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The eleventh chapter of Forest Mage, “Franner’s Bend,” starts as Nevare proceeds away from his childhood home, ruminating on his changed circumstances and the implications thereof. He also considers seasonal changes at work in the area, as well as the civilizational changes that have crept upon the land. The encroaching of Gernian settlement shocks him somewhat as he considers it.
Picture related. Photo by Stepan Vrany on Pexels.com
Arriving at Franner’s Bend, Nevare finds himself something of a curiosity as he looks for lodging for the evening. Sirlofty makes a show of not wanting to bear him as he proceeds, and Nevare considers the options available to him. Harangued by a local child, Nevare is able to find lodgings for the evening and, after learning some information about local situations, is referred to a horse-trader.
Nevare visits the horse trader, producing a draft animal and a saddle, although at the cost of both attracting significant attention and of working magic upon him. Returning to his lodgings, he compares the new animal, Clove, to Sirlofty and finds the new mount lacking but the old one unsuitable. Thus determined, he takes his supplies from Sirlofty, leaving the saddle, and takes the mount to the garrison, asking that Sirlofty be examined and returned to Widevale.
On the way back to his lodgings, Nevare engages the services of a prostitute, finding the exchange an unsatisfying reminder of his changed situation.
To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 17 pages in length, approximately 2.33% of the novel. It does serve a useful expository purpose for all its brevity, however, and helps to display how Nevare manages to break from his earlier life in favor of starting a new one that yet remains within the confines of what is familiar to him.
Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Birdbrush, Clove, Cotton, Dewara, Farvi, Franner’s Bend, Gernians, Guff, Hector, Jirry, Keft Burvelle, King’s Road, Last Bale, Midlands, Nevare Burvelle, Old Thares, Pewter, Plainsfolk, Rivergate, Sassy, Sirlofty, Talley, Widevale, Yaril Burvelle. As befits a brief chapter, the list of indexables is not a long one.
Of note to me is Nevare’s return to Franner’s Bend. So far as I can tell, he has not been back there since the very beginnings of the Soldier Son novels (see “Magic and Iron” in Shaman’s Crossing), and he makes much of the changes that have taken place in the area since he last visited it. Many of his comments echo concerns of the closing frontier in the United States, about which Turrentine and Glenn have some useful comments here. Again, Gernia pulls from the United States of the late nineteenth century, so the notion that “the open wild lands were vanishing” (236) is one in accord with the preexisting materials of the Soldier Son novels, and if it is problematic in several ways, that is also hardly at odds with the history from which it borrows so extensively.
Also of note to me, and perhaps it comes to mind because of my recent experience running a game of Dungeons & Dragons in which such concerns present themselves insistently, is the breakdown of money as Nevare reports having “seven hectors, fifteen talleys, and six pewters” (237). Currency is discussed only a little previously; there is some mention of a gift of money in the eastern Burvelle home of a Dark Evening (see Shaman’s Crossing‘s “Sword and Pen”), and Nevare remarks on his supply of hectors as he returns home from the King’s Cavalla Academy (see Forest Mage‘s “Spindle Dance”). Having a more detailed description of currency in the present chapter both makes it more of a concern than had previously been the case–greater detail bespeaks more attention, implying greater importance–as well as adding to worldbuilding; different denominations flesh out Gernia a bit more. Suggested by the names is that the talley is the “basic” currency, given that a tally is a simple accounting record; hector, mentioned previously and listed first in the present chapter, is likely a higher-value denomination (and quite possibly although not certainly named after an earlier monarch), with pewters, presumably called for the material of which they are made, of lesser value. This is conjectural on my part, of course; I follow implications and common practices to find something that makes sense in the absence of overt statements. It’s all any of us can do.
Additionally of note are comments Guff* makes about the resettlement and rehabilitation program Gernia operates for its laborers on the King’s Road (239). While there may be some virtue in giving those who have, as it were, paid their debt to society some means of starting a new life–in this case, an allotment of land–there is much less so in failing to offer those who receive such gifts any information about how to use the land that is theirs. Recidivism is almost certain in such cases–or worse, as Guff points out has befallen many in and around Franner’s Bend. The late-nineteenth-century-United-States parallel seems to me to be the Homestead Act; the National Park Service remarks that “more than half [of the homesteaders] were successful,” seeming something of a damnation by faint praise, and the University of Nebraska at Lincoln holds a fair amount of relevant materials for those interested in learning more. Certainly, there is more to say on the matter than is reasonable for the present commentary; perhaps another scholarly someday will dawn to shed light upon that “more.”
* I feel I have to make a comment about the name. The word itself, per common knowledge as affirmed by Merriam-Webster, denotes untruth at some level, whether as a lie, as exaggeration, or as what Frankfurt and those who follow him refer to as bullshit. (I’ve commented about the last, as might be expected, in such places as this, this, this, and this.) The character so named in the present chapter seems to be offering the exact opposite, much as a towering hulk of a person might be called Tiny; the same kind of joke is at work, and even if it is the case that giving an explanation kills a joke, it’s one of the kinds of thing that inform my lingering literary study. (I’m not going to list examples here, but will encourage my kindly readers to reread what I have written in this webspace; it pops up often enough that finding examples should be no challenge.)
