Intrepid Earth: A Series Overview

When I first put pen to paper and spawned what would become the first character sketch of Avatar nearly 14 years ago, I had no idea that the scene of a tan-skinned wood elf standing in a forest clearing watching the sunrise with an outstretched palm would evolve into a novel. And after completing chapter upon chapter (skipping over the more difficult ones because I was too scared to write them) I had no idea that my novel would evolve into a series. And that series into a universe. I've always had stories to tell, but it has also been about something more than that.

"It's not about money. It's about sending a message."

The more I wrote, the more the characters and their world came alive. I'm not the kind of author who writes with much of an outline (if any), and so the situations my characters get into often surprise me. Strangely enough, they often find themselves facing similar moral and emotional dilemmas as myself. When I realized this, I had a difficult time trying to determine what was actually going on. Do I vent and work out my internal frustrations through fictitious means, or are these extensions of my subconscious trying desperately to show me how to overcome them? Are these stories simple expression . . . or a lesson for myself and, hopefully, the readers?

Since well before the completion of Book 1 in 2009, I've known that I wanted to devote a whole book to each elemental. This would make for a total of seven books, with Of Avatars and Elementals serving as my introductory gathering ground for all six primary elements and the characters they embody. While I've designed each book to be enjoyed individually and without the need to be read in any particular order despite the chronology, there is a natural progression to the moral themes involved. That aside, Book 1 is the best way to discern which character's element a reader would like to explore further.

The progression of moral themes is as follows:

In Book 1: Of Avatars and Elementals, we introduce Avatar to a brand new world of humanity, society, and technology. Much like the infantile hermit, we know very little about the world in which these characters live. We get a quick glimpse, and what we see isn't at all pleasant. The civilized world is corrupt, and an outside force threatens to destroy it. When I wrote this story, I was on the fence about humanity. But the more I lived, the more bleak my outlook became. The difficulty was not in convincing the hero to save the world, but rather . . . how to convince the hero that saving the world might not be the right choice?

I had to show Avatar, a full-grown child, the ugly side of humankind. I had to show him violence and cruelty. Ambivalence and ignorance. Lies and betrayals. And I had to blow these things up so big and so fast that they became more ominous than an immediate, physical, worldwide threat of obliteration. I had to ask myself two very difficult questions: "Is there any hope left for humanity?" and "If I had the power to redeem this world . . . would I?"

Let us assume that the answer to both is, "Yes." How, then, should a hero go about this redemption? Perhaps vigilantism is the answer . . . 

In Book 2: Of Shadow and Dissonance, we follow Yamini and explore a darker alternative to salvation while getting better acquainted with the dystopian Rhevisean capitol. Our young rogue's solution is aggressive but rational: Remove the bad seeds of society by way of assassination and manipulate the system until it operates justly. While I've often contemplated this exact same method, Yamini demonstrates the emotional difficulties of putting it to practice.

Most people are beings of conscience and conduct themselves with strict standards of right and wrong. Yamini is not most people. Her boundaries are a bit skewed. Faced with many evil players, she is able to take them out of the game without much initial hesitation. But dealing in death takes a toll over time, and she struggles to answer yet another difficult question: "Does killing, even when clear of mind and emotion and for all the right reasons, invariably cause more harm than good and serve to perpetuate chaos . . . rather than reestablishing order?"

Yamini's call to action seems to yield results ostensibly but costs several innocent lives in the process. What about another approach? Perhaps inaction is the answer . . .

In Book 3: Of Wind and Vigilance, the ranger Marik Keingel and his wolf companion give us a closer look at the empire's military--which is supposed to be the last legitimate method of keeping the peace. He is also the first of my deeply religious characters. Both of these things play into his reasons for enlisting to fight under Epson's command as well as for laying down his halberd in defiance of it. An act of utmost treason.

We try to conquer so much through violence in this day and age. How many lives are destroyed because decorated "warriors" issue orders? How many men and women succumb to corruption of mind and soul when they follow these orders without questioning them? How many have fought and died over money, gods, country and resources--all things that we simply cannot take with us, things that have no value outside of that which we bestow upon them? Too many.

While doing nothing is often the right thing to do, Marik shows us that refusal to oblige villainy is often met with replacement. Heroism is seldom fairly matched. Or rewarded.

