A slight delay

QTMT 3 will be one or two days late, due to a sudden emergency re-write. While you wait, here's Alessandro Del Piero:

Quick Time Moral Tales 2

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Shogun 2: Total War (PC)

The Legend of Chosokabe Masayo

O Honored Brother

O Conqueror of Japan

Even as the walls of Kyoto crumble before me, and the screaming, wailing nobles of this once great city throw themselves at my feet, eager to grovel and gain favour with the man who in a few short hours shall be their new Shogun, Battle lord of all Japan, my heart is heavy. Heavy, for my general, my friend, my brother Masayo is not by my side to share with me this moment of truth and destiny for the Chosokabe clan. It is not my name that my Samurai shout as they flood the streets below the castle, cutting down the last brave men still standing beneath the tattered banner of the Ashikaga Shogunate. 

It is his.

When I was still an infant, my great father and Daimyo of the Chosokabe clan visited the construction site of the great port being built at the northern tip of Shikoku, the island we at the time shared with two other clans. As he rode the shore with his cadre of bodyguards, he suddenly chanced upon an elderly fisherman being harassed by a rabble of bandits, threatening the man to surrender his catch of the day to them. Though outmanned four to one, the man and his son who was also with him would not be intimated, and refused to give up the fish they had worked the entire day for. Armed with nothing but a paddle, the man's son held the bandits off, shrugging off the beatings and the cuts they managed to inflict on him every time they got near. My father watched from afar, and as the sun started to set, the boy was still holding them off. As the light of day disappeared, and the strength was finally ebbing from his body, my father decided to intervene, and unleashed his Samurai protectors, who made short work of the bandits. He rode up to the young man, who had collapsed to his knees in the mud, and asked him why he would risk his life for a small net full of fish, and not simply surrender it.

The young man Masayo looked at him with steel in his eyes and said: "My father worked for this fish. I would rather die than allow it into the hands of someone who has not earned it."

So impressed was my father by this answer that he took the boy with him back to the capital of Tosa, after swearing to the old fisherman that the boy would be given the best education available to anyone on Shikoku. A boy of such determination, integrity and character was surely destined for greater things than a fisherman’s life. My father had no idea how right he was.

Masayo took to his studies with vigor, but though he did his best, it was clear he was not cut out for scholarly work. It was in his martial training he made a name for himself, and when he came to my father the next year and asked to be given the right to carry arms in his name, he immediately had his wish granted. Not content with that however, my father enrolled him into the officer's program, a grueling ten year education which would see him leave Shikoku for Honshu, Japan's largest island. During his absence, I grew into a man, and my father started grooming me as his successor. By the time he returned a decade later, I had practically forgotten he existed. The scars on his face told me of the hard times he must have been through since I last saw him, but the dignity and grace with which he wore the clan's armour told me more. This man would play a large part in shaping not only Chosokabe's future, but the future of Japan herself. Years passed without major conflict, while Masayo slowly rose in rank. Eventually, he was given the right to use the clan name, and even married my sister. By the time my father decided that Shikoku was no longer big enough to support the presence of three clans, Masayo was one of the highest regarded field commanders in our army.

On the eve of the campaign, our old, sickly general breathed his last breath, and suddenly, Masayo was leading our troops east to conquer the cities of Awa and Sanuki. The results of this lightning fast campaign stunned even a battle-hardened old man like my father. During the course of a year and a half, Masayo, commanding a force of barely half the combined strength of his enemies, had brought both the Myoshi and the Sogo clans to their knees. The both sent representatives to my father, begging to be made his vassals, so their clans could survive in some form, but were flatly rejected. For in Masayo, my father now had a weapon of such intimidating strength, the old need for compromise was gone. The tranquility brought on by a united Shikoku would not last long. Not two years after the conquest of the island, the mighty Ito clan, eager to challenge the faltering Shogunate, went forth from the island of Kyushu in a bid to conquer Kyoto. That night my father called a war-council where he ordered Masayo to come up with a plan to stop the Ito from usurping the Shogunate, as it would interfere with his own long time plans to attain it for himself. A few days later, my father rode with Masayo to the small fishing village where they had met for the first time all those years ago. There, they found Masayo's father, by this time, a weak, sick man with weeks left to live at most. Though the old man could barely lift his head from his pillow, I could see the pride shining from his narrow, sunken eyes at the sight of his son wearing the armour granted only to Chosokabe's general. With a weak grip, he took a hold of Masayo's hand, and all that needed to be said between them was said, without a single word being uttered.