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The present chapter continues to depict abusive relationships.
The tenth chapter of Forest Mage, “Flight,” begins with Nevare glossing the process of his father’s recovery and that of his estate. The actions Nevare takes to keep the estate going are glossed, and news of outside events is rehearsed. Nevare takes some charge, acting in his father’s name to restore order and some sense of forward motion to the estate and the surrounding area that takes its direction therefrom, and he relates a number of difficulties in doing the same.
Yeah, this seems right. Photo by Alexey Demidov on Pexels.com
With some stability established, Nevare recalls Yaril from the Poronte estate, noting with some confusion that Cecile–whom he regards as duty-bound to return to her late husband’s home–is not coming. Yaril apologizes for her earlier disregard of her brother and returns to her childhood home. She soon proves adept at its management, and, with Nevare, does much to restore it to something resembling normal functioning, if with some changes made to suit her personal tastes.
As things progress back towards normalcy, Nevare takes the chance to relax one evening, going into town to drink a bit and surveying changes in the local situation. He does note that the drinking has less effect on him than he would have expected, but he makes little of it, and makes a habit of regular trips to town.
Correspondence resumes, and Nevare receives news of Spink and Epiny with some joy. Spink is being commissioned, Sefert purchasing the position, and Nevare fleetingly considers using his father’s funds to do the same, but sets the temptation aside. He also continues to try for rapprochement with his father, to no avail, and he learns from Yaril much of the state of Keft’s mind. Yaril also speaks of the social situation surrounding them, and she learns Nevare’s story of his enchantment.
Some days after, Keft returns to the dinner table, rebuking Nevare for his presumption and upbraiding Yaril for her part in it. Yaril flees the growing upset, and Keft disowns Nevare, casting him out. Calmly, Nevare goes to Yaril and confers with her before preparing to leave, promising to send for her when he can. He packs what he can and that he feels a right to, mounts Sirlofty, and bids Duril farewell as he departs.
To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 29 pages in length, approximately 3.97% of the novel. There is but one chapter longer, and one other of the same length; each other chapter or major division of the text is shorter than the present chapter. While it is the case that chapter length and narrative importance do not necessarily or even often correspond, the fact that the present chapter takes its time, relatively speaking, does invite readers to spend more time with the text in this portion of it. And a longer chapter does serve an expository purpose for what seems clearly to be a new narrative arc beginning in the present novel.
Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Bacon, Bitter Springs, Burvelle Landing, Car Stiet, Carsina Grenalter, Caulder Stiet, Cayton’s Horse, Cecile Burvelle, Coffee.Colonel Stiet, Croaker bird, Dancing Spindle, Dark Evening, Dewara, Doril’s Foot, Dr. Jakib Amicas, Dust Dance, Elisi Burvelle, Epiny Kester, Farleyton’s Horse, Franner’s Bend, Gettys, Kase Remwar, Keft Burvelle, King’s Road, Lady Poronte, Landing Inn, Lord Poronte, Mosquitoes, Nevare Burvelle, Nita, Plague, Rosse Burvelle, Sefert Burvelle, Selethe Burvelle, Sergeant Erib Duril, Sirlofty, Spinrek “Spink” Kester, Tree Woman, Vanze Burvelle, Widevale, Yaril Burvelle. As might be expected from a long chapter with much going on, there are many indexable items to be found.
Yet again, Hobb repeats chapter titles, this time from City of Dragons, Chapter 11, and Blood of Dragons, Chapter 2. In the present case, reading the chapters against one another is not apt to reveal much; the circumstances differ much more than usual. The earlier chapters, belonging to the Realm of the Elderlings novels and dealing with beings capable of aerial flight, do not address the same issues as the present chapter (although it may well be the case that the two earlier chapters, both in the Rain Wilds Chronicles, should be read against each other, despite my lack of comment to that effect earlier in my rereadings; some revision and update suggest themselves as worth doing at some later time when I have the time). Still, given how often the title-repetition happens and the propensity towards suggested cross-reading, I thought pointing out the present chapter’s repetition of title bore pointing out.
In a bit of affective reading, I note with some appreciation the comments about accounting made in the chapter. Nevare bemoans but accepts the necessity of bookkeeping as he attempts to stand in for his father during his recovery (206-07); I’ve written on more than one occasion* about my own involvement in that profession, and it’s always nice to see the work I do represented as a needed thing. I spent quite enough time dealing with the opposite, as might be imagined for someone who at one point wanted to profess literature; the experiences have stayed with me, prompting me to appreciate it when the work I do is valued even if noted as something challenging enough to want others to do.
In a similar bit of reading, I note with interest Nevare’s comment that “Boredom sounded so attractive to me now” (209). In my own experience, not least having to do with flooding in my hometown (not only in 2025 and 2026, but also in 2002), boredom is a good thing; it means that nothing is going wrong. Hobb’s character make some gestures towards sharing that notion, such as in Assassin’s Fate, Chapters 9 and 22. Nevare seems to be of the same opinion in the present chapter, and I’ll admit to some additional pleasure in seeing an author validate parts of my understanding and experience. It’s not the only reason to keep reading, of course, and I continue to know that reading affectively isn’t something I should do–but I still do it, and it does help me push ahead with texts I’ve studied across some time, now.
