Weakness

I've talked before about making your characters strong, and how you don't want to go overboard with it or risk having a character that never faces a threat throughout his journey. There needs to be a certain amount of weakness of one kind or another to them, in a sense, and preferably a kind that can at least partially be overcome. After all, it's called character growth for a reason - they don't grow if they start at the end, but they also don't grow if they end where they started.

And as much as I hate to say it, I think there's a lot of people out there who kind of forget about that last part. Both as readers and as writers, they seem to think that to make a character realistic, they have to put weakness on their character, and that that weakness must remain when the story ends. It's not about characters growing past their weaknesses to these people, but rather that they can succeed despite their weakness. And there is certainly something to that, it's hard to deny. To see someone succeed against the odds is an incredible thing to witness, but it takes a lot of hard work, dedication, and finding ways to work around that weakness. Which, in it's own way, is growing and finding strength.

It's a game of give and take, as it is with most things. At the most very basic level, it's having strength but no intelligence, or vice versa. If you can't bend someone's bones, then bend their will kinds of things. But there are much more subtle kinds of weakness as well. A poor control of one's anger or sadness. Bad hearing or poor depth perception. Perhaps they have a hard time remembering faces or directions. All small things that, when used well and consistently, can be a much heavier hindrance on one's quest than you might initially believe.

And then there are the larger problems. Things like mental or physical disabilities, missing or malfunctioning limbs, and whether or not they can even speak the language of the people around them. What race, age, class, or gender they are, and how the people around them respond to that. And you can pile these problems and weaknesses onto a person endlessly, but at what point will you eventually find that they no longer have the capacity to overcome these endless weaknesses?

Much like strength, I find that this is the part people forget. They go overboard with their weaknesses, just as they do with their strengths, and the story goes from overcoming with to dealing with. And in a way I suppose that does in fact make it more realistic for some people. And perhaps that is the kind of story that they would like to read. But if you ask me, it certainly isn't one I would want to read. After all, I read stories to escape from the weaknesses of my own life. Not to be reminded of them.

Texts

Mike's head was pounding when he woke up in the morning. He had been drinking way too much the night before. It was a miracle he had even made it back home - one that he could only attribute to the good will of his childhood friend, Linda. She was more than likely the one who had made sure he had gotten home in one way or another, be that by carrying him or calling him a taxi. She had been drinking with him as well, but she was much better at holding her liquor. It was kind of convenient - at least on Mike's end.

His eyes glanced almost ashamedly at the pillow next to him on his bed. It was empty - no surprise there. He blindly wished more often than he would like to admit that Linda would be too drunk to leave when she dragged his sorry ass into bed, and that she would be there when he awoke. She was beautiful. She was smart. She was funny. She was a great drinker. They had been friends for years - and he had loved her for just as long. He could only pray that one day he would work up the courage to say something about it to her. Although he highly doubted she would return the sentiment - she could do far better.

Icy cold water splashed on his face, sending a shock through his system and making him gasp for air. He didn't remember how he had gotten to the shower, but at least he had left his clothes behind in the process. He wasn't sure if it was the sleepiness or the hangover that had made him forget getting there. Probably both.

After his shower, he sat down at the counter with a bowl of cereal. Almost immediately, his phone went off. Probably a text from Linda, asking how he was handling the hangover. Without looking, he opened his phone and tabbed over into the most recent messages and glanced at it as he began to eat. The spoon never reached his mouth.

Linda: ...unless you liked it?

What the hell did that mean? He quickly started to scroll back.

Linda: o my god

Linda: i can't believe i

Linda: please pretend that never happened

Linda: i'm so sorry

Linda: i swear, i didnt mean to send that

Linda: o my god, i cant believe i sent that last night. what the hell was i thinking. i didnt think i drank that much

The last new message was from hours earlier than the rest. The others must have come while he was in the shower. But the last - or rather, first - was from late the night before. And it was a single picture. A picture of Linda, naked as the day she was born, looking a little drunk but more magnificent in her birthday suit than Mike could have ever imagined. Posing for the camera, looking sexier than Mike could possibly imagine. He could feel his entire face going red, but he couldn't stop looking. It was more than he could have ever dreamed.

Wait. Did she ask if he had liked it?

Lava

The heat of the hellhole this dragon called home was intense, and the heavy armor that Sir Neran was wearing only made that heat hotter. But going up against a dragon, he knew that there were only three things that the dragon could do to attack him. The dragon could bite him, smash him with its paw or tail, or burn him to death. The armor would help with two of the three. It was better than having protection against none of them.

There was fire and lava spewing out of every nook and cranny in the rocks, lighting the area up like midday. He and the dragon stood on the only solid patch of stone, staring each other down, daring the other to make the first move. There wouldn't be much room for maneuvering - at least for Neran. The dragon, on the other hand, could not only fly, but was unharmed by the lava. It could, and would, freely bathe in the molten rock for hours on end. And when it came out, the magma would slowly cool until it formed the powerful armor that protected it.