That was the last time Masayo saw either of the two men he had called father. What followed was a twelve year campaign, in which Masayo forged his legend, and put me in the position I am today, about to step into the Kyoto palace, and accept the surrender and ritualistic suicide of the old Shogun.

Instead of sailing west to confront the advancing Ito army on Honshu, Masayo left a small force under my command to defend our lands in case of counter-attack, while he himself took his host south, to invade Kyushu island, effectively putting himself directly in the wake of the aggressive Ito clan's march north. During the next couple of years, the reports started coming in from the front, telling of victory after victory. Slowly but surely, spring after spring, Masayo claimed every province on Kyushu for the Chosokabe clan. His reports were always clinical, to the point, but honest and unflinching; he made no attempt at hiding the horrors of his war behind fancy language. On midsummer's eve in Masayo's 53rd year, the army crossed the small sound between Kyushu and Honshu, and the final confrontation between Chosokabe and Ito finally drew close. Three more years it would take before the two great armies faced each other, for the battle of Tamba fields. The battle that would decide the future of Japan.

My father, the great Daimyo, had passed away a few years before, not having fulfilled his wish of seeing Masayo again before his days were numbered. A few months before the battle, Masayo sent word to me to meet him at his camp once the battle was over, so he could swear loyalty to me as his new Daimyo, and present the road to Kyoto to me himself, as it now lay open to me after years of bloody, unceasing war. The old war-horse never lacked for confidence, but at the same time, he had never given me reason to doubt him. I set out for his camp with my cadre of body-guards, hoping that we would make it in time to help. I arrived a few days too late.

The field was still strewn with bodies when I arrived, the smell was sickening, but the screams my father had told me could be heard from the dying and maimed long after the battle was over seemed to have silenced. We rode for hours before we finally escaped the hellish, ghoulish fields, where the only signs of life were the locals, burning the dead in gigantic pyres. It was late in the evening when we arrived at Masayo's camp. I immediately ran into his two sons, who despite having their armours covered in spots other men's blood, looked exactly like they had when I sent them off to join their father's army three years ago. They took me to the largest tent, where I expected to be led inside to meet Masayo, standing hunched over a table next to a roaring fire, plotting on his large campaign map the route for our triumphant march into Kyoto. Instead, what caught my eye was a small heap of animal furs next to the entrance. When I got close, it stirred, and Masayo's eldest rushed over to it, and took a hold of his father's arm. He had been sitting there, covered up for warmth, waiting for me. What I saw before me, was an old man, scarred and harrowed, who couldn't breathe deeply without breaking into a violent cough. There was no doubt my brother was a death's door, and it seemed only a tremendous force of will had sustained him this long. He got on his feet, and with the aid of his sons, took me for a short walk up the tall hill overlooking the camp. He struggled against shaking legs for an hour, refusing our pleas for him to turn around and go back to his tent. When we arrived at the top he sat down, and we looked to the east, where we could just barely spot the lights from Kyoto in the distance.

"My eyes fail me, my Daimyo," he said weakly. "I cannot see her from here. Tell me; is she beautiful?"

"She is magnificent," I replied, trying to hide the tremendous weight my heart was suddenly carrying. "And you have delivered her to me. Never shall Japan see a finer warrior than you, brother."

"Death came to me last night," he continued. "It is not the first time he and I have met. I have had many an interesting conversation with him as he has come to claim the lives of my Samurai. I have seen such humbling things in my life, my Daimyo. I have seen the raw, non-belligerent, but still merciless power of nature. I have seen ordinary soldiers perform feats of bravery I thought above mortal men. I've seen the bravest and noblest of warriors cry out for their mothers as life bleeds from their bodies, onto the frozen mud beneath them. Death has been my closest friend and my most hated enemy. Countless times he has come for the people I cherish. Last night he came for me. He told me my time had arrived. I bowed my head to him, and I asked if he could grant me one last wish. One more day, so I could see my Daimyo, the man who will be Shogun, and gift to him whatever semblance of wisdom my life has gifted to me."