Less affectively, I find more feminist discourse in the present chapter. Yaril’s situation, as depicted in the present chapter, serves as a powerful commentary on patriarchal structures. It is clear that Yaril is an intelligent and capable young woman; her adept handling of the Burvelle household after her return from the Poronte estate is testimony to that. It is also clear that she has been constrained by her circumstances, as several of her comments to Nevare indicate; examples include Yaril’s expression of disdain for Cecile and her railing against Carsina (217-18), as well as her reactions to Keft’s emergence from his chambers (219-24) and what she says to Nevare as he makes ready to leave as an outcast (226-29). To his credit, Nevare recalls what Epiny told him of such constrainment (see Shaman’s Crossing‘s “Séance,” and “A Ride in the Park,” as well as Forest Mage‘s “Forest Dreams”) as Yaril bewails her imminent danger to him. That he does not take her with him as he departs is not a commendation, to be sure, but given his own uncertainties, it may well be the least-bad option available to them in the moment. Additionally, that it reinforces the problems of the kind of patriarchy that Gernia presents, and that of the United States that it reflects, is not to be disregarded.
Continuing from last week, as I met with the participants in my local library’s Dungeons & Dragons program, I asked them their thoughts about running games in the future. After all, the library’s program has as one of its explicit goals the cultivation of participants who can run games of their own, so querying the present participants for who would like to undertake that work seemed fitting. I expect that future sessions will work to articulate not only concerns of narrative–since such games as Dungeons & Dragons are storytelling, narrative concerns matter–but also of effective administration.
I didn’t choose the life; the life chose me… Photo by u041au0430u0442u0435u0440u0438u043du0430 u0416u043eu0441u0443u043b on Pexels.com
Following the more formal discussion, play resumed. Because I had an understrength group, I adjusted some of the cumulative-result roll thresholds downward, and things seemed to go generally well. Not all of the dice agreed with all of the players at the table, to be sure, but that’s only to be expected; dice lent from the library won’t answer as well as those that have been lovingly trained over time. And even with the dicing setbacks, the kids had fun facing the challeneges posed to them–including in some inventive ways I’d not considered when I posed them.
I look forward, still, to continuing this expedition of herding a gaze of jimothies from a rural village to the trade center. I think that next week’s session will take the group to and through the regional capital. There, they’ll have the chance to seek new supplies and information, and they’ve learned that the information I make available is material they can use, moving forward. For me, it’s an easy enough thing to make happen; for them, it’s a new and exciting concept, or a lived-life iteration of something they’ve gotten to learn about in their English classes, and seeing them make the connection and have the realization is a large part my enjoyment of the game.
We’ll see if the same is true for them when they start to run things.
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The present chapter also depicts abusive relationships. It additionally details deaths and the physical results thereof.
The ninth chapter of Forest Mage, “Plague,” starts with Nevare waking with the dawn, rising and waiting to be put to work. He watches a messenger arrive from Burvelle’s Landing, and he sees his father and brother follow the messenger away. The scenes distract him from his attempts at study, and he resolves to bide his time, aligning with the alternative self that yet dwells within him, and sleeps again, settling into a tree-like quiescence.
Guess who’s back? Photo by Dmitry Demidov on Pexels.com
Nevare is woken in the dark by the delivery of his dinner, and he presses the servant making the delivery for details of the day, learning that a physician has called on the house. The servant seeks to disregard Nevare, but Nevare disabuses him of the idea, and after the servant leaves, Nevare sets to his meal: a small loaf of bread. Nevare delights in it, savoring the loaf slowly. After, he attempts his studies again, finding little success, and he retires, worried about events.
The next morning, Nevare finds a day much like the last. In the evening, he learns that sickness has beset Burvelle’s Landing. The following day sees no delivery of food, only the sounds of another servant uncertain of how to proceed. Two more days pass in which Nevare has neither food nor drink, and he calls out in vain. The next day, Nevare attempts to escape confinement, without success. More days pass, and Nevare finds himself sinking toward somthing like hibernation. At length, Duril rescues him.
As Nevare makes for the kitchen to eat and drink after his privations, he and Duril confer, the old sergeant reporting events. He had, himself, taken the Speck plague, which had ravaged the Burvelle home, taking Rosse, Selethe, and Elisi. Nevare moves to check on his father and is excoriated by the mourning Keft, who laments the deaths and having sent Yaril and Cecile to the Poronte estate. Nevare then begins to tend to the dead, finding the bodies of his kin and considering them, and searching out the other dead. He begins the work of gravedigging, laboring against the stony soil. And after, he eats.
Duril and another servant, Nita, come upon Nevare as he eats, and after some conference, Nevare goes off to wash. The next morning finds him at work as an undertaker again, burying his mother and brother and sister as best he can, acknowledging the ending that has come upon him.
