A Paladin’s First Steps | The Chronicles of Braum Stormforge

A Paladin’s First Steps

The Chronicles of Braum Stormforge

Bruam’s first days away from Wyrms-horde were ones of confusion, despair, and a deep sense of loss. By all accounts, it was his decision to leave the mountain; to venture from the depths of Myrepeak in the name of the Trudd. No one had forced him and it was not as if he’d been coerced by the deity to do his bidding. If anything, he had been unconsciously searching so long and so hard for a cause that he truly felt drawn to that the reaction was practically reflex. A knee jerk reaction. Something that he’d thirsted after for decades without knowing what that thirst was.

Yet, with the initial thrill of acceptance dying down, it was replaced instead by the aching of his sore feet and a deep, gnawing feeling in his gut. And as he trudged through the long, forgotten halls traveled only by the few humans and even fewer gnomes that ventured down to the Dwarves’ great halls, all of the weight and fear of the decision was hitting him full force.

He didn’t know what he would do.

Sure, Braum had heard the tales of paladins. They had done many great things. He’d seen the Greataxe of Journ, the paladin of Torag from the third Eon, glittering in its perfect, Mithril splendor as sharp and gallant as the day the dwarf had fought and defeated the Scourge centuries earlier. He’d seen the statues of Lon and Glon, the twins in the service of Pelor that had slain the Great Crimson Wyrm Faranak whose home and treasure piles would give way to the tunnels of Wyrms-horde. He’d even listened with wholesome intent to a young human man by the name of Kalen Nodworth who claimed to be tasked by the god Zohls to procure the recipe to everlasting life.

Braum always chuckled at that one; wondering if, to a human, everlasting life was just living past their formative years and making it to a rich age of forty or so. It seems like their race was too foolhardy to get much further than that without divine intervention.

Still, Braum thought with a furrowed brow as his feet throbbed in their steel boots, there are a lot more stories of horror than of wonder.

For every tale of magnificence that he could recall about a paladin of this God or that, Braum could think of a half dozen stories that he’d heard in passing about the mistakes of following one’s god. Hell, it was just another reason his family was always disinclined to the cloth.

For every Journ that stood gleaming in the night against the forces of evil, there was a Koveg that was killed by his followers when they decided THEY were the chosen followers of some damned deity. Or there was a Thurdag who got beheaded in the name of some holy crusade to the Eastern Kingdoms. Or there was a Wennoki, or a Thentrol, or a Javi… All of them met their end horribly in some dank hole in the world because they’d been driven forward by some divine light. Even Journ, glittering and fucking perfect as he was supposed to be, died of the Scourge that overtook his body after he slew the Lich Pathos.

Braum swallowed hard as he thought about the implications.

The tunnel that reached out before him sloped upward. Cold and hard, it was little more than baren, quickly carved stone and a paved flat surface so carts could pass into the Lower Cities. He’d never seen the entrance or the Sky beyond, but he knew it was there based on the stories he’d heard about it. He could feel the wind rushing down in little gusts and bursts that rustled his beard and the air around him felt far colder than he was used to.

And here he was walking towards it.

In his left hand, he held his shield, the weight always so comforting now seemingly unyielding. Khadgar it was called. “Trust” in his dwarven tongue. In his right hand, Magna. “Protector”. He could trust his shield most of all and, with his hammer in hand, he’d protect those that would need it.

Braum felt the fear well further up in his throat.

No. Not just fear.

Something else far worse that boiled the bile at the top of his gut.

He craned his neck back to look down the tunnel he’d been following for the last three days. The way that led back to the Lower Cities of the Dwarves. To the Heart of Myrepeak and the capital city of Wyrms-horde. Could he really just abandon it? Abandon everything he’d done in the name of some god on a whim? Just do what the supernatural bastard wanted?!

