Sample of work at bottom of post.
The first major project I’ve been working on is a fantasy world. I started playing dungeons and dragons in college with some friends and classmates. Our DM was super patient in teaching us all how the systems work while encouraging us to play our characters how we wanted. It was liberating to be in a fantasy world and be able to do what we wanted rather than follow the rails of a video game. A year later, that friend graduated and left us newbies without a DM. So, I volunteered. I have been addicted to making new worlds and dynamic settings ever since.
I love high fantasy and classic sci-fi. Massive worlds complemented with great heroism, bravery and intrigue are the complete package for me. Someday, I would love for my project to turn into a big world to get immersed in like Middle Earth, Arrakis, or Roshar. My eyes might be bigger than my stomach, but I’m having fun doing it so I might as well keep going.
So far, I have 14 chapters worth of a first draft, and I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. I finished the first book of the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan recently, and while I love the characters and the world, it felt like it took forever to get anywhere. I felt like I read forever about harvests, village politics, chores, and every menial thing that this small country village was about. As much as I complain, I loved it. It gave the characters depth. It allowed you to understand who these people were, who they are now, and who they will come to be.
One of the main characters in my story is Captain Grant Evans. He is very young for a ship’s captain. Fast tracked to command due to his heroism in a battle at the beginning of the book that kicks off a chain of events leading to a large-scale war. Grant is confident in himself and his own abilities but tends to overthink his command when other people are involved. If Grant had his way, he would do everything himself. Partially to get things done the way he likes, but mostly because if he were to fail, it would only be himself on the line.
I won’t be posting too much of this project, because it is far from a polished product and I don’t want to show my hand on what I think is really cool about this world too soon. The following is an excerpt of a chapter where we flashback to Grant’s childhood.
The chill of the morning soon left with the appearance of the cresting sun as Jerrod piloted the Hearth to one of his favorite spots to cast line. Grant spent the morning learning from Jerrod the subtleties of reading the wind direction and adjusting the sails and tension on the lines and sheets to capture as much speed as possible. At the first fishing sight, rods and lines were baited and set to catch the smaller fish that would later be used as chum for full-sized wingfish. Even though only a couple fish would be needed to cut up enough meat to chum the waters, the fishermen spent more time at the sight than usual to make sure they at least catch enough to add to the family food stores and sell at market should they be unable to catch a wingfish.
After catching just under a dozen smaller red-gills as well as a couple bottom-feeding shovel fish, Jerrod set course toward the deeper waters of the center of the lake. Along the way, Grant and Gabriel practiced their harpoon throws on a towed stump as a practice target. Grant had learned a lot about fishing over the years. Much more than many of his age and even more than most deckhands in nearby villages, but he had a weakness when it came to throwing a harpoon. He knew all the theory that his father taught him but could never bring his body transfer that theory to the harpoon itself. Gabriel, on the other hand, would hit the target dead center every throw.
“Don’t give up Grant.” Jerrod said, noticing Grant’s rising frustration. “Neither your father nor I were any good at your age either. It just takes practice and experience.”
“Aye Pa’paw.” Grant said with a clenched fist around his harpoon. The words of encouragement only proved that he had a long way to go before he would be any good at harpooning. Grant had come a long way in his fishing and boatmanship, but he retained the envy of what it must feel like to throw true a harpoon and pull in one of the prize wingfish that all fishermen of the lake seek.
One day, Grant promised himself, I’m going to catch the biggest fish in this lake and make my family proud.
Catching wingfish always proved to be a production. The fish was the largest creature in the lake, easily bigger than Grant himself, and the largest were rumored to be even bigger than the Hearth. Wingfish, as the name implies, have the unique ability to jump from under the lake with incredible speed and glide in the air. Their pectoral fins unfurl from a long, sleek rudder under the water, to a webbed wing-like appendage keeping them aloft. They were solitary predators of the Great Lake and never traveled in schools. Their top-side was a dark blue with brown splotches that blended quickly to a stark-white bottom.
