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Gumshoes and Grimm Tales
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A New Writing Instrument

Journal Entry: Mon Jan 19, 2015, 5:35 PM
Tarien's Scribbling

One of my Christmas Presents was an Aurora Ipsilon Fountain Pen. I’ve been using it the last couple of weeks. The ink of one of my old pens isn’t fantastic. Hopefully that will change, as I have some Skrip coming in. Not that my handwriting will ever be anything you want to see in more than measured doses.

Still, this new implement of creation has a steel nib, so it writes with feedback. But not uncomfortably so. The finish on the grip is distinct from that on the body, and it sits comfortably in my hand with a very nice balance when posted. And it’s produced a dozen pages the last couple days.…

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So holidays are over

Journal Entry: Wed Jan 7, 2015, 4:17 AM
Tarien's Scribbling

and I'm almost healthy again. Spent New Years weekend in bed full of chemicals.

Good news is, I have a fancy new Aurora Ipsilon fountain pen. Love writing with it. Now if I could just find some good INK to put in it. lol I also received a couple Jim Butcher Dresden File graphic novels, including one signed limited first edition of War Cry, which is very cool. And a nice Bluetooth speaker. Funny how you don't realize how hollow everything you listen to sounds until you get a NICE speaker.

On the other hand, I also received Dragon Age Inquisition, only to discover it doesn't run on my computer... :noes: Guess where my tax return is going?

I've been reading Steven Erikson's Willful Child. It's nothing more or less than a Sci-fi parody. Which given that some of Erikson's writing can be pretty darn serious and somber, is an amusing--and effective--change of pace.

I also decided that NaNo rules or not, I should've just stuck with plugging away at the epic fantasy. So I'm back to work at that, and thinking of putting in a section at the beginning of book 3. But I may wait until I rewrite to decide that. For the moment, it's full ahead, and I'm good with that. ;)

I know the activity log says I've been dormant. But such is not really the case. If you look to the left on this page, you'll see that I've been editing Mimic's Mirror and reposting it for some time now, and at the usual weekly intervals. I may decide to start sharing something new in the near future. But as I didn't post that full story before, I thought it would be good to get that up once while I was reworking it. Hope you enjoy. ;)

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Merry Christmas! And don't confuse me with the guy stuffing coal in your stocking. Coal is expensive these days. ;)
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)

Chapter 7: Subverting the Subversive

Wyatt Residence
Contri, Mothri II
March 26th, 174 Post-Set

       ‘For want of a nail, the Kingdom was lost.’  The phrase hung from a placard over the door of Malcolm Wyatt’s study. Hailing back to the time criminals held in stocks bore their guilt around their necks. The proverb had taunted his family since the time of his grandfather’s overthrow and death, ten years before he had been born. His skeleton staff begged him to move it. His wife had tried before their divorce. His daughter Jessica had pleaded with him, to no avail. It’s message, left by the ‘liberators’ of Morthri II when they removed AHD Technologies Unlimited from governance and confiscated the entirety of its accumulated planetary assets, remained seared into his consciousness. Every hour of every day he sat working paper fantasies in this room, he took heed of its message. Nothing would be left wanting when the wheel turned.

    “Bring in the powder,” Malcolm Wyatt ordered.

    The make-up crew arrived scurried about him. As they did, he motioned to his personal attendant, a man who made the pot-bellied shut-in slender in comparison. Upon his arrival, Malcolm motioned for him to lean in and waited for him to comply before whispering, “Tell Mister Callister that because of this unexpected media circus, we’ll have to reschedule our meeting for dinner this evening.”

    “Of course, Mister Wyatt,” he answered. “Also a Gavin Sweet had asked to see you at your earliest convenience, sir.”

    Malcolm had to remember not to jerk his head to request more information, and instead rolled the stubby index finger of his left hand. His attendant answered, “He represents the Gaesati, sir.”

    “Ah. Well my earliest convenience will be: ‘When he can breath in the Void,’ Adam,” he answered with a sharp glance. “That’s what our friend Justev is for. There is to be no contact with any of them on our part.”

    “Of course, Mister Wyatt.” His servant bowed.