As if response, Braum felt a soft warmth grow in his chest. At first he thought it was Trudd listening to his thoughts somehow and judging him for it. He would punish Braum for some perceived heresy and destroy him right here and now. A dead paladin before he’d ever even gotten out of the mountain because he’d dared question the will of his lord. A reminder to never question a god’s will again.

But, upon looking down, he saw that his armor was glowing softly. His god was listening and Trudd was sending a message, but not one of anger...but of reminder.

Braum touched the glowing spot on his armor and chuckled in realization as to what it illuminated.

Much like his hammer and shield, he had named his armor as well. Inscribed with the same dwarven runes, quite literally molded into the armor at the time of its birth, Durmgrist. “Home”. He had always felt safe within the steel and something about the name always brought comfort to him in the darkest times. It had seemed perfect when he named it.

And now it did again.

Braum looked back down the tunnel one more time before continuing onward up the tunnel, his feet no longer aching as they had a moment before.

He still felt afraid. Only an idiot wouldn’t be. And the thought of how he would die and what terrible fate this decision would lead him to still swirled about in his mind. However, the biggest one...a feeling that he couldn’t quite put his finger on...was beginning to fade.

Braum no longer felt homesick. For he carried his home with him. He carried his armor and his shield and his hammer and, he supposed most important of all, he carried a faith that Trudd would watch over him; not just as some angry, vengeful spirit that demanded retribution in his name like some, but as a benevolent protector. Just as Braum would defend the innocent with all his power, he knew Trudd would watch over him in his own travels.

And, when the time came, he would not be wrought with fear at slipping into the void. He would be welcomed to eternity by the very father that watched over him.

Braum smiled to himself.

These thoughts stayed with him for many miles, washing away all other anxieties and terrors of the dark, as, for the first time in his life, Braum stepped out into the sunlight beneath a wild blue sky.

===

Hello Lovelies,

I was quite surprised to see how well Braum's story was received earlier. Surprised, but happy. My Dungeon Master not only liked it but also wants more information. He's encouraging us all to highlight the in-between the origin of the character and when the story of the game that we're playing actually starts. While I don't think anyone is quite tackling it to the length I am, I find that actually fleshing out the character's story makes me feel for them and understand them more than just going "Braum fought this badguy" and leaving it at that.

I do hope you enjoyed. I intend to do more but I guess I'll see if they get posted or not.

Love you all and have a wonderful day,

- RB

=== 

Braum Stormforge

 

Braum Stormforge

Character Background/History

 

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Braum Stormforge was born the sixth child and fourth son to Olanna and Gorm, the second heir to the Stormforge clan. He, like his brothers and sisters, are direct descendants of the matron of the Stormforge line: Bronnah Stormforge. Although, at that time, the young bastard woman was known as Bronnah Whitestone and she officially worked as a low-wage, forge-scraper for the Metallurgists and Smithing Guilds. Unofficially, Bronnah was a whore, and her free time was often spent in the back alleys of the Haglin Palace and marketplaces, doing anything she could for the coin just to eat.

The matron’s luck changed when the Drow, who had been battling on and off with the dwarves of Myrepeak for a dozen years at that point, broke through into Wyrms-horde through a series of forgotten and unpublished mines. Their intent was simple: to kill, maim, and rape as many dwarven civilians of the great city and inflict as much potential damage as they could while the soldiers on the front line scrambled for a footing and doubled back while trying to fight back against the Drow who were already knocking at the gates in the adjacent cities of Hratholm and Vergis-Hold. There were many guards in Wyrms-horde, but plenty were killed in the initial attack when they were caught unprepared by the onslaught of heavily armed and armored Dark Elves and Dryders. The tide changed, however, when Bronnah, thinking quickly and using her knowledge of the pipes and systems of the great, interconnected forges, used the very city against the assailants. With the help of several acquaintances, savory and unsavory alike, Bronnah led a group of civilians to cool and heat key areas of the massive forge networks that ran through the city like a spiderweb. The result was a ‘storm’ of exploding pipes that rained down fire and fury of molten metal onto the Drow; hurting some, killing many, and giving the weakened militia and guards enough foothold to slay the Dark Elves before fleeing from the city. Then, under Bronnah’s insistence and with the support of her future husband, the then guard-captain Ogrinn Shieldsong, the offending mine networks used to assault the city were filled with the remaining molten metal and used to flush out any remaining Drow while simultaneously adding their own assault to the front line of the war some thirty miles down.