He took a hold of my shoulder, and pulled me close, his eyes suddenly wild, vivid, alive. 

"I have known two fathers in this life, Daimyo. One good man who wanted a simple, honest life with his family. And one good man, who wanted to rule the world. I'd like to think I've helped both of them achieve that. But I won't be here to help you, brother. You will rule as Shogun without me. Be a good man, and by extension a good ruler, Daimyo.  There is enough suffering in this world. I know, for I feel I have seen most of it."

"Let us get you back to your tent," I told him. "Let us get you warm again."

"No," he replied, and waved me away. "I will sit here, until my eyes close for the last time. I will sit here, and contemplate the things I have achieved in this life."

"For that, brother, I'm afraid a single night will not be enough."

I started to walk away from him, but stopped before I had taken five steps. 

"Is there anything you wish me to tell your wife, my sister?" I asked him. He looked at me, and I think that for the first time since I had arrived, I saw pain in his eyes. I think he wanted me to apologize for not being there with her, but he never said it.

"Tell her 'thank you for my wonderful sons'," he said, and turned from me. We burned his body the next morning, and erected a shrine to his memory, and the memory of the men who died under his command at the site of his final battle. Underneath his name, etched into the stone, you can read his favorite poem. 

Sea vast and endless

sky reaches far past our sight

life fleetingly short 

     

QTMC #7

I did it. I may have slaved into the wee hours of the night, but Quick Time Moral Choice number seven is actually, believe it or not, finished. I'm really excited about this one, folks. It turned out exactly like I'd seen it in my head, and I feel the quality of the drawings is the highest I've managed so far. I really hope you enjoy it, and please, feel free to tell me what you think in the comments, or on twitter, because I'm dying to know.

Housekeeping

I hope you all enjoyed the very first installement of Quick Time Moral Tales, our new bi-weekly padding segment we spew out in a desperate attempt at keeping your  interest while I try to get off my lazy ass to finish another comic strip. And let me tell you, my handsome/gorgeous friend, on the internet, that is pretty hard. There are alot of shiny things that want your attention out there. So from the bottom of my heart, whether you're a regular visitor, or someone who just stumbled in here by accident; if you find a sliver of enjoyment out of the dumb stuff I post here, I love you. So I hope that you'll check back in two week's time for QTMT number 2, which I've decided to call "The Legend of Chosokabe Masayo". Exciting stuff. And hopefully, I'll have finished QTMC 7 well before that. It really looks like it could be something special.

On a different topic, while you're wandering aimlessly around the intertubes, you might want to give Conjectural Figments, the new science-fiction e-zine a click. Curated by ninja master and author of the upcoming novel Knuckleduster Andrew Post, and features the short stories and poems of some truly talented people, like Jhon Z Baker, Dale Herring, Simon West-Bulford, Craig Wallwork and Rommel Luna H. You should also pay close attention to the stunning artwork of mr. Glenn Porter, twice the man I am in more ways that one. In addition, you get a fascinating interview with Simon Morden, author of the Petrovich trilogy, which I am currently racing through. And it's all free! It is a must for anyone who enjoys good science fiction.

Now, the cynics among you might notice that there is a name I've left out of the people contributing to the very first issue, namely my own. The really cynical among you might even go so far as to say: "Hjels, you self-promoting sack of crap, you just gave us that entire spiel to sell something you're a part of. How can we trust anything you say!?"  

To that I would say, whoa back up, buddy, I have feelings too, you know. And then I'd say this: Reading this issue, I felt like that one guy who gets cast in a movie because of his good looks, while the classically trained thespians in the cast look at him going, "how did this asshole get the part?" They operate on a different level than I do, and just being associated with these people is a tremendous honour for me.

