Bah, humbug! I’ve got work to do!
With the generous help of many others, I have put my programming problems behind me and resumed design work on the storyworld. I was moving slowly as I tried to assemble the encounters in a nice, disciplined sequence. But it wasn’t working for me; I was moving slowly. Then I decided, “To hell with this—I’m going to do what strikes my fancy. So I’ve been flitting about, writing encounters for all phases of the storyworld. I decided to jump way ahead to the big showdown battle with the Saxons, and the words poured forth from my fingers. I’ve written seven encounters for the showdown battle, and three of them are really good. I’m experimenting with “semi-trees”: short groupings of encounters with partial sequential relationships.
But this has raised an interesting problem for me. Right now the relationships between encounters are simple-minded boolean relationships. I HATE boolean relationships, but until recently I had no idea as to how I might make the consequential relationships arithmetic. An idea popped into my head this morning as I was splitting some wood. I do have arithmetic relationships built into the engine for reaction choice. What if I could seed reaction texts with keywords that directed the narrative flow in a desired direction? That would solve the problem. I’m going to explore it.
Just for fun, here’s one of the encounter texts, entitled “Aftermath of Battle”:
It's over. The general cacaphony of screams and shouts has died down to a scattered stream of occasional death cries as your men spread out over the battlefield, finishing off the Saxon wounded. Here and there a pair of your men are picking up wounded and dead Britons, gently laying them onto horses, and walking the horses back to the collection point.
Bodies are floating downriver. You see the few lucky Saxons hoisting themselves out on the far bank of the river and staggering away as fast as their exhausted muscles permit. They'll tell the story of the disaster to their fellows, and the word will spread. Perhaps a Saxon delegation will appear in a few weeks, begging for peace. Perhaps you'll continue your attacks. But for now, you have wounded to tend.
You ride over to the collection point; there must be a hundred dead and wounded. About half the wounded will die in the next 24 hours; deep penetrating wounds from spears into the trunk are always fatal. You dismount, hand Invictus' reins to a waiting boy, and walk among the dead and wounded, assessing the damages. Dammit, every single man with a fatal wound wasn't wearing chain mail. You've been haranguing the sub-kings to equip all their men with hauberks, but some are just too cheap.
There aren't many hurt katerfaks; a proper hauberk and helmet are standard issue for your men; it's fundamental to their reputation as the battle-winners of the army. You take a moment with each one to ask about their wound. They're mostly leg wounds, rips and gashes in the lower legs. If they're cleaned well, they'll heal. A few will lose their lower legs to infection. There are some broken ribs; chain mail can't stop a really solid strike with a spear.
Then you come across a melancholy sight: a dead katerfak. They got him right in the face. The left side of his face is mashed in and some brains are showing. You console yourself that he died instantly.
You remount Invictus and slowly ride around the battlefield, observing the stripping of the dead. There isn't much to strip; most of these guys are just farmers; their only weapon is a spear. You move to the place where you rode down the Saxon general and his lieutenants; their bodies have already been stripped of valuables. Lying there, half-naked and muddied, they don't look like enemies. Somebody shoved a stick up one guy's ass. Probably one of Mordred's men.
Back at the collection point, the spoils of battle are piling up. They're all sorted into separate piles. There are hundreds of spears, a goodly pile of swords and knives, some helmets, some chain mail, a few pitchforks, and a small pile of decent clothing. Most of the Saxons wear rags and the pelts of small animals stitched together; they're not worth gathering. But there are a few dozen nice capes, hats, and tunics. One of the capes is carefully spread on the ground, with a scatter of ornaments and jewelry. It's mostly brooches and amulets, but one oddity catches your eye. You pick it up and turn it over in your hands, trying to make out its function. It's a partial ring of twisted heavy gold and silver wires, with round knobs at each end of the incomplete ring. It readily twists to open more widely, and with a start you recognize it: it's an old Celtic torque. The ancestors wore these things around their necks. Nobody has worn one since the Roman conquest; this must be hundreds of years old. The Saxons must have taken this from a rich Briton and worn it as a victory-ornament. You drop it back into the pile and step back to survey the whole assemblage. It represents the sum total of the portable material wealth of a thousand men. What a sorry sight.
One group of men is beginning to dig graves. There aren't many shovels, so it will take a long time to dig all the graves for the dead Britons. The dead Saxons will be left to glut the ravens. You'll stay here tomorrow to let the fatally wounded die peacefully, then move about a mile upriver so that you don't have to breathe the stench of the dead. You'll stay there for at least a week to let the less seriously wounded heal somewhat before the journey home.
The sun will be setting soon, and a sudden pang of hunger reminds you that you've had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast. You turn Invictus towards the rear, where the cooks have built fires and are making meals.
"A glorious day." you say out loud, to nobody in particular.