After that day, the bastard woman Bronnah was officially dubbed ‘Stormforge’ by the King of the Myrepeak in honor of the ‘storm of fury’ she had wrought upon the attackers. She was granted all of the titles, rights, and lordships of a minor noble and was even granted the right to live within Haglin Palace for the services she rendered in saving the city. While she accepted the titles and even the hand of Ogrinn several months later, the man who was key in helping her save Wyrms-horde, Bronnah did not elect to join the majority of other nobles in the Palace. Instead, she worked to rebuild the forge networks, relight their fires, and eventually was integral in the discovery of ‘Living Steel’ later in her life. To this day, her clan is at least a hundred strong, some by blood but many by marriage, and it is considered an honor to work within the Lumos Forge Network in honor of the clan’s matron or to act as a guard for the city should evil ever strike again.

Braum, influenced by the tales of old, decided to take up the mantle of Guard of Wyrms-horde while many of his brothers and sisters took to the forge.

He, like his family, were small for their ilk, even by Dwarvish standard. It made them wonders in the forge; strong yet dainty hands crafting keen pieces of the finest Dwarven steel to come out of Myrepeak, but Braum knew he had another calling. He had never been able to back down from a fight and more often than night found himself rushing in to stop an injustice rather than look around for help. He always felt the calling to protect and, after decades of training his body, trying to achieve perfection, he was accepted into the specialized Guard platoon known simply as ‘The Wall’. They were a group of Shield Bearers, born long before the time of Bronnah by Ogrinn’s clan, the Shieldsongs. They specialized in the use of weapon and shield combat, specifically phalanx tactics, and were seen to be the living embodiment of protection for the citizens of Myrepeak. Even should the roof of the mountain crumble and the walls of the city fail, ‘The Wall’ will always stand as a barrier to those that would seek to do evil. Immovable and invulnerable, they will serve as a living shield to drive back the threats of the dark at no matter the cost.

Clad in the Living Steel full-plate armor with the molten-metal-splattered tower shields of his family, Braum served in ‘The Wall’ for over a century.

While he worked diligently to be not only a protector but servant to his people, Braum was dissatisfied over the years to learn that his doe-eyed impression of ‘The Wall’ and the guards themselves were not all he hoped they would be. Heavily influenced by politics and nobility, he realized slowly, but painfully, that ‘Law’ did not always equate to ‘Good’. Depending on who had the coin, Justice could often be avoided with a simple piece of fresh paper for those in the power to wield the pen. As time rolled on, Braum witnessed more and more moral tragedy and started to recognize trends. The guards, despite being sworn to serve, often had an inclination to imprison and punish lower class clans and individuals, treating them with extreme and unnecessary harshness under the claim that they’re “just more likely to be criminals”; ignoring the obvious self-fulfilling prophecy that was that mindset. Likewise, the nobility, those that could change laws to suit their needs with a little help from a soft word and a bag of coin, always seemed to be treated with utter respect and velvet gloves; even when their crimes were far more heinous than those in the lower wards.

The realization sickened Braum and, for a time, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had sworn to uphold the Law, but had realized after decades of servitude to that Law that it only served those in power; it didn’t serve those in need.

As his life dragged on, the answer to the questions came from the place he had never expected: the Gods. Braum had never been religious. None of his family was. With a history of bastards raised to good fortune through hard work and men and women that dedicated their lives to the crafting of swords and shield and their usage, not but a few of his clan had ever taken to the cloth whether half-hearted or otherwise. Those that did often favored Torag, father of Creation, as he was well known by all within the Dwarvish communities and held a special place in his heart for smiths.