So do yourself a favour and check it out. I guarantee you won't be dissapointed, or your money back.

Quick Time Moral Tales 1

Harvested: A tale of love, loss and daily produce

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Harvest Moon: Back to Nature (PSOne). 

Believe it or not, but there actually was a time in my life where I wasn't a cynical, snarky jagg-off who made fun of my favorite video games in comic form. Before mowing down hordes of aliens/terrorists/zombies or whatever the hell those things in Bulletstorm are, had turned me into a manly space marine with scars on his face in place emotions in his soul.

No, before all that, I was a young boy with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart, just returning to his grandfather's home town after his death. I had spent many a joyous summer on his farm, but circumstances and time had taken us down different paths, and had it not been for a rather curious clause in the old man's will, I might never have set foot here again. The farm had fallen into a sorry state of disrepair and only if I managed to return it to its former glory in less than three years would I be allowed to stake my claim to it. Now, at the time I was a typical modern city boy, with soft hands and an expensive haircut, but after mulling it over for a while, I decided to pick up the gauntlet, and accept grandpa's challenge. Before I knew it, I was standing there with a hoe in my hand, and my dog Brutus by my side.

To all you city folk out there, this may come as a shock, but farming is damned hard work. Every day, I would get up at the crack of dawn, work all day, and then collapse into my bed in the evening, every speck of energy drained from my tender frame. It was several days before I even made it into Mineral Town itself, but at long last, a welcome shower of rain meant that I found the tiniest opening in my harrowing schedule so I could finally take the trip and introduce myself to my new neighbors. I instantly fell in love with all of them. 

There was Ellen, the kindly old, retired mid-wife, who'd always have a story to share; Mayor Thomas, who reminded me that Super Mario could have had a real career if he'd only applied himself a bit, and Doug, the gentle, old-fashioned innkeeper, who just wanted to see his daughter  married off to a good man, to name a few of the wonderful people who constituted this kind, close-knit community I was trying to best to become a part of. There were a few less idyllic fates among these people as well. Take Duke, the closet alcoholic and co-owner of the winery who drank to forget that his daughter no longer spoke to him. He kept his grief well hidden behind his warm, friendly eyes, but you knew it was there. And the bottle was there to help him cope. He too was part of the great tapestry of personalities that made this town special.  

Of course, being a young, virile man with charisma to spare, like all who know me would confirm to you, I couldn't help but notice the plentitude of young, single women of wooable age who lived in and around Mineral Town. But I also realized that though these were simple country folk, they wouldn't be all that impressed by this young upstart blowing into town to take over the decrepit old farm in its outskirts. I had to apply myself to gain the attention of any of these beautiful girls. So I walked back to my farm, with a bag of seeds on my shoulder, and a fresh determination in my step.

I first noticed her during the Tomato Festival that summer, standing quietly, listening to her friends' conversation but not really participating in it. She wasn't the most immediately striking woman I'd seen, with her purple vest, worn cut-off jeans and big sturdy work-boots, she was not the kind who'd immediately draw a man's gaze to her passing on the street, but should you give her a second look, you'd have seen a pair of eyes of so unfathomable depth, ships could sink in them and never be heard from again. So sharp and breath-taking were they, a battalion of poets could spend a century describing merely their colour.

They were green.

I knew right there and then that I would have to get to know this girl. From then on, whenever I wasn't working on my ever expanding farm, or slaving in the nearby mine, I took the trip to her family's store in town, often buying useless garbage I didn't need, just to catch a glimpse of her. She was dismissive to me at first, like she was to most people, but slowly but surely, I tore down the barriers she had built to protect herself from the world. Karen was her name. She had lived her entire life in Mineral Town, but she spoke with a confidence of a woman who had travelled the continent, and tasted a wide variety of the wonders the world has to offer. That was probably the reason many saw her as arrogant or assertive, but to me, she was nothing short of magnificent. Before long, I would spend all the free time I could spare in the store, discussing, conversing, arguing and laughing with her. She was opinionated, but always open to alternative views, even to her most entrenched preconceptions, as long as you offered her a compelling argument. She wouldn't smile just to make you feel better, only when you said something that really delighted or amused her. And at the same time she'd make you feel like the most important man in the world, because you were the one who tempted it out of her. 