In Book 4: Of Water and Malice, we explore a different approach via alternating storylines portraying Asche DeBrei as both protagonist and antagonist. As a young man, Asche struggles to provide for himself and his blind brother after a tragic bombing claims their mother's life. As a water demigod, he enacts a vengeful plot against Xearo and Avatar for stealing his powers and sentencing his mortal body to death. In order to neutralize Asche, Xearo must unlock his rival's memories buried deep within the seas.

Like the plot of this story, its moral focus is also twofold. The first is a study of using loss and anguish for manipulation, essentially transforming a well-intentioned but misguided youth into an instrument of evil and a bringer of chaos. The second is a study of bypassing what appears to be malicious action on the surface and instead perceiving the origin of the deeds: pain. To tip someone on the verge of self-destruction into darkness requires little effort, while bringing them back requires an immense, almost superhuman amount of understanding and compassion.

So, how does one achieve these things? Through patience and experience? Through sympathy and sensitivity? Can these bring about world-changing revolution? Maybe so . . .

In Book 5: Of Earth and Resilience, we learn what Aeria was up to for the duration of Book 4's events. Taking up her grandfather's mantle, she becomes swept up in political controversy alongside Yamini and Councilman Turnbase in efforts to eradicate the martial law that has suffocated the empire and remove all emigration restrictions from the borders. But a charming newcomer, who woos Aeria with his knowledge of nature, would see Rhevise leveled rather than reformed.

Equipped with the aforementioned traits, Aeria appeals to the population's suppressed, gentle inclination in order to mend a broken government while also coming to terms with Yamini's involvement in her own grandfather's assassination. She believes that love, rather than violence, will be their key to salvation. In order for this to occur, the people must shift away from their current devotion to a vengeful goddess and instead move toward the earth- and sun-based deities of old. An act that requires healing the planet itself.

Environmentalism was always an inevitable issue for this society, and it requires trust and faith for it to work, just as love requires an open heart. Some lack all of the above . . .

In Book 6: Of Fire and Vigor, our occasionally obnoxious anti-hero Xearo Ta'Lorence takes no time to rest following back to back battles with the water demigod and Aeria's earthen golem. Exhaustion renders him more rash than usual, and his mind has become wracked with bloodlust due to DeBrei's malicious imprint. Teetering on the brink of madness, Xearo unwittingly threatens to destroy half the city during his quest to rectify the past and settle the score with everyone who has wronged him.

We see the old Xearo resurface after more than a year of non-violence. We see a cynical world view challenge all the elementals' hard work and hopeful outlooks. And we see the terrifying results of acting without forethought. The goal of this is to question: "Is Xearo the protagonist or the antagonist of his own story?" In life we are often victims of self-sabotage and project our inner demons onto others. When the desire to seek scapegoats outweighs good intentions, the merit of a person's character is indeed called to trial.

This is a story about forgiving ourselves and our enemies. Are we our own protagonist or antagonist? The only conclusive answers lie in extensive introspection and soul-searching . . .

In Book 7: Of Light and Glass, Avatar D'Kemvi reclaims the spotlight after being mostly absent for the entire series. The spirit of light has found a new body by fusing with the mana statue that Xearo scuplted in Avatar's likeness. Immune to the elements individually and encased in a form comprised of pure magic essence, he is able to tap into the power of oblivion and uses it to travel through time restoring order. While having the power to manipulate time and solve the world's problems seems grand, it is bound to come at a price.

Departing from timid, naive origins, Avatar's understanding of the world has increased dramatically. As has ours. Though his ability to empathize is still intact, he is now a harsh but fair judge of humanity. Every minute detail of the events in which he decides to intervene is scrutinized. No one is given the benefit of the doubt. When dire circumstances reunite him with his elemental friends, even they no longer recognize him. The innocent, sensitive forest dweller has been replaced by an emotionally numb--albeit altruistic--worldly protector.

This is the conclusion I myself have reached--that it is possible to do good without being emotionally invested in the results, that being supercharged with feelings is not always the way to go, and that both action and inaction are situationally appropriate.

I can't claim to be the most creative or ground-breaking author. There's a good chance that any sci-fi or fantasy veteran won't see many elements in my stories that haven't been thought of before. But that's not necessarily the point. I draw from the things I know and love and use them to explore my own subconscious. My stories are essentially extended character studies aimed at provoking thought as much as (if not more than) entertaining. Because I'm not an entertainer. I'm a pseudo-philosopher with a hero complex just trying to do my part to save the world. A quest that often involves helping people to open their eyes so that they can save themselves.

