Retiring a character

So, This is not what I had planned - even slightly - but there's a pretty decent reason for that. So, I've painted a couple models recently, and have some fluff needs posting as a follow up to the last post, and have a bit of a blast from the past to write about... but last night I ended up having a conversation with one of my mates as I dropped him off, and it kinda linked to something else I've been considering for a while. Which I kinda spoiled in the post name:

Retiring a character.

You may remember a while ago - last year, I believe - when I spoke about my aversion to killing off characters unnecessarily? I mean, that's not really any less true now than it was then, but this is a slightly different point.

Killing off a character just to add drama, I feel, adds nothing to a plot other than an attempt to be edgy. I find Game of Thrones is actually a pretty good example of this - while it has received a lot of flak for unexpectedly killing off well-loved characters, when you actually pay attention, every death occurs due to their own actions; for example (SPOILERS) Ned Stark dies because he trusts others to be as honourable as himself, even those who have already shown themselves to be anything but. Ha, you thought it'd be something recent, didn't you? Well, no - I haven't read the spoilers for the next season. Cos SPOILers SPOIL things, and I don't want to spoil something I enjoy. Which is perfectly valid, and I'm quite open to such an occurrence.

I'm getting off topic though, cos this isn't about killing characters - well, it can be - this is about retiring characters. What's the difference? Well, killing a character occurs when you want that character to take part in the story going forwards, whereas retiring a character occurs when you feel that the individual has added all that they can.

Maybe they're completed their goal - if you're playing an rpg as a thief who is looking for one last score to retire on, it makes perfect sense for them to quit as soon as they have the money they need. Maybe they'll hang on to tie up the current adventure, or tie up a couple loose ends, but unless you want to change their motivation, they really oughta buy an estate somewhere and retire.
Or, perhaps they've just finished their story? Which, often means completing their goal, but isn't necessarily. If you remember Elyas from my Iron Kingdom adventures, his goal was to free his homeland from invaders, and quit the army because (in his mind) they weren't doing anything to help. Did he ever achieve his goal? Well, no - the invaders left, but he had nothing to do with it. His arc was not about achieving his goal, it was about loosing his innocence. One of his allies died because he was trying to be nice, and he was forced to kill someone he deeply respected because he couldn't make a tough decision.
... admittedly, we stopped playing soon after because of work, but in retrospect, that's not necessarily a bad thing.
The other reason to retire a character is, perhaps, the simplest; you're bored of them. Maybe you played them for a while and fancy a change, maybe you've put them down for a bit and come back to find them less engaging than when you left them, the reason isn't that important. It happens - people's tastes change over the years, and someone you find innately engaging one day will by no means remain so. I tend to go through phases irregularly, where I find something takes my fullest attention, and then wanes into background noise over a couple months... Or maybe you've tweaked them a little here, a little there, and have reached the situation that they're basically unrecognisable.

Now, here's the thing about retiring a character; it hurts. And, generally, it's not something to be done lightly; you can bring them back (sometimes), but you can't just have them reappear. Realistically, if you finish a campaign, have a character become a local lord, and then set off with someone else, you can't just have them turn up again two weeks later cos you miss them. It's something you have to stick with for a while at least, maybe the length of the campaign, maybe more. Either way, you'll not see them again for a while - longer if you choose to kill them off...
... but that's not always a bad thing. It hurts, because you've put so much time and effort into creating something interesting and fun, and now you've set it down and replaced it with someone else. But just because you don't want to get rid of them, doesn't mean you shouldn't. Sometimes, it's better something ends than does stale. Like a long-running series that starts to run out of ideas, characters can wear thin, and when that happens you can give them a glorious send off, or keep running them into the ground.

... I don't really have a definitive answer here. It's a hard subject, and even just phrasing it is something of a challenge. Maybe I'll come back to his, or perhaps there's nothing more to be said? Well, except for one quote that I find endlessly informative and funny:

"A good story is like a good bowel movement; it's only really satisfying once it's ended."

Volodanti out.

Back to Basics

Alright, so, first things first - I'm sorry this is late. Between a trip to Edinburgh, my Sister going back to Mexico, and training new starters at work, I've not really had the chance to write any posts.