Despite the dual use fins and the predator’s coloration, the most discernable feature of wingfish was its long, thin, horn, nearly doubling the size of the fish. It stuck out as if a rapier had pushed straight through the fish’s nose. Wingfish only grew in the Great Lake and were fished both for trophy and as a delicacy. Enterprising plainsmen often try to breed wingfish in captivity, but every fish ever caught had been female. To this day, no one knows what male wingfish even look like.
Even more spectacular than their appearance and heft was the way wingfish hunted. The wingfish would jump from the water a distance away from its intended prey and glide until they were over-top. They would then dive straight down, sometimes using their horn to spear their target and sometimes simply open their tooth-riddled mouths wide to consume unsuspecting waterfowl or shallow-swimming fish directly.
Grant was sure there was some scholarly name for them, but ‘wingfish’ was its common name and the Evans family weren’t scholars. The Evans family were, however, fantastic fishermen. They knew all the habits of wingfish and devised a proven methodology for catching them. At the fishing site, they’d chum the water with a cut up shovelfish and placed a hand carved, wooden, shovelfish-shaped, dummy in the water to float near the chum. The plan being, the wingfish would jump a ways away and dive on the dummy fish. By the time it is close enough to discern that its prey is a dummy, it would be in a high-speed dive and only be able to barely dodge the wood. The fishermen would be within range on the deck of the Hearth with harpoons ready to throw.
It was enormously difficult to land a harpoon on a wingfish at full speed in its dive. Many had desperately tried every imaginable bait on fishing line to no success in an effort to avoid missing their harpoon throws all day. Some even tried coming up with netting or clever traps, but the wingfish would never dive into any of it. Wingfish were not opportunistic and would not dive on what they percieved as dead. Gabriel thinks they must have very good eyesight and can discern if there is something besides its prey in the water. That was why he spent so long carving his dummy to immaculate detail and dyeing and staining the wood to match the exact coloration of shovelfish. In the end, the harpoon has been the only proven method, despite the difficulty, causing many to abandon catching wingfish all-together.
“All’s well.” Jerrod would say. “Anything worth doing is going to be hard to do. Besides, this just makes the few catches we get all that more valuable.”
Several hours would pass after the bait being set with no activity at all. The Hearth’s crew would remain as still and as quiet as possible while the wildlife in the area got used to the boat being there. The Hearth had a mast that folded down and her topside was painted mossy-green. The crew also put on their blotchy green coveralls to help keep the appearance from above that the low-laying boat was simply a patch of moss on the lake.
“If their eyesight is so good, why don’t they just avoid us?” Grant asked as he was putting on his coveralls.
“I’m not sure to be honest with you son.” Gabriel responded. “I imagine they are so focused on their prey, that a green blob in their periphery is the least of their worries. Whatever the case, it works.”
It was just after Grant finished folding up the sails and sat himself down in his place that Jerrod sighted a wingfish leaping nearby and gave a low whistle to signal everyone to remain stark still. The fish leaped so high, it was able to circle above the dummy fish three full times before beginning its dive from what must have been nearly two hundred feet in the sky.
“Now!” Gabriel yelled as he reared back with his harpoon. Jerrod and Grant complied and all three hurled their harpoons with all their might in the space above the dummy where they believed the wingfish would aim. The flight of the harpoons only lasts a couple seconds, but in that time, Grant would always remember the contrast of the quiet with the tension and hope the crew felt in that moment.
“Damnit!” Jerrod said through his teeth.
“So close!” Gabriel confirmed as he began to pull his harpoon’s line back in. “It’ll be a while after all the commotion before another one comes near.”
“Yeah, and its getting late.” Jerrod said, as the crew came to the same conclusion.
“One more chance?” Grant asked.
“Aye. Maybe.” Gabriel said, patting the top of Grant’s head. “Good try crew. We won’t go hungry tonight with our catch from earlier, but if we can get a trophy, we’ll be able to afford Grant’s schooling this Winter.”
“You mean I don’t have to do school if we don’t get a wingfish?” Grant asked, trying and failing to sound worried at the concept.
“Don’t get any bright ideas son.” Gabriel replied. “I am jesting, we will find a way like we always do to get you in that classroom. Your mother and I have done alright to this point in our lives, but we want more for you.” Grant opened his mouth to respond that he liked fishing, but before he could, Jerrod whistled another sighting, hushing the crew.