    Malcolm nodded, followed Adam’s departure with his eyes, and then sat in silence until the touch-up artists had made his round face with heavy jowls and deep-set eyes as palatable for the camera as imaginable. It was all too delicate. None of them could understand. He risked too much trying to enlighten them. With a sigh, he frowned at the portrait of the pretty brown-haired girl with her inquisitive eyes and bright smile. Not even you, Jessica.

    Like on Elendil, on Morthri II the Corporate Democracy that Acamar touted as the key to its unmatched prosperity had failed to take hold. On both failed worlds, before humanity had adapted the Vorcar’s gift of FTL technology to their own needs and reconnected with its Diaspora, the populace had risen against the Corporation and removed them. In the case of his world, the planet proved too resource-poor to support advanced technological development and manufacturing processes. Poor in fossil fuels, there had been only so long the fission reactor of their sleeper ship could continue. And without recreating the industrial revolution, there was no way to create the synthetics and composites necessary for a Space Age, fusion-powered information economy. When the core died, advanced technology followed. So while Graham Rocheforte sat as benevolent tyrant over prospering Acamar, Malcolm Wyatt lived one step above a prisoner for an accident of birth and the sins of his elders, on a largely agrarian world.

    Morthri II had found a niche in the galactic economy through cash crops. Its semi-arid climate proved ideal for grapes and tobacco. Unfortunately, that still left little room for an advanced technology firm. Even if its name had not been equated with mud by the planet’s history books. That despite saving their lives in the first place by bringing them here, Malcolm groused.

    “Mister Wyatt?” The brown-haired woman, with tanned bronze skin and Latina features entered the study, her large eyes not hiding their disdain at his bloated form.

    None of them could understand, he thought while answering, “Yes Miss…” he paused as if searching for her name, though it flashed in his NNI before he answered, “Coval? Correct?”

    “Please, for the interview, call me Catalina,” she answered.

    “Of course. That’s a pretty name,” he agreed with a smile.

    Tilting her head with nose and chin wrinkled, Malcolm guessed she was unsure if he had made a pass at her or if she were afraid he was ill-at-ease and would make a hash of the interview. All the better, if she underestimated him, he might be able to control the dialog, and perhaps undo much of a hundred years of slander to his family name.

    They shifted from his study to the deck outside. He passed the time guessing where her NNI was located, until Catalina tapped the fake chrysanthemum over her left ear. She refocused on him and shifted her chair to the left, toward the camera between them, and advised, “Ten seconds.”

    Malcolm allowed himself an inward smile while affecting a nervous fidget. The red light came on and Catalina announced, “Good evening! Tonight, as part of the Centennial Celebration of a Democratic Morthri, we thought it would be illuminating to chat with the one who would, by the original charter, serve as Planetary Governor: Mister Malcolm Wyatt.”

    Facing him, she offered a smile brighter than anything she had shown before. “Mister Wyatt, thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”

    “Of course, Catalina,” he answered with a nod and a palms-up gesture. “It’s a pleasure to be granted the opportunity to talk about the real history of my family. As well as discuss some of the serious issues our planet faces. Please, call me Malcolm.”

    She nodded politely. before casting a patronizing glance at the camera. “That’s very gracious of you, Malcolm. How do you feel the Front for Liberation and Democracy has governed over the past century?”

    He cocked his head while folding his hands on the round wicker table between them. “First, I would say the Centennial Celebration is a misnomer. My grandfather made mistakes, but he wasn’t a tyrant. Ask the people of Acamar if they believe they lack freedom or prosperity as participants in AHD’s Corporate Democracy. I believe, if we had maintained patience and a concern for the whole, our world would now be as stable and industrious as theirs. The Revolutionary Court investigated every family that supported my Grandfather’s administration. But there’s no evidence the Parliament has improved the lots of those not actively receiving the largess of this government. What’s more, because of how thinly our people were spread, we were unable to protect everyone. But the Capital’s spent so much time demonizing the wealthy that they have driven away many of the best technological firms. So I don’t see how much has changed. Unemployment is rampant. Our children are left without parents for eight years or more. The League’s Military takes jobs, meaning we import goods and export people.”

    The reporter blinked, a dubious note slipping into her voice as she smiled indulgently. “Of course you’d feel aggrieved Malcolm, since your family lost its place of privilege. But Saunder Wyatt made our world into a Banana Republic. We had an elite building mansions like yours, which the people kindly let you keep, while half the citizens starved in the streets.”