I would enjoy this friendship for a year and a half before I noticed the initial signs that something more was growing between us. During that time, I'd had been less than covert with my affections for her, but she needed time, and I gave it to her, knowing in my heart that she was worth waiting for. My farm was doing well, I was becoming a respectable member of the community, and on a rainy day towards the end of summer, I felt her lips against mine for the first time, ran my fingers through her soft, delicate hair, and professed my undying love for her. 

I knew what I had to do. 

For the entire fall season, I slaved away on my regular chores on the farm during the day, but spent the evenings and nights working in the forest, cutting the lumber I needed for this most important project. On the first day of winter, I led her blindfolded to my farm, and as soon as she had stopped giggling that intoxicating little laugh you'd only hear when she was apprehensive but excited, I revealed to her the new wing of my farmhouse, the perfect fit for a fledgling little family. With tears of joy in the corner of her beautiful green eyes, she threw herself into my arms, and declared that she would of course marry me. 

As soon as the snow thawed, it was finally time to meet her at the altar, and exchange our vows of eternal love and companionship. The day was perfect. The entire town had turned up to share in our joy, and as Karen's father walked her up the aisle towards me, I knew that my life finally had purpose. To ensure that my bride had the life, the love and the opportunities she deserved. In front of the pastor, we swore to cherish and keep each other until both our days would end. Then I took her in my arms, and kissed her with all the passion stored up in me since the first time I saw her, and knew she had to be mine. 

And then, darkness...

I must warn you, dear reader, that it is as this point my story takes an abrupt metaphysical left turn. My screen had gone completely black, and as it stayed that way, and nothing seemed to happen, my initial belief that the PlayStation was merely loading all the assets for my wonderful new life slowly vaned. After half an hour, I decided to restart the console, and load the game back, confident that I would bypass this freak, once-in-a-lifetime bug, and be launched into the family bliss the game had so tantalizingly promised. Instead, all I got was more darkness. Six failed attempts at getting the game to run past this point later, I was getting worried. Was this some kind of cruel cosmic joke? Had I been led to the top of the mountain, and granted a look at the land of milk and honey, in the knowledge that I would never set my foot on it myself?

After a week of failed attempts, I was at my wits end, and I resorted to the one option that was left to me in the time before you could just run to the internet, and declare your outrage. I sat down, and wrote a physical, handwritten letter to the publisher, demanding an explanation, and more importantly, a solution. For weeks I waited, less than patiently for their reply and at long last, it arrived in my mail box. 

The answer was devastating. 

The letter basically told me that it was a bug they were familiar with, and that there was nothing that could be done about it, but they handily provided me with an address where I could send my copy of the game for a full refund. 

I was furious. 

I don't want your god-damned blood money, I want my wife back!   

Eventually though, I had to realize that the dream was over. There was nothing that could be done. Karen was gone forever. I felt like a young Bruce Wayne, standing at the graves of his parents in the pouring rain, wondering how it could all go wrong so fast, and fearing having to live the rest of my life without the one I loved. But there was no way around it. She was never coming back. 

So, like anyone whose backbone was worth the calcium it was made of, I decided to face my dark, unyielding grief like a man. By shaving my head, and murdering Nazis or Orcs or whoever stood in my way. Beats actually having to confront your feelings, am I right, men?

So here I am, thousands of lives of my conscience later, a grizzled, bitter old man, who remembers that young boy with the stars in his eyes and song in his heart only fleetingly, on the coldest, loneliest nights in the trenches of whatever God-forsaken conflict I've gotten myself involved with. I sometimes wonder how that life would have turned out, had I been allowed to live it. I wonder if I should have handled my grief differently. Maybe Duke had the right idea after all. Maybe the answer did lay at the bottom of a bottle. Then again, how could all the Krogan liquor in the galaxy do what slaughtering waves upon waves of Locust never could? Erasing Karen's face, looking lovingly at me whenever I close my eyes.