To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 20 pages in length, approximately 2.74% of the novel. In that, it duplicates the previous chapter, and if it is the case that that chapter ends a narrative arc, then beginning a new one in much the same mode seems to work well, as repetition suggests patterns. Or perhaps it is the case that the repetition, coupled with the final line of the chapter–“And that was how my old life ended forever” (202)–indicates the close of a narrative arc, something like playing a single strain again before the stinger in a march. I do still need to do more with matters of chapter-length to see if there’s some there there, admittedly.
Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Bellock, Bread, Burvelle Landing, Cecile Burvelle, Croaker bird, Dewara, Dr. Reynolds, Elisi Burvelle, Franner’s Bend, Graves, Keft Burvelle, Nevare Burvelle, Nita, Orandula, Plague, Pomegranate, Poronte, Rosse Burvelle, Selethe Burvelle, Sergeant Erib Duril, Speck, Spond tree, Tulip, Varnian, Warfare, Widevale, Yaril Burvelle. It is a remarkably short list, but that seems fitting to the intensely personal-to-Nevare focus of the chapter and its events.
Once again, Hobb repeats chapters, this time from Shaman’s Crossing‘s 23rd chapter. As ever, one thing that suggests itself to a critical reading (and I do harbor some pretense that my rereadings are in at least some ways critical) is reading the chapters against one another. The present case offers a pronounced contrast to the previous; while Nevare is again surrounded by the plague and its effects, and several characters for whom he cares again die from it, and he suffers, he does not suffer the plague, itself. At one level, this mimics Nevare’s increasingly outsider status; he is separated out from his family by his family, and that separation works at least partly to his benefit, suggesting (if backhandedly) that he very much should leave his background behind.
Again,* however, rereading the chapter and its depictions of pandemic illness in the wake of COVID-19 lends…things to the rereading. Given the work I was doing at the time,** I was not subjected to the prolonged isolation that typified the experience of the pandemic for many, but I was in contact with many who were thus subjected and whose situations were not improved by such confinement. And I can easily, if again affectively, imagine that there were some who, requiring care and losing access to their caretakers, or otherwise dependent upon others no longer able to attend to them, suffered such privations as Nevare experiences in the chapter–and without the benefit of magic that allows subsistence if at the cost of sloth. I do not have to imagine the rapid onset of symptoms, however, or the suddenness of deaths, remembering reports and testimonies of the same, nor yet do I have to imagine the panic caused by them, having felt it, myself.
As a side-note, I know I have not been finding as much to say about recent chapters as about earlier ones in the series. The fault lies with me and not with the text. There is more to be unpacked than I seem at the moment to be able to do…but that is why I have so many scholarly somedays to address already; I can hope there will be time to come back around, and I have to leave something for future projects to do…
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The present chapter depicts abusive relationships.
The eighth chapter of Forest Mage, “Judgment,” begins with Nevare and Duril returning home after their excursion to Dewara. At Duril’s direction, Nevare retreats to the kitchen to clean himself up. Doing so, he is taken aback by the lack of obvious injury to him after having been stabbed, and awareness of magic at work takes him. He ruminates on the matter as he eats some slices of fresh bread, and he is surprised at his father’s sudden appearance.
It does look tasty. Photo by Skyler Ewing on Pexels.com
An argument erupts between father and son, and Nevare relates his experience of Dewara’s magic only to find his father turning further against him. Outwardly, Nevare agrees to his father’s demands, although he inwardly knows that they will not avail.
The next day increases Keft’s imposition of physical discipline on Nevare, in which task he enlists Narl, who is confused at the directions given him but complies no less than Nevare does. When Nevare is allowed to eat, he savors the meal provided to him, revelling in the sensory delights it offers. He also maintains his personal discipline, studying from his retained course materials to pass the time. The next many days pass in similar fashion, their pattern little interrupted.
One of the interruptions is the delivery of correspondence from Spink and Epiny. Spink shows recovery in spirit although tension with his older brother about how the family holdings are managed. Epiny thanks Nevare for helping to reopen her relationship with Sefert, and Nevare writes a long reply to the pair that he discards in favor of a briefer missive likely to pass his father’s inspection. He also replies belatedly to Caulder Stiet and his uncle, thinking to close out that discourse entirely.
The pattern of Nevare’s days resumes, and while he muses with anger on Carsina, he acknolwedges the futility of doing so. He also fails to lose any significant weight, and conversation with Narl proves informative if somewhat stilted. Nevare infers from what he learns that Speck plague approaches the area, and he warns his father about it to no avail. Doing so earns him only rebuke, and his lack of weight loss earns his father’s ire and censure. Keft pledges greater strictness with his son and leaves, ad Nevare considers himself and his situation in the wake of his father’s departure.
To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 20 pages in length, approximately 2.74% of the novel. In that, it is only a little short of average, less than one page or one-eighth of one percent under. It does, however, seem to conclude a small narrative arc within the text, so the length is less a concern than it might otherwise be.
Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Bejawi, Bellock, Burvelle’s Landing, Carsina Grenalter, Caulder Stiet, Cayton’s Horse, Cherries, Daraleen Burvelle, Dewara, Doril’s Foot, Epiny Kester, Franner’s Bend, Gernia, Gettys, Kase Remwar, Keft Burvelle, Kidona, Landsingers, Meat pie, Narl, Nevare Burvelle, Orandula, Plague, Plainsfolk, Prairie cat, Pudding, Rosse Burvelle, Sefert Burvelle, Selethe Burvelle, Sergeant Erib Duril, Sirlofty, Speck, Spinrek “Spink” Kester, Tree Woman, Varinan, Warfare. A relatively average chapter might well be expected to have an average number of indexable items in it, and that seems to be the case with the present one.
For a bit of cross-series reading: there is a chapter in Mad Ship with the same title as the present chapter. As is not seldom the case with coincidences of chapter titles, I am tempted to read the two against one another. As is also not seldom the case when I look back at earlier work, I find myself seeing things that I did less than optimally as I carried out the earlier work. It may be that I revisit earlier portions of my rereading series to update them; I do not know that I will, given how sprawling my still-uncompleted rereading already is. But the idea is a tantalizing project, certainly, and I’ll admit to having done some work to move in that direction, if I end up choosing to do so; I have other things that could use revision before I get to that point.
I note with some interest the physical changes Nevare describes in himself as the chapter progresses. His metabolism alters significantly, allowing him not only to heal with astonishing speed, but also to undertake significant physical exertion and to do so with little metabolic byproduct. Being the kind of nerd I am, I’m put in mind of Dungeons & Dragons materials that made claims about draconic metabolisms and their efficiencies, and I have to wonder if something similar is not at work in Nevare. Adipose tissue is energy storage, certainly, and storing more energy suggests that less of what produces that energy would be discarded as waste; magic is involved in the narrative, of course, seeming here to exaggerate natural processes to some extent more than necessarily to enact things that oppose or contravene them. The thought occurs that examining the text, and Hobb’s body of work more generally, for handling of magic might be something worth doing, another scholarly someday to add to an already long calendar.
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Following up from last week, as I met with the participants in my local library’s Dungeons & Dragons program, I asked them about what the term “medieval” means for them. In doing so, I addressed some of the overtly educational goals of the program; one of its framing questions is “Why do tabletop roleplaying games, and Dungeons & Dragons in particular, make so much use of the (pseudo-)medieval(ist) as they do?” so having an idea about what the medieval is matters for discussion. And I found that the participants, ranging from sixth- through ninth-grade-aged, collectively understand it as being old Europe and strongly associated with fantasy, although some of that is because several are returning from earlier games with me in which I talked about that kind of thing. (One of them is my daughter, poor girl.) I’m sure I’ll have more to say about it, moving forward.
The question of what the medieval is is one with which I have been concerned for a while, now, as might be expected. Some of my earlier pieces in another webspace (see this, this, this, this, and this for examples; there are others) speak to questions about how to identify the medieval; any number of things I’ve posted in this webspace treat such questions, as well. Issues of definition are always…squishy; there is always some uncertainty at the boundaries of categories, much to the frustration of many. Yet they are also important to address, if only because none of us can do all of what needs to be done, and having some framework for understanding can help a person to focus attention to better effect.
Such things can, of course, be misused. They often are, in practice. But so much is true of everything that gets done, including something so seemingly banal as a game like Dungeons & Dragons.
In any event, last night’s session of play went well. The dice treated the players decently, allowing them to move ahead with their primary objective. They also got to take a useful little side-excursion in which they showed some excellent lateral thinking. It’s the kind of thing that motivates deeper player engagement, and seeing it happen is the kind of thing that makes running games eminently enjoyable for me. I delight in seeing my players think their way around issues, which I know is not always the case. Still, it gives me hope that some of them will be able to take on the work of running games of their own, and that will have a number of effects I will be glad to see arise.
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On a number of occasions, I have commented about going back into my own archives,* pulling up materials I’d developed for one purpose or another across what I had intended to be an academic career. In many cases, that pulling has had to do with teaching materials, and I do remain available to generate that kind of thing, moving forward. Less explicitly, that pulling takes the occasional form of my posting the texts of papers I’ve delivered; the present example is in that line. A recent post to this webspace, “Harping on Hanlon,” reminded me that I had this in my records, and a review of those places where I put my academic records up for public view showed me that it hadn’t yet gotten out to where other people can look at it. The time seemed right to address that deficit.
The piece below is abstracted here. What is not noted in my comments there is that this piece emerged from some 2021 continuing education I did, noted here. (Sourcing shows the age of the piece, I know.) Emerging from it is a conference talk, the remarks for which are repeated here. As with previous re-presentations, I have only lightly edited the text as I originally have it, mostly to suit concerns of medium.**
The fifth edition of Greg Stafford’s Pendragon1 is a fantasy tabletop roleplaying game (RPG) published in 2005 by Arthaus, a subsidiary of White Wolf Games2–a publisher most notable for Vampire: The Masquerade and the related World of Darkness games.3 RPGs are generally neomedievalist; the ur-example of the genre is Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), which Lawrence Schick notes has its origins in historical miniatures wargaming and “rules for monsters and nonhuman races drawn mainly from Tolkien,”4 so that it looks to interpretations of the medieval for its materials, just as other RPGs look to D&D. Pendragon is more avowedly directly medievalist, purporting to look back to “Facts (or at least what are widely considered facts) drawn from [chronicles such as Geoffrey of Monmouth’s]” and “parts from all literary versions” of Arthuriana5–or, at least English / Malorian, French, Welsh, and more modern and radical takes, eschewing such visions of Arthur as the German and the Spenserian.