The dragon roared angrily, its voice shaking loose boulders in the walls, knocking them free and calling more flames and lava into the room. It would only be a matter of time before the remaining floor was covered in the deadly liquid and Neran would be wiped from existence. He would have to kill the dragon before then, or flee. Preferably both, and in that order. If he could defeat the dragon, and bring its soul back to the kingdom, they could use its power to end the endless winter.

Its head snapped forward, jaw opening and closing in an instant. Neran had no time to react, and yet he struck out, his blade catching the roof of the dragon's mouth in the short window it was open. The cut caused the dragon's head to jerk to the side, the snap of its jaw to just barely miss Neran's head. He stood unwavering, watching the dragon's every movement. He had trained long and hard to have the instincts and reflexes it would take to cut down a dragon. This would be his first - and preferably only - test of that training.

The dragon roared again, angrier now, and launched forward once more. Each time, Neran saw its movement before it came, and had his blade ready to cut and parry, just pushing the blow away while slowly dealing damage. But it wouldn't be enough. Not with how quickly the lava was rising, and how much faster it rained down with each increasingly irritated roar. He had to act quickly before it was too late. But he didn't have many options.

Especially not with the dragon rearing its head, preparing to burn him to a crisp. That one out of three odd was going to catch him now.

Vision

It had been several hours since the end of the battle, and there was not a living soul left on the grounds, yet fire continued to burn, smoke to billow, and the stench of iron lay heavy over the bloodied grounds. It was in this setting that Brianne stepped onto the muddy ground, witching staff held in hand, and looked passively over the carnage. She had long since foretold of these events, and having now seen the truth of her sight, it would be difficult for the king to deny her a second time. But when she went to him, she would need a message. She was not one to let others witness her process.

She clenched her cloak in one hand, pulling it tight to her side as the wind began to swirl around her. The broken land around her began to fade in her vision, the browns, reds, and grays melting together as she looked into the future. Though none would witness it, a purple eye sigil formed on her forehead, pulling visions of the future into her inner mind's eye. Her own eyes remained open, but the color faded from them, her pupils going grey as her vision of the present was temporarily lost.

She found herself standing on a similar field, painted with blood, but one man still standing in the center. It was the king, his sword stuck in the ground before him, his off hand holding his severed dominant arm, his crown bent, broken, and crooked on his head, blood running down his head and over his swelled shut eye. He looked blindly off into the distance, and Brianne slowly turned to look in the direction he was gazing.

In the distant sky, there was a small silhouette, at first hard to make out. Over time it grew larger, appearing first as a bird, but slowly growing larger and sharper. Far too large to be a bird. A dragon, it was evident. But from where? And why?

It landed hard on the ground before the king, the impact releasing a shockwave of wind that blew the king onto his back. The dragon glared down at him, but waited, as the king slowly stood and walked back to his sword, still stuck in the ground. Without a word, the king dropped his disembodied arm on the ground between them and gripped the hilt of his sword, slowly drawing it forth to point at the monster before him.

The dragon scoffed at him, slapping the sword away with his nostril. The king did not have the strength to hold on, and the sword flew uselessly away, like a leaf in the wind. But the king's eyes did not falter. He glared back at the dragon, and watched as it reached down, took his arm, and devoured it.

The dragon's mouth loomed towards the king as the vision suddenly snapped away, and Brianne was back on the deserted battlefield. This was not a good message to carry.

Encounter

Cyrus sheathed his sword as he approached the large cavern, knowing in his gut that something would be coming as he reached the center. Walls of flame or the like were to rise and block off his entrance and exit, and from the plateau of rock a dozen or so feet above, a massive monster would drop on his head, ready to feast. It had happened one too many times in this monstrous world that Cyrus had willingly, if unwittingly, thrown himself into. But he had learned much from his previous encounters. Whatever this next beast was, it would find itself facing a foe that it could not beat.

The knight's hands began to glow green as he called upon the magic that had somehow found its way into his system. It had taken time to adjust, but he was well acquainted with it now, and the gifts that it could bestow upon him - and the destruction it would rain upon his foes. With his left hand, he traced a circle in the air before him, a sigil inside of it that called upon a magical shield that silently and instantly coated the thick, steel armor that had saved him from so many blows. His right hand reached behind him, tracing another magical sigil, energy exploding out of his body through and curling up into the air around him.

The sound called the beast forward, stones from the walls breaking in to seal the entrance behind Cyrus, much as he had predicted. A massive creature, made of stone with rough and jagged edges, yet somehow with wings powerful enough to hold it in the air. Its steps rocked the cavern, before it launched up and landed a few feet away from Cyrus, facing away. It turned around slowly, clearly meaning to be threatening, but its eyes visibly widened when it saw the foe that had walked into its home.

Twin emerald dragons extended out from Cyrus' back, a sword crackling with electricity in his hand, his armor glistening with green magic. He stood with his feet planted firmly, unafraid of the gargoyle easily three times his own size, watching its movements as a predator watching its prey. The gargoyle's eyes shrunk, glaring angrily at such a small being standing unafraid. It launched forward at the knight, sharp claws ready to tear him apart.