    Malcolm wanted to scream at her for the insult, but instead laughed softly. “So instead we’ve exchanged one ruling class for another? We went from a developing world to Socialist Stagnation. We built the infrastructure and tamed the world. The government doesn’t have to guess which crops grow or what animals we can eat. Which ones migrate away, and which attack our farms and children. They inherited all our knowledge, while claiming all the work, resources and the treasure we invested to make this world grow. But, without the aid of the Vorcar, which would’ve come regardless, what have they accomplished? How much of the technology they gifted us has never made it to the common Morthrite?”

    “Mister Wyatt.” Catalina glowered at him. “That is a very unseemly accusation.”

    He affected a small, wounded smile and shrugged. “More unseemly than when Oihane Blanco charged that my parents had embezzled from the company and sank gold in the ocean against our overthrow? An accusation many historians now believe not only false, but trumped up for the sole purpose of triggering the revolt?” He tapped his finger on the table in front of him. “They deserve to be remembered better than thieves who told the masses to eat cake like Marie Antoinette.”

    The reporter’s face twitched, and Malcolm smiled inwardly as he sat back in his chair. She brushed a hair past her NNI, and he guessed she was taking cues from the network now. “Mister Wyatt, I sympathize with your desire to defend your family’s honor. Perhaps it would be better to discuss the challenges ahead for Morthri.”

    “Absolutely,” Malcolm answered with a polite nod. “We’ve already mentioned the current economic crisis: Ten percent of the work force cannot find a job. Our economy is consistently ranked in the lower part of the second tier of colonial worlds. A GPI surpassed by Acamar Three, which has only been colonized for thirty years.-”

    Catalina interjected, “True, but they’ve had substantial aid in development and governance from Highgate!”

    “But I thought AHD were evil overlords who couldn’t rule fairly or develop a world?” Malcolm answered with a wry grin. “Our world had a hundred year start on Acamar Three. But while the Rochefortes led the people of their world in a fight to clear enough space for humanity to live on, we fought each other. It’s a wound that’s never healed.”

    “Our world isn’t nearly as resource-rich as theirs was,” she replied with a firm shake of the head. “You can’t imagine the government could match their production.”

    Malcolm Wyatt leaned forward and smiled. “Why Miss Coval, I think you’ve made my point for me. If the problem was the initial weakness of our world, and that was a problem that only could have been solved by the arrival of the Vorcar, and the subsequent establishment of a Galactic Human economy, why should anyone believe the Front for Liberation and Democracy has done more than the Corporation would have done if we hadn’t been shut down?”

    Wyatt had to stop himself from laughing at the befuddled look that crossed Catalina’s face. It didn’t take much imagination for him to hear her producers screaming, “Cut to Commercial!”

    * * *

    Dinner was held over a native hardwood table. Colored like birch, strong as teak, it and the matching chairs were older than their host. Around the setting sat the head of PriCom Galactic, Alain Callister, and the disgraced Wyatt. Donovan had watched the Vid from the Morthrite News Network. The State-sponsored station had tried to spin it as an opportunity to see why the Corporations could not be trusted. But Koerner thought the fat man had bloodied the Government. If that was the best they could do after an edit, he must have mauled them in the event.

    Donovan enjoyed visiting Morthri for two reasons: brandy and cigars. As he finished a well-glazed slab of beef, he sipped on the drink with a satisfied nod. Callister had been a cold fish on the transit; staying in his cabin. That hardly concerned the Zephyr’s Captain. Better to have someone out of the way of his crew. Still, executives in Donovan’s experience were control freaks. They had not become successful by ignoring details. Nor did they do so by leaving behind their personal staff. Something smelled fishy. Snooping went against his reputation, but he had not survived this long without trusting his instincts.

    “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Callister. I’ve tried for years to get you to visit,” Wyatt began.

    He nodded while waving at their surroundings. “You’re welcome, Malcolm. I was told you were essentially under house arrest. But this is rather pleasant prison.”

    Wyatt took a sip of wine. His eyes never leaving Callister until he set it down with a scowl that had nothing to do with the flavor of the orange nectar. “Yes, the FLD thought they were being most generous when they let my parents keep the family’s estate. Of course, I’m supposed to pay for the staff. But I can’t sell off-world, and no one on Morthri will buy anything associated with my name.”