The cover of said fifth edition of the game, from my copy. It is no longer the current edition of the game. The image is used for purposes of commentary.
Even in that grounding, though, the game begins to run into commonplaces of treatments of the premodern: a focus on upper social strata and time-compression.6 The game flatly announces itself as focusing on knights, describing them as the chosen elite;7 while it makes some sense to do so–as I’ve noted elsewhere, “Peasant life is unattractive, particularly to those whom depictions of it might point up their own equivalent status”8 and many others have attested far more eloquently to the same–to set as of little importance the deeds and doings of a majority of people is no boon to understanding or getting things right. For a game that purports to encapsulate “brutal reality,”9 it is hardly a commendation. Nor yet is the collapsing of the Middle Ages into a short span–“fifteen years of game time approximate a hundred years of real-world medieval history,” so that the noted game-span of 485-565CE subsumes the late fifth through late fifteenth centuries,10 roughly Gildas to Malory.
Of course, it is to be expected that RPGs like Pendragon, as simulations, will necessarily reduce and compress their sources in the interests of treating them conveniently and in allowing players, most often not specialists in the source materials,11 entry into the narrative milieus in which Mackay notes the extemporaneous, collaborative, rules-assisted storytelling of RPGs operates.12 Similarly, the comment that “the rules and laws of Pendragon are generally based on the considerably more well-known laws of Europe in the 12th and 13th centuries, not those of 6th-century Britain”13 makes some sense in context; making a game accessible, and therefore playable and more likely to be fun, usually means going with what players can find. While there is substantial overlap between RPG players and people with institutional access (and the time to enjoy it!), the two groups are far from congruent; many players, perhaps even most, cannot get into the deeper details of setting that breed more accuracy and richness. In effect, they have to take what they can get.
Despite the note that “Knights are sheriff, judge, and jury for all matters of Low Justice on their own domains,”14 a comment (inaccurate as it is) that would suggest there be some substantive representation of the reams upon reams of parchment and paper that detail early English law, in Pendragon, law, as such, is reduced to some six two-column pages.15 Among that all-too-brief treatment is a short call-out that purports to present an image of Arthurian central legal dicta; it appears below as Figure 1.
Figure 1. The Laws of Arthur16
The note regarding the source from which the text is modified gives every indication of being accurate; a glance at The Statutes of William the Conqueror shows that the putative laws of Arthur do seem to emerge from it.17 But there are clear changes. For one, “Saxon” in the game-text replaces what a translation from the original calls “English,” while “Briton” replaces “Norman” or “Frenchman,” although such changes make sense in the Arthurian context. Less sensible are such omissions as the religious thrust in the first clause and the nod to the laws of Edward. The latter may perhaps be excused in the same way as the shifts in demonym, although a shift in nomenclature to something like Lex Molmutina might have been a way to preserve some sense of the thing. The former, though, is confusing, given the assertion of Christianity’s dominance within the game world,18 unless it lies perhaps in the unease with which RPGs generally regard real-world religion.19
A few other comments about law attract attention, as well. One is that “Anyone who commits violence upon the roads commits treason and incurs penalty as if having violated the sanctity of the king’s own feast hall,”20 which comment seems to place the roads under the king’s own jurisdiction–an attitude that seems to be at work in WoBT,21 among others. While not rising to the force of legal dicta, the Chaucerian Arthurian parallel does at least ground the comment in the documentary representation of medieval England; if the detail is wrong, it is wrong for the right reason. And more specifically grounded is the comment that, as in concerns of early English law, “reputation is critical in the game.”22 Indeed, the accumulation of Glory is a central mechanic, and what gets mechanical attention necessarily becomes a focus of play; “worship” is a central concern of Malory’s knights, of course, and the preoccupation with reputation evidenced in a variety of early English legal documents indicates that the game gets at least some of the general sense of its sources right–which is better than might be said of other neo/medievalist work.
There are other implications to trace, of course, but it seems on an initial glance that the things Pendragon gets right(ish) and wrong are in place to facilitate player access to the kind of agglutinated, accumulated Arthurian setting demonstrated in Malory and followed upon by no few later authors. Enough detail is “correct” to satisfy at least some desire for “accuracy” among players; certainly, enough detail is “correct” to offer the kind of verisimilitude that aids in fostering Coleridgean willingness to suspend disbelief and allow the immersive narrative performance of the RPG to occur. What is glossed seems to be glossed for conformity with context, for the simplification of simulation, for minimization of distraction, and from concerns of limited access to information. This is not to say the errors should be passed over; the game continues to be played, and more information allows for a deeper, richer immersion. Too, while “it’s just a game,” Sturtevant notes that such popular cultural products as Pendragon, as other RPGs, as the medievalist sources from which they stake out their neomedievalist positions, do much to shape public understandings of what the medieval is.23 Given the rampant misuse of the medieval by execrable groups, fixing those understandings is more and more important–and any avenue for such correction has to be pursued.