... But, I've a bit of free time, and I've just finished a bit of fluff that is incredibly relevant to this blog. See, it's about Epsilus. More importantly, the Pantheistic Quintumvirate. Y'see, after however many years, I reckon it's finally time to bring his story to a close. Explaining exactly why would take up an entire post, so I'll not bore you with it now - instead, I'll let you have a read, and maybe explain my reasoning later... maybe. Let's see, shall we?

Cheers for being patient, and hope you enjoy.

Volodanti out.

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Estragor’s lip curled as he read the words scrawled upon a sheaf of parchment. He’d found it upon returning to his cell, pinned to his bunk with a combat knife. His room had but a single entrance, guarded constantly by a member of his personal guard, the Atramentar. Few were permitted to enter his private quarters, only himself and the slaves he retained for cleaning and maintenance. He could discount himself, unless the Little Hydra had added Telepathy to his list of talents, and his slaves each had alibies. Not that it had stopped him from flaying the three of them and leaving their still-living bodies on display as a warning to their fellows…

Of course, Estragor mused, it was also possible that Epsilus had managed to secrete some spy or infiltrator within his halls. Well, not Epsilus – one of his aides. The Little Hydra was not half so cunning as he fancied himself.

Still… Estragor let loose something between a sigh and a growl as he activated his comm. link, connecting to the bridge of his vessel.

“Captain Thillus, this is Estragor.  Wake the Navigator, we have a destination, transmitting co-ordinates now.”

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Korak growled, hacking with abandon. It was more of a roar, really, or it had started that way, but after several minutes without reprieve, even his third lung was close to spent. Likewise, the corpses of the Imperial Colonel and his unit were barely recognisable as living, never mind human. His chainaxe was near clean, the friction and movement clearing the blood from the teeth is not the casing, and his armour was already covered with such gore that wading through a literal pool of offal would have little or no effect. But throughout it all, on a loop, came the summons.

Korak raged against the Hydra, against the galaxy, against Khorne itself, but the message repeated. The Alpha Legionnaire had somehow managed to patch into the Imperial Vox frequency, and set the coordinates to cover all other chatter, knowing that Korak would eventually find it. There was perhaps, some small part of Korak, well hidden beneath rage and bloodlust, that felt a sense of appreciation for the amount of effort required… but if it even existed, it was silenced by Korak’s madness.

Eventually, the growls abated, the axe ceased waving, and Korak returned to his ship. He’d attend the meeting, take his part in what followed, and then be done with that warp-cursed champion… though who survived his departure was still very much a question to be answered.

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Verfallan Taras stared at the words in confusion. Not confusion as to the meaning – it was, after all, quite succinct in its message. He was more confused as to how someone had managed to carve it onto the inside of the barricade. Patrols passed this way with a precision to frequency that his cursed gene-father had cursed them with. Even after ten millennia as loyal servants of Grandfather Nurgle, the men of the Fists of Decay were still as reliable as when they had served the foolish Corpse Emperor.

Which led to the question – how, precisely, had someone managed to carve a message such as this in plain view of those Astartes patrolling the walls? It was perhaps possible that one may have missed him – after all, it was their duty to watch for threats outside the compound, but given the length of the message at least three separate Fists must have passed by whilst it was being written. And who knew how many would have passed before the Astartes next to him had noticed it? Taras frowned slightly, more in bemusement than actual distress.

“Milord?” The Aspiring Champion prompted him. He was the leader of the unit assigned with the night’s watch. Taras spared him a glance, just one, before casually backhanding him with enough force to launch his corpse cartwheeling through the air. He heard a thump as the body connected with something behind him, followed soon after by a putrid stench as the bloated corpse burst, but Taras paid it no attention, instead turning to the unit’s second.

“You, Wylhem. Clear this graffiti now. I have work to do.”