    “Yet you’ve managed to keep with all the latest technology?” Donovan noted. “I saw the VR center when we passed through your living room. You aren’t struggling to make ends meet.”

    With a nod of concession, Wyatt cracked a sly grin. “Well, I may have benefactors who feel I have been abused, and my family was good friends with the Rochefortes. So once humanity gained Jump Technology, our family received largess in compensation.”

    “Perhaps that provides some explanation for why you’ve asked to meet me?” Alain noted. “I can’t imagine this won’t attract attention. Some of your household staff must report to the Government.”

    Wyatt stood from the table and walked to the window overlooking the vineyards. “I’m surprised the Government agreed to buy a weapons’ contract from an off-planet firm, Mister Callister. What convinced them?”

    “They need to bring their Internal Security up to League standards. But no arms contractor on the planet can match the requirements within five years. By the terms of the Callisto Accords, any planet that fails to do so will either surrender control of their military to the Alliance or must withdraw from the Accords,” Alain replied.

    Donovan grunted a laugh before replying, “There must be five other worlds in the same state.”

    Alain grinned slightly and answered, “Eight, actually. Though in most cases the world is a secondary colony, so the parent can step in and bring them up to standards. It’s not just small arms either. It’s orbital defense platforms that can hold off an attack until the fleet arrives. This is the only world I know of that’s faced with making the choice, so they turned to our company.”

    “And it gives me an opportunity,” Wyatt smirked. “Would you be willing to provide weapons to locations I designate?”

    “I might,” Alain answered. “But I can’t have it come back on our company.”

    Donovan’s ears perked up. That did not match his reputation. In fact, PriCom Galactic had earned their place as a competitor on the stage by playing honest with the major powers. But then what better way to maintain a reputation with the big names than to cut corners in the backwoods?

    “It won’t,” Wyatt answered. “If your pilot here is as good as his reputation.”

    “I was only hired to bring him here,” the smuggler answered. “If you ask for additional services, I have to charge additional fees.”

    “That won’t be a problem, Captain.”

    Music to my ears. A slow smile spread across Donovan's face.

The Mimic's Mirror: Chapter 7
The News Media in the 23rd century still has an axe to grind. And when it's owned by the government, it may not be exactly fair-minded. Of course, Wyatt has his own little motivations. Call this my hat-tip to the Babylon 5 ISN episodes.

~2000 words for this half of the chapter.

The Beginning:
The Previous:
Irena hits the Town:
Mature Content Filter is On. The Artist has chosen to restrict viewing to deviants 18 and older.
(Contains: nudity, sexual themes, strong language and ideologically sensitive material)

Chapter 6: Duty Calls

Liari Free Port
Velorum Prime
25 March, 174 Post-Set

    “Wake up, prisoner! You have a guest." The shouting guard banged his stick on the door.

    “Void take you!” the Laubarck spat. “There’s no one I want to see.”

    “You don’t have a choice, Taaka,” another replied in the gravel, guttural tongue of the Laubarck.

    “You have no right to call me that, Shedri,” he barked while standing from his bed; ignoring the ache in his head and ribs. “You are an Ambassador. Too weak to tame space. I’m a Warleader. I’ve led our people to glory.”

    “You are what I name you, Taaka,” Shedri responded, crossing weak arms over his chest. “Be glad that I speak to a dishonored fool at all. Your glory died with your ship.”

    “I didn’t ask you to come here. You have nothing I desire.”

    Shedri closed to within a half-step of the barred cell. “You were allowed exile in human territory at my sufferance, Taaka. Your actions embarrass our people. I won’t tolerate them. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay trapped in this cell.”

    Barking a laugh, the former Warleader answered, “Don’t tell me you care what our braying lessers think.”

    “They beat you, didn’t they?” the Ambassador grinned thinly. “You’re not even Laubarck anymore. Old. Weak. You should have let yourself die. That way you’d have died with your honor intact.”

    “Do you keep guards around you?” he shot back. “You can’t have these humans finding out they cut off your-”

    “Silence Taaka!” Shedri sneered. “Or I’ll have you shoved out an airlock and watch you decompress. Enjoy your new home, I’ll not speak to you again.”

    The Ambassador turned his back on the one-time Warleader. Taaka leaped to the bars, yelping as his hands wrapped around them, and taking a shock wicked enough to make his arms rigid and jar his teeth. “You came here simply to turn your back and walk away! What kind of coward are you?”