So, what is the path to redemption? I don't know. Maybe there is no universal guide, but if I had to boil down the philosophies of each book into single-sentence steps that I intend to follow, it might look something like this:

1. Acknowledge the discord in society.

2. Lash out against tyranny and injustice.

3. Recognize evil players and refuse to do their bidding.

4. Seek to understand and rectify the suffering in others, including enemies.

5. Seek to understand and restore the world around us.

6. Seek to understand and realign ourselves.

7. Achieve balance and determine when (and when not) to intervene.

A Gamer's Influence: Character Classes

Enthusiasts will say, "Write what you know." Well, I know gaming. I've been absorbed in them for enough years to find nuggets of inspiration within. Readers with an interest in gaming (the role-playing variety, in particular) might notice some familiar trends in my work, but it can be difficult to justify the amount of hours spent in front of a screen as "research" to a non-gamer. Rather than attempt to convert them so that they can appreciate the subtle homages peppered throughout my stories, I aim to grant them insight to the influence that game philosophy has on my personal writing style.

The use of traditional character "classes" is perhaps the most obvious and helpful influences in my writing. In role-playing games (RPGs), classes are used to determine a variety of things about a character's performance. Will they fight, heal, or protect? Use magic or physical weapons? From range or up close? Sneaky or in your face? Heavy armor or cloth? From here it is possible (and also very likely) to delve into hybrids, duals, or even to invent custom classes to suit a unique purpose.

Deciding early on to make a character loosely based on a specific class answers a lot of questions about how that character can and will be developed, both inwardly and outwardly. A rogue/thief/assassin character like Yamini Lithala will naturally be more introverted, less trusting, and self-serving. Outwardly they are nimble, efficient, stealthy, and often clad in leather. They will use any possible advantage, however dishonorable, to win a fight. A paladin (or holy warrior) like Cyleighre Cleaverhorn serves the people and the church. Violence is used to protect rather than to carry out personal vendettas. Blessed platemail armor is ususally worn, as paladins rely on their strength--and their faith--to mitigate damage and outlast their enemies.

Only . . . my  characters actually have faces.

Several ranged classes also sport companions to fight by their sides. Archers/hunters/rangers like Marik Keingel tend to tame and train their own creatures from the wilderness. While attacking from a distance with a bow, crossbow, or firearm, their pets can then charge in and attack an enemy up close. Magic wielders are not excluded! Warlocks summon various demons to do their dirty work, some of which attack physically or use magic of their own. Necromancers like Drathanas Dustbringer can raise the dead and distract their foes with an army of ghouls while assaulting them with dark magic. Even mages/wizards/sorcerers are known to summon elementals. These minions are less common and usually temporary.

    

It's not always necessary to make these classes obvious from page 1. At times the characters begin ostensibly class-less and must transition into one or several. Aeria Radeus is introduced without a discernable role. Initially she leans toward the rogue and as such is dressed in leather and equipped with a degree of melee prowess. As time goes on and she comes into her powers, her class more resembles the shaman--a caster/melee hybrid with an affinity for earthy spells. Avatar D'Kemvi begins his journey as a druid with a close relationship to nature and a knack for healing. As circumstances push him into combat, he later takes on the role of monk--a melee fighter who wears cloth into battle and devastates his foes with a mix of staff strikes and acrobatic martial arts. Xearo Ta'Lorence conducts himself as a warrior/barbarian for almost the entirety of the first book, boasting heavy platemail, a two-handed sword, and rage as his primary source of power. As the book comes to a close (and as his journey continues into future books), however, he transitions into a full-fledged mage--a powerful magic-wielder with mastery over fire and ice. In the future, his sword and heavy armor will likely be retired.

    

The use of a class system might at first seem restricting (and this is a very common complaint among many RPG'ers who have been spoiled by class-less games), but when seen as a guideline instead of a rule, it's actually quite flexible. In writing, there's no balance issues limiting what a character can and cannot equip. The only limitations placed on the characters are those of the story itself. Yamini doesn't throw fireballs--not because "rogues don't throw fireballs, lol" but because she's a shadow elemental, not a fire one. (Don't get me started on shadowbolts. It's not going to happen.) Conversely, it might seem odd that Xearo, a warrior, has access to the area of effect mage spell [Flamestrike] even though most plate-clad tanks have no knowledge of such sorcery. Being an elemental of fire grants him this ability, even though it's not prescribed by his aforementioned class.

