tragedy came on a black horse. Nazin Redthorn, you see, was not the only tool in Vhennyk’s arsenal. A tiefling murderer, full of hellfire and malicious intent, came into Albridge with a smile and some coin. The night he was shown hospitality and goodwill from the newly liberated folk, he stole into Dar Gramath’s livery, taking the former hero’s head and burning the stable to the ground.
The head he took to Fallcrest. He presented it to the Heroes of Harkenwold and tried to send them to meet their friend. The battle was fierce. The blade of Avernus nearly took the lives of Lyria and Andrasian. Were it not for the skill of Krillorien and Melanie’s magics, this tale would have a very different end. Yet they did triumph in the end, and almost immediately, they returned to the Harkenwold to pay their friend the respect he was due.
Great was the wake held on the grounds of Harken Keep. Baron Stockmer told the massive gathering of his friend of many years, how he’d come to the Harkenwold after suffering so many scars and hardships, wishing merely to tend to horses and hang up his weapons forever. Yet when the Iron Circle came, Dar Gramath took up arms again without hesitation. He died, John Stockmer said, knowing his land and his people were free, thanks to the Heroes of the Harkenwold, who even in death did not forsake their friends.
After the wine and song, the bonfires and memories, the Heroes struck back West, to that keep over Winterhaven you all know well. Snow had begun to fall, despite it being just after midsummer, but… that is a song for another night…
Being the stories and recollections of Dozril Tumbledown, traveling minstrel and friend to all, regarding the exploits of the wandering band called the Heroes of Harkenwold – Andrasian the elvish warrior, Krillorien the eladrin priest of Pelor, Melanie Good-Melons of the Arcane Tower, and Lyria Thorngage of the Junction Thorngages.
Yes, yes, gather ’round, gather ’round! I bring you a tale drenched in blood and bedecked with honor, fraught with danger and harrowing the faintof heart! You have heard, I’m sure, of the Battle of Albridge, the first blow struck for true against the Iron Circle cronies of the vile emperor-boy Lysander as he skulks on his thrown in Nerath. Yes! You have! But you know not of the crucial part four intrepid souls in turning that battle’s tide, and the good service they did after at Harken Keep! You will, good folk, as I, your humble storyteller Dozril Tumbledown, speak the names of this fearsome foursome –
(as Dozril says each name, it is echoed by the patrons who drink to each adventurer)
Andrasian! Elf of the Feywood, whose axe has cleaved many an Iron skull!
Krillorien! Eladrin noble of the dwarven manse bearing the light of Pelor wither he goes!
Melanie Good-Melons, lovely of form and keen of mind honed in the mysterious Tower of the Arcane!
Lyria! Sweet Lyria! Sly Lyria! Call her short at your peril, good sir, for she’ll shank you for it!
Now I begin my tale! Dark was the dawn when the rider found the four, and roused them to ride to Albridge. Dar Gramath, mighty of wind as well as fist, summoned them to assist in rebuffing the oncoming tide of iron. They had already done a good service to him, to Reithann the druid, the folk and fields of the Harkenwold – even the Woodsinger elves, cagey and aloof, pledged themselves to the defense of the ‘wold after these four rid them of an ancient evil, one that they said could never truly die! Ah, but that is a tale for another time…
So! Albridge! A fair jewel in the Harkenwold, rivaled only by Harken itself and facing annihilation at the hands of vile Nazin Redthorn (audiences tend to hiss at the first mention of his name) and his tar devil brood, his lackwit sellswords and his Iron Circle minions. Yet Redthorn did not anticipate resistance. Indeed, while his caravans had been sacked and his outriders disappearing, he had no notion that Dar Gramath had retained the services of four souls so keen to see him fail and fall! So when he rode to Albridge, he anticipated a quick tussle and an easy victory – not a hard-fought battle that would end in a rout!