Braum had never even heard of Trudd before that day.

While on a routine patrol through the lower mithril mines, his heart heavy with woe and his mind reeling on the topic of justice and law that had plagued him for over two decades, dipping him further and further into depression, he heard a sound. A mix of sobbing, roaring, and yelling echoed down the tunnel to him and, upon reaching it, he was surprised to find an older man clothed in fine silk running away from a small contingent of orcs at least a dozen strong. A young man, a servant or lower clan based on his appearance, was on the ground bleeding with a laughing, half-tusked monstrosity roaring his pleasure and beating his own chest with a great wooden club.

“You can’t help him.” the noble said. “We have to alert the others. More are on their way!”

It made sense. The other man was clearly worse for wear and he was but a single guard. “I can’t just leave him.” He responded.

“Please! He’s just a Slagshed.” the noble begged, confirming that the other man was, quite literally, a shit-cleaner. The lowest of the low. “He’s not worth our lives!”

“He’s worth mine. Get the others, I will hold the line there.” Braum told the man, pointing directly at the group of orcs. “Make sure you bring a medic when you do. For the Slagshed.”

And so Braum fought. He charged directly into the group and planted himself before the bleeding out lower clansman. He fought and bled and screamed and triumphed, never letting even one of the orcs slip past him. He was a wall. He was “The Wall”. And no man, monster, or beast would harm those he stood before, Slagshed or otherwise, while he still drew breath.

After what felt like hours of fighting, but only really equated to a few minutes, Braum collapsed next to the man on the ground, hurting but victorious. The other man, bleeding but alive, smiled his thanks and, to Braum’s complete surprise, stood up and dusted himself off.

“I see I chose right afterall.” the Slagshed said.

The man, bloodied and broken, changed to a new appearance. One that Braum instantly recognized as a thief that was convicted for “stealing” when a nobleman had literally taken the man’s gold pouch off his belt and condemned the ‘thief’ as a liar and a scoundrel for trying to take back his own belongings. He changed again and again Braum recognized the whoremonger that had tried to claim she was raped by one of the highborns only to be literally laughed out of the Palace. Four more times the man altered his appearance and four more times Braum recognized them immediately as being one of the many injustices that fueled his own depression. The last change was to that of a rather young, rather powerfully built dwarf that reminded him heavily of how he always imagined his clan patron Ogrinn to look as a young man. Powerful, intimidating, yet good natured.

“Who are you? What are you?” were the first words Braum could ask.

“I am Trudd.” the shapechanging dwarf explained simply in a gentle yet deep voice. “But I suppose that bears further explanation.”

Trudd went on to explain his stance in the pantheon of the Dwarvish deities, a topic that Braum was largely unfamiliar with given his own personal history with religion yet he felt himself dedicated to listen to all the same. In the dark, musty tunnel, surrounded by the slain bodies of orcs, he explained that he was the son of Torag and, despite being the youngest of his brothers and sisters, he is also known as being the strongest. He is tasked with guarding his father’s Halls and is dedicated to the protection of the innocent and the doing of good. Finally, Trudd explained that he has been watching Braum for some time now, even testing him occasionally, for at least a decade, and had finally come to a decision.

“And what is that?” Braum asked.

“I have chosen you to act as my paladin.” Trudd told him simply.

It’s not well-advised to openly laugh in the face of a deity; particularly not one that is known for their capability in martial combat and the fact that they can probably turn you into a fine jelly with a few well-chosen swings of a warhammer. In retrospect, Braum felt Trudd handled the slip up with good humor given Braum only realized several moments afterwards that the fit of giggles could have very well been his last.

“But I’ve never prayed to you. I didn’t even know you existed.” Braum explained sheepishly.

“Perhaps not consciously. But you have more than you know. Each time you raise your shield to the wicked in the name of those that cannot, you bear my sigil for all to see. Each time you speak out against injustice for those that would use the mortal law for their own gain, you speak my words for all to hear. Each time you ask the world ‘Why do I go on through that which I have seen?’ you whisper these words in my ear and I show you the answer.’”