    Shedri stopped, though he did not turn to face him as he answered over his shoulder, “I came to see how far a Warleader could fall, and to learn if there might be some use for you to our people still. Because that was the only reason I let you come here. But it seems the one who led our fleets in battle is dead. Taaka you are. Taaka you shall remain until you die. May it be soon.”

    The former Warleader ground his teeth. He knew the bureaucrat was right. He should have died with his crew. But he had fought his entire life. To lay down now was a betrayal greater than the one he had committed by surviving. In the wreck of his ship, he had retrieved two shreds of data.

    One was the fleeting image of the ships that had killed his. Gray-green, like creatures of the sea, their hull was not mechanical. Rather their fearsome aspect was accentuated by living tissue and sensors that appeared as antenna at the ‘chin’ of the craft’s jaw. The energy from the weapons had been focused plasma beams. Projections of the ship’s ‘blood.’ The technology for such a ship was a thousand years or more beyond the best the Laubarck had imagined. Only one race from his people’s past had commanded such power. His kind had not encountered them in hundreds of years.

    It would have been a fool’s errand, something he believed impossible, but for the neutrino surge. All the stories had agreed that was how their ships and agents sent signals. Together it was not proof the enemy had returned. It did not even convince himself. It never would have swayed the Invincible’s Court. Nor would he have suggested it. He needed more.

    That had led him to human space. Infamous as mercenaries, they fought each other as often as their enemies. How they multiplied across the stars befuddled the Laubarck. That they had done so before learning how to fold space spoke to their will to live. That was beyond anything the Vorcar had ever shown. Perhaps the one he had shared his knowledge with would provide an answer.

    Until then, all he could do was sleep, and drink. At least it had been an enjoyable fight. Void help you Shedri, if I prove myself right. Yours will be the first neck I break.

* * *

Lima Space Elevator
Latin American Democracy
Earth Orbit
March 24th

    “Vance, where are you going?” a groggy Andrea moaned from their bed.

    “Go back to sleep, sexy.” The Captain patted her backside while rolling out of the wide bed. The alert ping on the monitor resonated in the back of his mind, forcing Vance to his feet and its screen. He pulled on a robe before answering the call. Only to groan inwardly as he attempted to answer the call, and discovered it had been sent on an encrypted frequency.

    “Use standard Haven Military Decryption. Korolyov,” he ordered. Vance waited as the symbol of a Colonial Dreadnought with eagle wings dissolved into the bald head and starred lapel of Admiral Parker O’Leary.

    “Chairman of Haven’s Joint Chief of Staff,” he answered with forced geniality. “It’s been a while. You look well.”

    “Captain Hamilton,” O’Leary answered. “I see the trader’s life has agreed with you.”

    “And I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since they named you to your new post. Congratulations, Sir.” Vance offered a lazy half-salute that earned a grimace from the Flag Officer.

    “Would you be willing to take a job for the Defense Force?” the Admiral leaned forward toward the screen.

    “I’m not coming back,” Vance answered with a firm shake of the head. “Not unless you’re telling me there’s a war coming.”

    “I don’t want you back, Hamilton,” the Admiral growled. “You’re too headstrong to allow in the military. Unless we’re shooting at someone. Then your ego might serve as the universe's only operation deflector field.”

    Laughing in spite of himself, the Alacrity’s Captain cocked his head. “Alright, so you want my boat to do something you can’t use the military to do. How illegal is this?”

    “Hopefully not at all,” O’Leary replied. “But if it is necessary, then it’s better for someone with a bit of color in their reputation, is seen doing this. As opposed to a fine upstanding officer.”

    Vance smiled thinly. “You want a victim you can disavow if this goes south, Sir.”

    The Admiral scowled. “Don’t let me disabuse your preconceptions, lad. You were the one who decided to go back to being a smuggler after the war. You’d be bucking for Flag yourself now, if you had wanted to. This is the price you pay for being too good to ignore, yet too stubborn to play by the rules.”

    Sighing, Vance waved a hand at the screen. Why do I bother arguing with him. We both know I’m going to do it anyway. It’s like dealing with my father all over again. “What do you need from me, Sir?”