Dragon fangs launched out first, biting into the gargoyle and tearing away its shoulders, inhuman screams following that filled the cavern. In its pause at the pain, Cyrus launched forward and pierced the monster's chest with his sword, pushing it all the way in to the hilt. A roar of pain came forth, and the gargoyle slammed his fist into the knight's face. But Cyrus didn't flinch. He didn't feel anything. The magic stopped the rock-ladden fist in its tracks without halt.

The sword ripped forward, and the fangs ripped down, and the gargoyle fell apart, the rocks that formed its body falling apart and tumbling into the depths below, followed shortly there after by the rocks that had blocked his pathway. Cyrus' magic dissipated  moments later, and he sheathed his sword once more, ready to take a short break. He still had a lot of ground to cover. And that was assuming the goal he had been given truly was the end.

Dad

My dad has this impeccable talent for spending weeks or months of his time planning trips for us to take, only to essentially improvising the entire thing once we get there. Or at least most of it. He's also, somewhat ironically, the kind of person who has to have his schedule - which, unfortunately, doesn't make that relaxing of a vacation a lot of the time. I mean, I don't mind knowing that we have things scheduled, places to be at certain times. That's the nature of trying to do things, and I like getting to go and have unique experiences. The problem is more in when that requires me to wake up.

There are times when my dad decides that it makes sense - on vacation - to make a reservation for something at 9 am. In a city that's a two hour drive from where we currently are. Now, I mean, I know I'm going to enjoy doing whatever it is that he's going to schedule for us. Our interests align quite well. It's just that I don't want to have to wake up at 5:30 to allow time for showering, breakfast, traffic, and the inevitability of us getting lost. And I do mean inevitability.

Because that's the other thing that my dad does on vacation. He thoroughly enjoys driving - which doesn't make sense, considering how much he complains about driving, but he's like that with most things - and so when we have a little time to spare, that's what he usually goes for. He just starts driving. Sometimes in circles, sometimes he'll just pick a direction on the highway and go. And if you've ever driven anywhere for any length of time in any capacity ever, then you know how poorly that's going to end. I can't begin to tell you how many close calls we've had on timing because of this.

And not even just close calls. We have definitely had to cancel plans because we were late, because Dad thought it would be a good idea to take the scenic route, which ended up being less scenic and more problematic. I mean, don't get me wrong. We've seen some beautiful sights on these excursions. But they've also so much as doubled our travel times. And then he'll complain about traffic, as if that couldn't have been avoided by just following the initially planned pathway.

He just has an amazing knack for this kind of stuff. And he doesn't think it through from the eyes of the people he's traveling with. To him it makes sense to make these kinds of early morning plans, because he knows that he's going to be up at 5 am anyway. And then it makes sense to go on random excursions that risk making us miss those plans because... I don't know. Spontaneity? Which he does seem to enjoy, since he'll start making these plans and early morning reservations at the drop of a hat. Despite how inconvenient it may be for anyone else.

But hey. He's my dad, and I've experienced some amazing stuff thanks to him. I just wish maybe he'd do it a bit later in the day most of the time.

The dunes

There wasn't so much as a breeze in the air to blow around the sands as Deran peaked one of the massive dunes. The landscape in every direction was the same dull orange and brown, and the sun was sinking below the horizon, making the sky much the same. It wasn't a particularly exciting or thrilling life, being a sand raider, but it was his life, and he was managing to get by with it. Perhaps one day he'd be lucky enough to go off and find a new home, where water and food weren't such a rare and expensive commodity. But he doubted that. 

A few running steps down the hill preceded the flick of Deran's wrist, launching out a small but thick piece of metal from the sleeve in his skin, which quickly began to unfold and expand. Deran leaped up over it as it hovered and grew in front of bim, and landed on the form of his hoverboard, rather than the slippery and dangerous sands below. He surfed down the slope of sand, watching the shifting particles for any sign of something below which he could use moving forward. 

What he found in its stead was a new kind of danger. In the distance, masked by the setting sun, came three other sand raiders, more than likely out for blood. For the most part, Deran was a loner, choosing to work for himself and no one else, meaning a day's short comings were manageable, and he had need to find significantly fewer supplies to get by. But it left him vulnerable to attack from other groups, who could take whatever meager supplies he had for themselves, and leave him broken and starving. That was how this had all started for him. If possible, he wished to avoid returning to such lows.

He turned hard away from the crew, knowing that they were already heading in his direction. He raced over the sands as fast as he could, but his hoverboard was old, and sorely in need for an update. To tell the truth, that was the main reason he was out searching that day. He had a backstock of food that could last him some time, but what he really needed was electronics and metals.

He slipped the bow from around his shoulder, drawing back and letting an arrow fall from the sleeve in his arm into place. He had had the surgery nearly a year ago to add the sleeve like container into his flesh, and though it had taken time to get used to, he founf the attachment nearly required for his day to day life. He knew that it would be only so much time before the group was on his back. The sooner he could stop them the better. 

Deran turned on his heels, the hoverboard continuing to carry him in the right direction as he pulled hard on the string, bringing it to meet his cheek. The twang of the bow was loud and sharp as he let go. He didn't bother making sure the arrow hit its mark, or watching it soar through the air. He was back facing forward, riding hard down the dune, praying that a single warning shot would be enough to save him.