This simple thought brought a smile to Braum’s face. There was something comforting about the idea he had been watched. That he had championed a cause of good and righteousness even as he felt like he was falling away from that very path by being disinclined to follow the clearly fallible laws of the land. And it was true, many times he had seen something immediately after the most breaking of trials that proved there was still good in the world. It was what kept him going for so many years.

His smile drifted away as the next thought hit him and he asked. “But what would I do as a paladin? I’ve known only my home and all the stories I hear of paladins are that they wander the world and die in, frankly, pretty horrific ways.”

“Paladins are bound to the will of their god. They spread their word and do the deeds of their god as if they were walking in their gods boots for they would become an avatar for their power. You would become an avatar for my power... and my pride. There are wrongs that need righting, there is good that needs doing, and, when your time comes, whether it bloody and horrific or quiet in your sleep, you will be welcomed into my venerable halls for the remainder of eternity.”

Braum thought of his family. He thought of his friends in the lower wards and his comrades in the “The Wall”. He thought of all of the men and women that he’d grown up with, lived with, fought for, and killed for through his many years. He was not young anymore and his head had long grown bald while his beard had began to silver. He had borne no sons or daughters nor even taken a wife, his life having been dedicated to the shield. And if he were to accept this calling, he would likely never see his home again nor ever have a true family for the rest of his days.

But it didn’t matter in the scope of the world…

“I’ll do it.”

“Then repeat after me these laws. You will repeat them every day. You will live them, breathe them, and they will nourish you as no other thing in this world may. They will be your food and your wine when you are hungry, they will be your lullaby to which you will rest, and they will be your anchor when the winds of the world seek to throw you off-course.

My strength is my sacred offering. I will maintain my body as I would a sacred relic and use it only for admirable pursuits.

To ensure the safety of those I protect, I will be among the first to charge and the last to retreat, save when such tactics would place those I protect at undue risk.

I will hold any defensive line if it will save innocents or the homes of my people.

Even the young can accomplish great things. I will never dismiss someone on account of youth.”

And so Braum repeated them and in his belly burned a fire like nothing ever had. He felt the diminishing strength of his youth return in a flourish of bulging muscles and cracking bones. He felt a fervor that burned away the aches and pains of his age, healed the open, bleeding wounds of his battle, and made him feel as hot as a mithril forge. He felt the power of his God, of Thrudd the Mighty, surge through him like pipes filled with molten steel and he bellowed in a mix of agony and delight that echoed through the empty mine.

When the nobleman appeared, five other guards in tow and one very weary looking cleric of Torag, they were unable to find Braum. Using the tunnels he knew so well from his patrols, he had already disappeared and doubled back, cutting through the rock to the main road just outside of Wyrms-horde. From there, he left the mountain and, for the first time, ventured into the daylight of the world above. The power of his God burning in his belly, the words of his oath playing over and over in his mind, and the willingness to do more than he’d ever imagined for a world that needed a champion of might pushing him forward into the shining sun above.

===

Hello Lovelies,

To all of my regular readers, I know I've mentioned before that I'm a big fan of playing Dungeons and Dragons. In general, I pretty much always run the games and act as what's known as the Dungeon Master, which basically equates to the storyteller. For the first time in a VERY long time, I actually am getting the chance to play and, as such, dedicated myself to creating a character that I found really interesting. Because I'm me, the character needed to be more than just gameplay stats and numbers, and so I started writing down a history for who he is and where he's from. While it started off as just a 'here's some history', the entire thing started flowing into an actual story. As such, I figured I would share it with all of my lovely readers because why the hell not?

I hope you guys enjoyed.