** As a piece originally meant only for spoken delivery, the work has citations and notes to allow for response to anticipated questions and for potential future development. The accuracy of those citations to any particular style manual is not guaranteed; the accuracy as to sourcing and location, however, is as I had it at the time I wrote the remarks. Most of the links still work, or did when I checked.
Although not “correct,” the convention of italicizing the game’s title is one the game itself uses; I follow it in reference to Pendragon in this document.
Note, however, that there are no few people who get into their areas of study in part because they started studying to be able to play their RPGs better.
Daniel Mackay, The Fantasy Role-playing Game: A New Performing Art (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2001), 4-5.
Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
The seventh chapter of Forest Mage, “Dewara,” opens with Nevare recognizing his new status as a pariah in his own family home. As Nevare begins to adapt, he learns of the imminent return of his brother and sister-in-law to the estate, and, hurt by the shift in his status, goes fishing in an attempt to ease himsel. Returning from his excursion, however, he is confronted by his father, who assigns him a list of tasks he will address in an attempt to strip him of the fat that has accumulated on him; Nevare notes the generally distasteful nature of those tasks and begins to address himself thereto forthwith.
A bit close to home for me, perhaps. Photo by Unaizat Abdulgamidova on Pexels.com
The next many days follow the pattern of Nevare rising, working through the day, eating alone, and retiring. He finds that, although his physical capabilities improve immensely, he loses no weight. He also finds that the tasks put to him, although intended to be demeaning, satisfy him, although his increasing isolation from his family continues to wound him.
At length, Nevare seeks out Duril, and the two confer about Nevare’s situation. Duril takes Nevare out to the Bejawi village that stands near the Burvelle manor. There, they are to meet with some Kidona who have been settled after actions that Duril relates to Nevare, and some of the Bejawi history and practices are noted in contrast with their current situation. Evidence of tension between the two groups is presented, and Duril concludes an arrangement with some of the local Kidona. That arrangement gets him and Nevare access to Dewara, whose situation is related as the pair encounter him.
Dewara challenges Nevare, the two exchanging boasts and insults. Dewara reminds Nevare of his first failure to destroy Tree Woman, citing Nevare’s present state as effective revenge against Keft; Nevare tells Dewara of his destruction of Dancing Spindle, prompting the older man to violence. Dewara stabs Nevare, and Duril shoots Dewara, leaving him dead as Nevare bleeds. Nevare finds, however, that despite the blood on Dewara’s blade, he is barelyinjured, and he and Duril make their escape from Dewara’s final resting place.
As the pair return to Nevare’s home, they confer about events. Nevare confides his fears to Duril, and the old soldier offers blunt advice for how to proceed.
To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 24 pages in length, approximately 3.28% of the novel. Although briefer than the preceding two chapters, it has a fair amount going on, seeming to continue Freytag’s falling action in the first major narrative arc of the novel. A resolution is coming; given the location in the novel and in the trilogy, it is not apt to be a happy one for Nevare.
Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Acorns, Antelope, Bejawi, Carp, Cecile Burvelle, Cheese, Corn, Croaker bird, Dancing Spindle, Dappled People, Darsio, Dewara, Dr. Jakib Amicas, Franner’s Bend, Gernia, Goats, Hog, Hog sty, Jindobe, Keft Burvelle, Kidona, King’s Cavalla Academy, Manure, Manure, Nevare Burvelle, Oxen, Peaches, Pepperpot, Plainsfolk, Potatoes, Rosse Burvelle, Selethe Burvelle, Sergeant Erib Duril, Sirlofty, Swanneck, Taldi, Tree Woman, Wind wizard, Wolves. As befits a shorter chapter than the previous, there are fewer indexable items to find. But there is still much going on in the chapter, and so there is still much to point out as present in it.
The obvious thing, to my mind, is to contrast the present chapter with the previous chapter in the series with the same title, the third chapter of Shaman’s Crossing. This is not the first time that Hobb has reused chapter titles across novels; my rereading of the Realm of the Elderlings novels features numerous examples of her doing so, and each time, the repetition invites such consideration. The present chapter does call back, and explicitly, to the previous novel’s, making explicit reference to the events thereof and directly addressing some of their ramifications. Although the novel‘s initial narrative arc does not conclude, there is a resolution to one narrative thread in the series as the present chapter proceeds; Dewara’s story is decisively concluded, and in a chapter that overtly calls up that in which his story in the series begins. The symmetry is not an unwelcome thing to see.