This wingfish didn’t jump nearly as high as the previous and was much larger. It was hard to tell by looking at it in the sky, but Grant assumed it was twice as long as Gabriel was tall, and a wingspan nearly twice its length.
“That’s a big one.” Gabriel couldn’t help but mutter under his breath.
“Aye, be ready… NOW!” Jerrod called and the fishermen hurled their harpoons once again grunting at the exertion.
It was more luck than skill that Grant’s harpoon would land dead center of the massive beast. Before anyone could celebrate, the Hearth violently lurched as the wingfish tried to dive deep into the lake. The lip of the ships bow was a finger’s width from being pulled beneath the waterline, but she stayed afloat and the wingfish began to pull laterally, dragging the whole vessel through the water with a larger wake than ever could have been made under row or sail.
After the initial shock, the crew scurried to life. Jerrod manned the tiller to both add some drag to exhaust the fish and to avoid any debris or obstacle on the surface of the lake. Gabriel manned the harpoon line, tying off specific marked points of the line to the Hearth’s railings whenever there was slack to be found. Grant’s implied task was to be ready with the remaining harpoons.
Eventually, the wingfish tired of sprinting through the water and attempted to shake off the perceived predator that had latched to its body. It leaped once again in the air, but this time the tension from the harpoon’s line pulled the gliding creature toward and over the Hearth. Quick on the tiller, Jerrod used the ships remaining momentum to turn her nose around and keep the lines untangled. Gabriel had measured out the line and pulled in just enough during the struggle so that the wingfish would impact the water’s surface a predictable twenty-five feet away. The same distance and throw that the Evans family would spend all their lives practicing with their tow targets.
Grant and Gabriel both had their harpoons ready and let their adrenaline and muscle-memory take over as they hurled their second volley. Their efforts were met with the satisfying TWHACK of both harpoons hitting their target. The wingfish again tried to dive, but its strength was quickly fading, and it barely pulled the lip of the hull down. As it pulled outward again, Grant heard his grandfather cheer, feeling the decline in ferocity as the wingfish again pulled the Hearth through the now bloody waters.
As the Hearth slowed, Jerrod dropped the anchor and the whole crew began pulling the lines in unison. Sporadic bursts of resistance would shoot through the lines as the fish exerted through its reserves of life and energy, but the injuries were too great, and the Evans crew hefted the massive creature alongside the ship to be finished off.
“Why don’t you do the honors Grant?” Gabriel said through gritted teeth as he held the lines keeping the fish close, nodding toward the spear used to puncture through the fish’s eye and into its brain.
“But that’s usually your job.” Grant said, reaching for the spear.
“It’s usually your father’s job because he’s usually the one that gets the first hit Grantaloo.” Jerrod said, helping Gabriel hold the fish steady with one of the harpoons sticking out its side. “You landed the first hit this time. You started it. And you’ll finish it. Make it quick before it tips us over!”
Grant nodded and quickly made way to the front end of the fish. For a second, he thought he could see panic in the creature’s eye, but then, what fish doesn’t look that way? Grant thrusted the spear through the wingfish’s eye and with a final violent spasm spraying blood and water all over the deck of the Hearth, the beast fell still.
The voyage home was the happiest time in Grant’s life. Seeing the pride his father and grandfather had in him made Grant feel like he was one of the heroes in the stories that his mother read to him growing up. The slaps on the back and the telling and re-telling of the events of the day bolstered Grant’s pride to a point it had never been before. He wished the journey would never end. Thankfully, in that effort, the wingfish had drug the Hearth far in the opposite direction from home, increasing their voyage by a significant amount. So much so, they’d be getting back after dark. Milly and Henley would likely be upset by how long it took, but their disappointment would surely disappear with the sight of the trophy fish mounted to the side of the Hearth, and Grant standing bravely on the bow.
As the Hearth continued her return trip, the evening was quickly arriving and the smoke was barely visible in the darkening sky over the horizon.
“Mother Oak! Jerrod! Find the best winds you can!”
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