===

Critical Failures vs. Spells Swords and Stealth: A Comparison in Quality

 

I mentioned a little bit ago that I'm big into the game "Dungeons and Dragons" for a number of reasons (I won't bore you with the details; you can check that bit out here). Well, because of that very post, I decided that my itch was strong enough to go grab a D&D fictional story. While there are a number of them out there that do the job and do it well, I decided I wanted something a little more meta.

Cue finding the 'Spells, Swords, and Stealth' series by Drew Hayes.

I was immediately enamored.

I finished the first book within two days and bought the second one without hesitation. The story, in short, circled around four characters within a tabletop RPG game known as Spells, Swords, and Stealth. These characters run into a bit of an issue when the REAL players show up in their sleepy little town. They are then forced to go off on an adventure of their very own where they'll face hordes of goblins, monstrous demons, mad kings, insane wizards, and a dungeon designed to destroy any who would enter it particularly real players. Oh, and did I mention that this is SOMEHOW happening in real time while actual people are playing, leading to those very books to change their information based on the adventures of the "NPCs" that our story focuses around?

And that's just book one.

I proceeded to devour all three books in the series and am waiting on baited breath for the next one to come out (although I unfortunately don't have any release dates). The writing was so good and it blended well-known game elements seamlessly with well-thought out fiction and story telling elements. On top of that, it worked fantastically to combine meta knowledge regarding the 'real world' with the happenings of the 'game world' that it constantly left you thirsty for more.

Overall, it was EXACTLY what I wanted that I went searching for more of the same. Since Drew hadn't produced more of that series, I decided to follow Amazon's recommendations regarding the "Critical Failures" series.

Man, that book is aptly named.

First, in defense of a relative comparison, I will say that I did not read the entire series like I did with 'Spells, Swords, and Stealth'. The book is surprisingly well reviewed on Amazon and has high praises but, in my own defense...I just... I couldn't. Perhaps the others are better. However, given the teeth gnashing pain of getting through Book 1, I didn't want to waste my time or money if Book 2 was a repeat of the first.

So what's the book about?

In short, it's built on a similar overall concept. It's built on meta knowledge regarding tabletop roleplaying games. A bunch of friends who invite a brand new game master to play with them quickly realize that insulting him might not have been the best choice. And, if a few vulgar jabs, the game master transport all of the friends into the game world that they were playing a moment before. Dealing with the results of their actions, they're taken on a great chase from the law of the land where they experience all manner of monster and threat to life and limb as they learn the ins and out of living the game only to end in showdown that goes a little bit more sideways than you might imagine.

Sounds like fun right? What could go wrong.

In short: really bad writing.

To start, the book feels unpolished. The overall tone and flow of the story is incredibly choppy and tends to rock the book's pace like a new driver trying to learn a clutch. It gets where its going but not without banging your head against the dashboard a few times. Even worse, there's a point where it literally walks in a circle thematically by having one group go somewhere, while another group goes elsewhere ONLY to have them switch spots looking for each other AND THEN do it again. Quite literally having the characters just walk in circles.

However, the one that gets called out most in other commentary (and what I even took offense to) was the raw vulgarity of the writing. In the book's defense, most tabletop gamers are some foul-mouthed motherfuckers. We like to shoot the shit and make all sorts of bad or silly jokes. But there's a difference between bullshitting with your friends and turning that crap up to 11 and writing it down as a story.

Nearly endless cussing. Vulgar commentary. Rude asides. And so. Many. Fluids. Shit, piss, vomit, snot, cum, blood, and literally anything else that can come out of a body can and does. Characters ejaculate from healing magic and one character legitimately shits himself regularly. Men slip and hurt themselves in all manner of bodily fluids and there is regular conversation and focus on this vulgarity throughout the book.

I'm all for a sense of reality and, let's face it, life can be gross. But focusing a narrative on a character regularly shitting himself is bad writing. Once makes a point. Multiple times is just foul.