For Krillorien prayed with the defenders of the Harkenwold, and Pelor shone his light upon them! Melanie’spells and… other charms (here Dozril waggles his bushy eyebrows) … gave the warriors help and hope to defend their homes! Andrasian’s crass, direct critiques of their fighting styles emboldened them! Lyria, sharp as her knives, conferred with the leaders of the resistance to draw Redthorn’s cronies into a brilliant trap – and so it happened! Like a steel snare for bears the resistance waited, and when the Iron Circle stepped into them with hoof and boot, the trap snapped shut!
(Dozril claps his hands and the audience bangs tankards and silverware on their tables)
Oh, many an Iron Circle tunic was tarnished that day, friends, and many sellswords threw down their arms and ran when the battle went ill. There were tar devils! Magics most foul! The flail of Redthorn and the bites of his drakes! Yet the defenders of the Harkenwold stood their ground, not giving up an inch of their precious land that was not paid for five times over in Iron Circle blood! Six times! (“Six times?” calls someone from the audience) SIX TIMES the Iron Circle came! SIX TIMES the Harkenwolders beat them back! And in the middle of it all were our heroes! Nazin Redthorn found them, friends, swore out an oath against them and set upon them full of vengeance and anger!
And what did this mighty warrior do, this warlord of sellswords, this most iron of Iron Circle men?
(“What? What? Tell us what!”)
HE RAN AWAY!
(Dozril takes on a frightened face, tucks his tail between his legs and runs in place. The audience laughs long and loud)
He ran away, good folk, back to what he felt was the safety of his keep, called Harken Keep when good Baron Stockmer held it, rechristened Iron Keep by Redthorn and his yes-folk. Yet not long after his shameful defeat a wagon of Iron Circle warriors came to the gate with a delivery for their dread lord. Into the keep they came, two men and a women with a large box between them.
Up into the great tower they went! Past behorned gatekeepers and guards born of dragons, they bluffed and parleyed their way to the highest room, the baron’s chamber. There was the craven Redthorn, who recognized his tormentors immediately in spite of their disguises. Lyria Thorngage sprang from the box, and the fight was on! The sound roused the others in the tower, save those below in the gaol, and what seemed to be an endless tide of iron washed over our heroes. Yet Andrasian’s arms did not tire! Krillorien’s voice did not fail! Lyria’s fingers remained deft! And Melanie’s spells struck for true! Only when the guards from without tried to strike within did the heroes slide into the hidden stairwell that Redthorn would have used himself, if halfling daggers hadn’t put an end to his reign of terror!
Down into the gaol they stole after recovering their wits, and it was there that they found good Baron Stockmer, half-starved but willing to fight. Through the postern gate they slipped, only to find elves of the Woodsinger tribe awaiting them! Dar Gramath had rallied the defenders of the Harkenwold, felled one of the mightest trees outside of Albridge and was battering down the gates even as the Iron Circle struggled to find someone to lead them! Thanks to the Heroes of Harkenwold striking the head from this iron serpent, the remnants of the body slithered away to the south, to the city they called Sarthel but good folk remember as Adamanton and…!
That, too, is a story for another time! Thank you, friends, for your attention and kindnesses! Though if you wish to convey futher kindnesses in gold and silver, this humble teller of stories would be much obliged…
Fair warning, would-be writers: if you’re good at what you do, somebody somewhere’s going to want to hurt you.
Having finished George RR Martin’s A Storm of Swords last night, more than once I wanted to reach through the pages, grab the man by the beard and give him a couple of shakes for what he was doing to his characters. At the same time, though, I understood why I felt this way and why it was a good thing. He’s introduced and developed these people in such a way that we can’t help but care about them. He also knows that tragedy is nothing without comedy, and balances the beard-throttling moments with ones that nearly had me in tears, either from heartwarming relief or genuine laughter.
This is, honestly, something toward which every author of fiction should aspire. Especially in a genre like fantasy.