    

This philosophy is not limited to Of Avatars and Elementals, either. While I might have ruined the fun of thumbing through book 1 and trying to figure out which classes belong to which characters, there are other stories to peruse and still more in the works. Keep your minds sharpened and see if you can nail all the character/class combinations! Can you guess which character's abilities were inspired by Blizzard's Deathknight class?

On Love in Fiction

I realize that most popular works of fiction these days are imbued with romantic themes to accompany whatever story the author chooses to tell. And rightfully so! Love (or the desire for it, at any rate) is a relatively universal quality. Following a heartless character is difficult, but following one during his or her reckless pursuit of another human being? We can often relate to that. And in doing so, we come to care for these characters even more. Under the proper circumstances.

One could argue that any great story worth telling involves some elements of love. If this is indeed the case, why not implement a love arc in every story written? As an author, would it not help place your story that much closer to being one of the greats? Would it not instantly gain that much more of an audience and thus produce more sales? Probably. So then why is love, a crucial hook and determining factor for a novel's success, something I downplay in my own writing? The answer, much like love itself, is simple . . . and it is not.

I have thought long and hard on love in fiction, its uses, advantages and drawbacks. One of my best friends, perhaps the most die-hard fan of love and hopeless romantic to a fault, often laments my methods. While I can understand his disappointment by taking a look at my own life, I also have to consider a broader perspective of the world itself. There are many great stories to tell right here, in present day, on our own planet--none of which involve romance. Heroic deeds are committed daily by perfectly average people for reasons other than love, reasons like altruism, stupidity, misguided pride, or simply because it is their job. When we read about these heroes in the paper or see them interviewed on the evening news, rarely will he or she say, "I went through this incredibly courageous act in the name of love!" It just does not happen, and that probably plays a part in why fiction is ridden with romantic heroes.

Taking a slightly less realistic perspective, consider all the fictitious heroes who are driven by love. Perhaps more often than it grants determination or motivation, love in many ways hinders their abilities. Desire for their object of affection serves as a distraction, spawns faulty and reckless logic, and gives the antagonist an obscene amount of emotional leverage. These sorts of elements pave the way to overly generic conflicts. And conclusions. Plots and endings become predictable to the point that our capacity to care about the hero's fate becomes stifled because we have already guessed it! Simply put, in my opinion, a character so intensely driven by love in any genre other than romance is a character equipped with more weaknesses than strengths.

This is not to say that I admonish love in literature completely, for it is nevertheless a vital part of our humanity. Failing to incorporate it at all would be akin to committing an ultimate literary blasphemy and do most works a grave injustice! I embrace love and the humanity it bestows upon fictitious characters, but I choose to remain subtle in doing so:

• Xearo's love for Aeria is strong enough to redeem his soul from eternal darkness and grant humanity a final chance to right itself, yet he never breathes a word of it to her. He pushes his emotions aside, for love takes a back seat to defending his homeworld, allowing himself to focus without distraction.
• Yamini comes to care a great deal for Henrik, the one guildmate who shows her compassion, but in being so young and inexperienced she constantly dismisses her feelings. Her love for a mere boy is easily overshadowed by her dedication to her work and her cause, and its positive aura is negated by a lifetime of dissonance.
• Jadera slowly falls for Tristan, her benefactor and Soulcrafter. But due to circumstances, the two must work together to dethrone the master of dreams before plans of a worldwide spiritual domination can take hold. By the time their mutual affections become realized, irreparable tragedy has already befallen the star-crossed couple.

These are three of my biggest characters, and in all cases life wins out over love. One might say that I take an unfortunate, cynical and subdued approach to love in fiction. But in that regard, have I not also taken a small step toward realism? My characters feel as we feel, and are thus similarly denied or else forced to relegate their feelings to a degree of lesser importance in order to tackle whatever adversity their respective universes throw at them. We often find ourselves at a crossroads of sorts where we must decide between emotional pursuits and dire circumstances; why should they get off easy?

As authors, we govern the choices of our characters in order to tell a story. And share a piece of ourselves. Many authors take a very whimsical approach to romance, commonly making it both the conflict and the resolution in a "love conquers all" motif. My hardly revolutionary philosophy is to show that love, while an interesting dynamic between characters, does not always cut it, and that when the consequences of life push hard enough, it must sometimes be disregarded altogether for the greater good. Fate chooses who is worthy, and she chooses who is not. Like a delicate flower, love is not meant to bloom eternal in all places. Or within all people, for that matter.

My characters and myself . . . we are no exception.