When all is said and done, these two stories seemed a fantastic comparison because, in my own opinion, they take the same subject matter and show the best and worst ways to do it. 'Spells, Swords, and Stealth' provides an interesting narrative and builds a world around it with a pace that leads you through your environment while still tying you back to the original game. 'Critical Failures' throws you into the story headfirst and than can't decide how it wants to proceed. 'Spells, Swords, and Stealth' provides a fascinating story within the context of the game while still showing you meta elements that ties everything together. 'Critical Failures' regularly has characters bitching about concepts a non-player will likely not understand and features more blood, piss, shit, and vomit than an emergency room that caters exclusively to frat-houses.

Overall, if you're looking for a fun and interesting story, I'd definitely recommend Spells, Swords, and Stealth. Maybe I'll return to check out Book 2 of Critical Failures one day, but that will likely be when the book is free and I'm very bored.

Dungeons and Dragons and Writing

Hello Lovelies,

Every now and again, particularly when I'm going on tangents about writing subjects, I mention that I play Dungeons and Dragons. To my surprise, I've actually gotten a few emails on the subject in the past year. I didn't think much of it at first, but I feel like I should explore the concept a little because of the range of curiosity I've received.

First off, allow me to clarify. This is not a gaming blog. I won't go into the finer details of the games because it just doesn't fit here. Instead, allow me to clarify why it tends to come up within the realm of 'writing'.

So, to begin: What is Dungeons and Dragons?

For those who are unfamiliar, D&D is a tabletop game and is conceptually no different than a regular board game like Monopoly or Life with sets of rules and guidelines. While some people do actually use a board and figures, the real draw of the game for most people is what I often refer to as 'Interactive Storytelling'. There are plenty of different groups in the game's history that like to claim different things about the game (my favorite being that it 'teaches players how to use real magic spells and/or summon the devil'), but the game is little more than being able to direct a character within a fantasy story. Imagine the story of "Lord of the Rings" if you were able to control the actions of Legolas. Everything else is happening around you from the book but YOU as a player have the opportunity to control that single character, what they do, and how they react to the world around them.

Sounds interesting, huh?

I thought so, but this is where the writing comes in.

While once in a grand while I'll actually be a player, most often I act as what is known as the GM, which stands for Game Master. In short, I'm the one who has to wrangle and direct all the players along with providing a narrative and world to exist in. Modules, i.e. pre-done stories and adventures, do exist that can be purchased and utilized, however I honestly have never used one. Instead, I simply create my own content for my players to use. Sometimes this is good, sometimes not so much.

This brings us nicely to the next major point: Why do I find Dungeons and Dragons useful for writing?

Well, aside from the obvious challenge of having to create an interesting plot hook for players to follow, D&D forces your writing to the next level. For one, you can't really just have a cardboard cutout for them to explore. You need a world. Countries need cities. Cities need infrastructure. Locations need populations. People need personalities. Anyone or anything that a player is ever exposed to needs to have a purpose, a reason, an existence. Any player could decide that they want to strike up a conversation with a random character in the street or they might want to investigate some element of a location that seems relatively pointless in the scope of things only because YOU didn't imagine the use for it originally.

The same can be said for designing the narrative itself. It's very easy to set up a plot hook of "The king was killed by an assassin, go find out who did it and why.", but what about down the road? You now have to be able to plan for WHERE the players will go and how will they will act and design your game around that.What roads will they take? Who will they talk to? What will they find along the way? You need to be able to imagine every opportunity and option that a player will take (you won't be able to...but try) and then build those options. You need to be able to smooth the surface and be ready to lay the train tracks as the train is rolling. Sometimes this is something easily planned for but sometimes this requires you to think and write and act literally in the middle of the game; conjuring life to characters and places that hadn't even been considered yet.

So, in short, D&D is an invaluable tool for me that encourages creative thinking and narrative. It forces me into realms I hadn't considered before and, more than once, has actually contributed to my public works simply because it inspires me like little else can.

With that said, what really gets your blood flowing and helps you write? Is it simply writing alot or perhaps there's something else that gets your fingers flying? Let us know in the comments below.