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Thaw paused in the act of flaying the man. His face already hung against his chest, split neatly down the spine, and Thaw had hoped to turn it into a uniform for his future servants to wear – preferably sewn into the macabre suit. It was, after all, beautiful; the man had been blessed by The Dark Prince with perfect skin; unblemished by scar or mole or any other imperfection. It was the skin of a god; a perfect form that age would eventually ruin. Indeed, the reason for today’s activity was that he had found a wrinkle upon the man’s brow when he frowned, and Thaw realised that, eventually, such beauty would be lost to the Galaxy. It was his duty, as a Champion of the Prince of Excess, to ensure that such a travesty never came to pass.

But his was interrupted; the harsh, multifaceted lighting reduced to a plain white glow, and discordant tones reduced to a monotonous repetition. Thaw could even hear the slave’s piteous whimpering; the wet sucking of breath from between bloody lips convincing him that clearly the man was unfit to wear such beautiful skin. But, that was a matter for a different time; for now, he had to return to the serenity of utter sensory bombardment that he might finish his divine task.

“Ullanor,” he purred, speaking to his second, currently at the helm of his raider, “would you kindly take us to the coordinates that are so rudely interrupting my work?”

“I exist to serve…” Even the emotionless vox failed to slough the honey from his words. As he felt the Warp engines power up, the clashing colours of the strobe lights returned, as did the screeching of man and instrument, and Thaw sighed in contentment, once more raising his blade.

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Dresdae lifted an eyebrow – or the scarred mass where his eyebrow once sat – as he considered the message he’d received. An aide had brought it in while he rested, the power scythe he’d been sharpening rested against the side of his throne, the blade arcing over his balding head. It was a simple transmission, just a set of coordinates from an Astartes he’d not seen half a century, but still carried a great weight to it. After all, that was the man who had freed him from the tyranny of the Imperium, and led him into the worship of the Plague Lord… and perhaps equally importantly, a man who sought to free himself from the grip of the Changer of Ways.

Dresdae smiled to himself, though the rotten mask that was once his face hardly shifted as he realised his chance to help another ‘traitor’, and perhaps he might pull him closer into the fold? Unlikely, but by the grace of Grandfather Nurgle, anything was possible.

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Lukas Korodunum paused in the act of driving his Halberd through an Ork’s throat. The Greenskin had proved little challenge, wildly flailing with an oversized chainaxe that was more likely to pose a threat to his allies than his foes. It had taken just three cuts to render the weapon unusable, disembowel the Ork, and drive the thick blade through his foe’s spinal column. Three strokes, and Lukas was ready to move on…

… or he would have been, but for the scrawl on the helm the Ork wore. Hastily scratched into the dull metal, but clear enough now he was up clsoe, it represented a call Lukas had doubted would ever come. It meant a great levelling of the ledgers, and was the one request he could not ignore. Lukas ground his teeth, snarling behind his visor, and ripped the blade free.

“Pull back.” He voxed to his men; an assortment of renegades and traitors, gathered throughout his travels hunting the great beast. It took them a moment to comply; bloodlust and hatred making them loath to ignore a chance to kill their foes where they could be found, but soon they began to disengage, retreating to the dropship. Soon they would return to the Vengeance, and from there set sails to their destination.

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Reen glared at the communique. It had been sent via astropathic-projection to him personally, encoded but easily deciphered. The coordinates were followed by a short message, obviously added by a different source, but no more trustworthy:

“My dear Inquisitor, it seems that a gathering of sorts is to occur. Several warbands are to meet at the coordinates listed, though I am at best on vaguely aware of the reason behind it, but I do know for a fact that the Night Lord Estragor, the Khornate Korak, and the Slaaneshi Thaw shall be in attendance, as hosted by Epsilus of the Alpha Legion.

“I admit, you have little reason to trust me, and many to assume this is a trap. I shall not try to convince you to believe me, but rather offer you this argument; what have you to lose? If I tell the truth, you shall destroy several champions who have plagued your Imperium for millennia, and if I lie you will have time enough to escape before the trap can be sprung.

“Either way, you have before you a unique opportunity before you. I trust you shan’t waste it.

“Verfallen Taras.”

Reen ground his teeth, agonising over the decision for a moment, before releasing a low sigh and activating his comm. link.

“Jensor, summon the Astropaths. I fear none of us shall rest tonight…”