An item of note: the discussion of Bejawi history, including their antagonism with the Kidona and its recent effect (146-50), attracts attention. There is, admittedly, something of the “noble savage” about the descriptions, although that is something that had been broached earlier in the Soldier Son series (see Shaman’s Crossing‘s “Old Thares”); narrative cohesion among the novels is aided by the invocation of the earlier-presented concept, even as such comments as Nevare’s that he “had come to a deep understanding of Kidona ways” (148)–and that in a relatively brief time–bespeak the fundamentally flawed nature of such viewpoints. The blunt presentation of immediate effects of colonialist practice is perhaps more telling, and I find myself thinking it would be good to reread Helen Young as regards the trilogy. Ah, to have the time to do so, but, alas, that life that would let me has largely left me!
Another item of note: Nevare passingly notes the attempt by his father to put in peach trees on his manor, only to have them fail (142). I have commented before, perhaps affectively, about my rereading of the Soldier Son series being influenced by growing up in the Texas Hill Country (see my remarks on Shaman’s Crossing‘s “Magic and Iron”); one of the things for which some of the small towns I drive through fairly often are noted is the peach crop. Indeed, nearby Stonewall, Texas, hosts an annual Peach Jamboree that does a lot of what keeps the community going. For me, peaches are simply part of the experience of life in the Hill Country; a failure of the peach crop is an issue hereabouts. It’s not a surprise to me that an area I read as reflecting the Hill Country in some ways would seek to install peach trees; it’s a matter of course, really. That the peaches failed…again, I read affectively; I feel some sympathy for the workers who tried to make them happen. Less affectively, given the innuendo that attaches itself to peaches–not for nothing is the peach emoji used as a short-hand for penetrable orifices, for but one relatively current example–and Keft Burvelle’s failure to cultivate it, I have to wonder if there is some kind of backhanded comment made that falls in line with the feminist critique at work in the series. But perhaps I am stretching a point to indulge such wonderings.
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Following up from two weeks ago, comments about last Friday’s observance needing to be made, there are things to say about last week and about yesterday. For the first, I came into the session expecting to start actual play with the participants at the table, characters have mostly been built across the initial two 90-minute sessions (with some “homework” assigned); anything that hadn’t been built yet, I thought, could be compiled during play, and it seemed to me to be important to get things moving in earnest. That more or less seemed to be the case, albeit with some stubmbling along the way, but the players at the table gave every sign of enjoying what was presented to them and looking forward to what was to come.
They see me rollin’… Photo by DS stories on Pexels.com
For the second, yesterday, the adventure got underway in earnest. I can now (because the game is going, so this is not a spoiler) report that the primary plot for the game (tabletop roleplaying games generally being narratives means that such terms apply) has the players’ characters herding a group of jimothies* from a rural village to a regional trade center. I’ve got procedures and events set up for the group; they’ve made a start on them, already having some success and encountering some challenge. The latter was not concluded by the end of the brief session (I’ve only got an hour and a half with the group each week), but that’s not such a bad thing; there is a clear and engaging beginning point waiting for the next session, for which I and my players are eager.
Something that stood me in good stead in my preparations for the event was my development of some in-milieu lore at both the local and regional levels. Character creation had assumed that the characters were all from the same region; characters had the opportunity to select specific districts of origin within that region. This had some in-game effects, allowing characters who selected the district of origin in which they found themselves to bypass certain rolls. As the game develops, it will also allow them to face particular challenges; I’ve not yet worked out all the details, and, out of concerns about metagaming, I’d not give many of them if I had. Still, the players at the table seemed to appreciate being able to learn things, and the returning players were able to explain some of the jokes to the new ones, helping to bring them into the game, as it were. I consider it a success.
As I continue to develop game materials, I keep falling back on my experience playing in and running play-by-post games.** I know I’ve commented as much in the last several entries in this series of posts, but it remains true, and there is some delight in my bringing something back around; play-by-post gaming emerges from tabletop gaming, and bringing its practices back to the table is a nice little cohesive progression for it.
* I use the term as a genericized reference to Seattle’s Jimothy, for which in-game statistics are available here. Hanlon is a fictional milieu; Jimothy need not be a unique thing within it, and it makes sense to me that jimothies in Hanlon would be a species related to but distinct from raccoons. That there are implications of such a distinction, I am aware (such as situating a setting at some removal from the Tolkienian fantasy tradition from which D&D emerges [see here], as witness this, this, and this, among others); some of them are apt to come up in the game.
** In addition to brief references throughout my Hanlon posts, I discuss play-by-post games here, here, here, here, and here, among others. And I’m reminded that I probably ought to get another existing piece up onto this blog at some point that currently lives in my notes.
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Whether I have any readers for whom this is an observance, I am uncertain, but, being aware that where I live used to be Mexico and having been raised to regard those who cast off colonial rule as heroic, and being aware that I am late to the Grito de Dolores, I may still raise such voice as I have in acknowledgment and celebration of the independence of Mexico from Spain. And I do!
It befits the day. Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com
It’s not like I’m any stranger to marking such holidays, as I’ve shown (here, most recently). But given my background and what’s happened in my part of the world in the past couple of years…I’ll say that I hope for dry weather for my southern neighbors, or if there is rain, in even measure and at a steady, unhurried pace.
That’s it, really: just a thing I remembered and thought worth noting. I offer my small celebration here, as I do on most holidays; others, doing more, I hope will find joy in it and make things all the better for doing so!
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