The entire series of A Song of Ice and Fire is an evolving ur-example of several things writers should do, and at least one they should avoid. The problem with a lot of fantasy books and stories is that the fantastical elements take center stage. If your hero is only interesting because he’s “the chosen one” meaning he’ll be riding dragons, overthrowing evil sorcerer-dictators and making out with hot elf chicks (because every fantasy protagonist needs a hot elf chick, right?), he’s not all that interesting. Now, if he’s a disenfranchised son of a noble jerkass who didn’t raise him entirely right, or if the dragon he’s ‘destined’ to ride doesn’t want anything to do with him beyond perhaps eating him, or if he is, in fact, a she… that changes things.
I firmly believe that characters are the foundation of any good story. Sure, you might have a neat premise or background for your narrative, the idea of turning genres on their ears or taking an old story in a new direction, but without good, solid characters it’s going to be a lot of sound and fury. When you’re getting ready to start down the track of telling a story, take the time to develop your characters beforehand. Give them backgrounds, envision their family lives before the story begins, draw their connections to one another. As the story proceeds, let them develop on their own. Rather than determining every single reaction beforehand, try letting the reactions grow out of the action as you write it. I think you’ll find the results surprising, and it will let the narrative become its own creature, free of the expectations of whatever genre you happen to be in.
Of course, this could be an entirely backwards way to do things. I still don’t think fantasy should be all about the sword and sorcery. The story’s true power and magic come from the people weilding those swords, and casting those spells.
If you want to cast a spell of your own, look to your characters first.
The human lands paid due homage to their new king, and in return they were left mostly to their own devices, with minimal interference from the crown outside of taxes and requests for aid. Minor and major lords rose to power, claiming cities as their seats of power and laying claim to as much acrage as they dared. Most city-states had different patron dieties, and while for the most part they could get along, there was the occasional dogmatic squabble.
The progressives of Erathgate often chided the more militaristic people of Stormwatch, who paid homage to Kord with extensive drilling and an ancient tradition of trial by combat. Stormwatch, for their part, was interested in the engineers of Erathgate creating new means to wage war. While Daggerport and Fortune’s Harbor often traded ships and goods, the lack of a patron diety and reports of dark cults dwelling in Daggerport made some of the lovers of Avandra within Fortune’s Harbor a bit nervous. Word of these cults reached the church of Bahamut seated in Shoredale. When Daggerport-registered vessels stopped carrying pilgrims to the Bay of Bahamut far to the east, Shoredale’s duke sent ten thousand paladins and soldiers to bring the ‘free city’ to heel. Had it not been for emissaries from the king forging an uneasy peace, the battle could have been long and bloody.
Adamantine, ancestral home of the royal family, stayed out of most of these conflicts. The princes of the Adamant Keep would come to aid the crown at a moment’s notice, their arms and armor fired in the finest forges in the kingdom and possibly with a legion of dwarves in support. Adamantine was sworn to Moradin, and while the internal politics of the fortress-city was reportedly a bloody drama of betrayals, seductions and assassinations, when they rode forth they did so with the force of the hammer striking the anvil. That anvil was often a cadre of adepts from Junction, where Ioun held sway. Junction is home to many ‘prodigal’ wizards from the Tower of the Arcane, who forsake the Five Archmages’ neutrality in favor of teaching sorcerers and assisting the crown in keeping the peace. With such powerful magics, armies from Adamantine and the Sun Guard sworn to protect the crown day and night, any king seated in Nerath’s Ebon Keep was well-equipped to meet any threat to peace within the realm.
It may be for this reason that Lysander came to shore at Junction. Without warning, longships beyond count appeared in the sea, filled with vicious mercenaries of the Iron Circle and priests of Bane thirsty for revenge. Junction’s city guard crumbled before the onslaught and the prodigal arcanists were either burned, hung or disappeared mysteriously. From Junction, Lysander rode for Nerath, used ancient and forgotten passages to steal into the Ebon Keep in the dead of night, and put King Perrin to the sword, placing his head above the city’s northern gate.