    “I’m at Liari Free Port. They acquired a prisoner recently. He passed Captain Kalata information on his arrival. She showed it to me, and we both thought it was absurd. That is until we saw something else today that makes no sense without it.”

    Vance began to speak, but the Admiral chopped with a hand. “No. I’m not being more specific, even on a coded frequency, lad. This whole damned think raises what little of my hackles I have left. I need to return to Haven tomorrow. The Free Port’s Captain will show you what we have. From there, all I can say is someone you’ll be interested in jumped on a freighter of your old friend’s today. His destination is listed as Morthri II.”

    “Why would Koerner waste any time with a low-index nothing like that?” Vance asked while stroking his jaw.

    “When you find out, tell me. We’ll both know,” O’Leary answered. “Look, it’ll come out of the military budget, and I don’t care if you take standard flights while you’re helping us. Just don’t take anything that attracts more attention from the authorities.”

    “I’ll be the soul of discretion, Admiral,” Vance assured him with a cold smile. “For one hundred thousand credits, half up front.”

    “Sixty thousand, and we’ll upgrade your launchers to the latest countermeasures and drones,” O’ Leary countered.

    “Seventy. With the upgrades put in at Liari when I arrive?” he haggled. The Chief of Staff nodded, and Vance concluded, “Alright, we’ll be there inside a standard week. I gave the crew forty-eight hours ashore on arrival. But I’ll make sure Alacrity’s ready to jump when they return.”

    “Fair enough, and good hunting, Captain Hamilton,” the Admiral closed the call with a salute that Vance returned.

    As he turned around, Andrea was waiting, a sheet wrapped around her. “No rest for the wicked, skipper? Why did Haven ask for you? Other than to keep tabs on their wayward hero?”

    Shaking his head, Vance walked by her, slipping an arm through the fold of the sheet to stroke the small of her back and then catch her hip as he walked to the window. There they looked out at a moon all but unchanged since the days humanity had first established the Armstrong Lunar Colony, a beacon in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility. “Spook work of some sort, like usual. But seventy thousand, with upgrades, and the freedom to haul as we work? As long as this doesn’t turn into a shooting war, I can’t cry foul.”

    “That’s what bothers me,” she answered while snuggling herself to him. “If he had put all his cards on the table, he wouldn’t be offering us such a healthy payday. They have plenty of well-trained intelligence operatives. What do they need with a crew that’s made a point of not wanting to be military anymore?”

    “You worry too much, kitten,” he answered while tugging at the sheet. Watching with a lascivious grin as it fell away to reveal a curvaceous form she made no effort to conceal from his gaze.

    “One of us has to. You won’t listen to Lorraine unless she tells you we’re broke!” She wrapped her arms around his neck as he set her on the ledge with her back against the window. Bright blue eyes dancing as her tussled hair fell in a wild mane over her shoulders.

    “That’s a good thought. Ask her what she has on Morthri II when we take off. And make sure she’s changed out the frakkin’ IFF, too.” His mouth hovered just out of reach of her full lips.                               

    “Stop talking shop when I’m naked, Captain." Andrea emphasized her point with a tug on the lapels of his robe. Tossing aside the garment, Vance pinned her to the glass; entwining his hands in hers and spreading them until she was taut against him. Arching her back, she gasped as he took their discussion into a more pleasurable, if less articulate, topic.

The Mimic's Mirror: Chapter 6
An imprisoned Lauback gets a visitor. And Captain Vance Hamilton is given an assignment by the military, which he really isn't part of. Except when he is. Don't worry, it's complicated for him too.

Strict Mature for some sexual situations.

~1900 words for a short chapter. (edit 12/4/14

The Beginning:
The Previous:
Mister Wyatt, it's time for your close-up:


Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I'm a wizard, nah, I'm a spy, no no, I'm an evil genius! Yeah, that's it. :iconfoxevillaughplz: Alright, actually I'm a writer, which just means I've been restrained by society from fulfilling my desire for global domination through illegal means, and instead torment my characters.

Tarien Cole may only be the pen-name, but it's much more interesting than real life. ;)

I write, primarily in novel form, across the Speculative Fiction spectrum. Classic Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Steampunk, Weird Western, & Space Opera.

:iconparentaladvisory2plz: I mark many of my Deviations Mature and Strict Mature because I respect the dA filter system. Please do the same when you read.


:iconfantasyliterature: :iconmidtownmagic:



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