A Lion in the Dance (OC/Slight Gamer Crossover)

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Character Creation

almostinsane

Well-known member
Prologue: Character Creation

"So... I'm dead," I stated. Somehow, that thought did not terrify me as much as it should have. For the afterlife, this place did not seem all too bad. Sure, it was not particularly bright, but it wasn't pitch dark or filled with fire and tortured screams like the hells certain religions believed in... Did I believe in those hells? I couldn't quite remember. Weird... Anyway, the place seemed to be nothing but grey mist that seemed to go on forever, what light there was conveying that it was either shortly after dawn or shortly before dusk. It was...

"A limbo of sorts, isn't it?" someone announced candidly, causing me to blink in surprise as I turned to face an elderly man, half-moon spectacles gleaming in the twilight. I groaned.

"Albus Dumbledore? Really?" I asked in slightly exasperation. The Being-Who-Appeared-To-Be-A-Merlin-Expy laughed.

"I just recently started appearing in this form. It makes the sort of things I have to say a tad easier to accept... At least, until Book 5 came out. Then, souls such as yourself began to suspect my motives!"

He looked mildly offended. I snorted.

"Maybe you should start going with a new form. Or an old one," I pointed out. The being shook his head.

"I just got this one. I'm not changing so soon. Do you know how hard it is to fit an infinite amount of cosmic power into a form small enough for you mortals to comprehend? I'd have to go months without working on my projects like yourself. Months!"

"Projects like myself... What is that? Just who am I? I know I was human and I was on earth then I died and then..."

"Well, that is quite natural, my boy. It's all a part of the reincarnation process. As you perceptively pointed out, you are dead. What you are just now starting to realize is that this is, as I said, a sort of limbo. A place between what you and your kind refer to as the Otherworld, Afterlife, Heaven, Hell, Yomi, Hel, Valhalla, Hades, Mictlan, etcetra, etcetra, and you are now undergoing what has invariably been called reincarnation, Samsara, reincarnantion, or rebirth, but what I like to call "Character Creation" or "Character Reroll." Any questions?"

"Yeah.... You make it sound like a sort of roleplaying game," I pointed out.

"It is more like the next phase of your spiritual journey, but I find tabletop roleplaying terms to be more useful. If you like, think of me as the Gamemaster, yourself as the player, and this phase as your Character Creation or Character Reroll since you just finished playing your previous character in a less than stellar manner, I might add. You see, you died from:

A. An unfortunate incident where you ate a tainted meal from Taco Bell. It collapsed your insides in a most amazing fashion. They named the new disease after you! (Poison Resistance Trait Gained)

B. You fought most valiantly in an altercation at your local Walmart. You were shopping for groceries, but, unbeknownst to you, it was Black Friday. You stood against the hordes of desperate shoppers until one shoved you to the ground from behind and bludgeoned you to death with a Rollback sign. Unfortunately, Bob, the Maintenance Associate, forgot to repair the cameras that day so your assailant got off Scott Free. (Bonus to Combat)

C. You embarrassed a rather short-tempered man quite thoroughly in a bar one night when drunk. Unfortunately, he murdered you on the way to your car. (Bonus to Charisma)

D. Your dog ran into a busy street and you raced after him. You saved your most important friend in the world, but the car splattered your brains everywhere. (Bonus to Smallfolk Interaction)

"I died in a Walmart... Yeah. I remember that. That... Is a sad statement about my life."

"Oh, don't feel too bad," the Gamemaster comforted, "There's really no such thing as a dignified way to die and, besides, your life wasn't meaningless, you were..."

A. Quite the athlete. True, you died before you managed to even get a shot at going pro, but you were in the top 10% of athletes in your high school. Not everyone can say that (Bonus to Fitness)

B. You were the weatherman on a local news station. True, you never made it into the top 1% of journalists that appeared on Fox, CNN, MSNBC, etc., but you were a local celebrity in your small town. It helped with the local female population, I'll give you that. (Bonus to Charisma)

C. You were a lifelong academic. College had never ceased to be your home. Sure, it was just at a community college and you never got full hours as a professor, but that was a small price to pay to cling onto your late teens/early twenties. (Bonus to Intelligence)

D. You were a mechanic. You spent your days fixing cars that people were too stupid to take care of in the first place, but you comforted yourself with the knowledge that it was a well-paying job for someone who could not afford to goto school as an engineer (Bonus to Technological Knowledge)

"A weatherman... I wish I had predicted what would happen at Walmart," I sighed. The Gamemaster nodded in understanding, "It happpens. We all have our weaknesses. Speaking of weaknesses, you were..."

A. Never an athlete. The sun burned you and you preferred to exercise as little possible. (Penalty to General Fitness)

B. You were a paranoid loon. Everyone was out to get you. It wreaked havoc on your social life (Paranoid Trait Gained)

C. You were not the most perceptive person around you. A great deal of things took you by surprise both in sports and in life (Penalty to Perception)

D. You had difficulty reading. You got over it, but not without a lot of effort from private tutors and screeching from your mother (Dyslexic Trait Gained)

"Don't remind me. It took me forever to get over that... Wait. Will I have that again?!" I asked. The Gamemaster grinned slightly.

"We are re-rolling your character. Usually, that means you can make such tweaks, but given the abysmal amount of experience you accumulated since your last respawn, there is little you can do to change your stats and traits?"

"What?" I asked, dumbfounded. The Entity-That-Definitely-Wasn't-Albus-Dumbledore waved a hand.
Character Profile
Name: ?

Age: ?

Stats

Fitness: 2

Vitality: 2

Charisma: 2

Perception: 2

Intelligence/Cunning: 2

Wisdom: 2

Authority: 2

Traits:

A Noble Death: +2 to Fitness when in combat; rate of experience gained in combat increased by .5% until level 10 in Fitness.

A Silver Tongue: +1 to Charisma

Dyslexic: -1 to Intelligence/Cunning when reading. Experience gained by reading decreased by .5% until base level 10 in Intelligence/Cunning.

"...Fuck you dude," I said after a while. Again, the Gamemaster looked mildly offended.

"Now, see here, I am being imminently fair to you. Seeing as you had just fallen in love with Lord of the Rings again, I was going to give you the chance to incarnate into Arda, but now, well... You will have to be happy playing through Westeros. I hope you are happy."

"You said this was part of my spiritual evolution. Now you seem like a Gamemaster whose ego was just bruised."

"Peaceful eras eliminated," he said smugly. I resisted the urge to groan. Shit... My life was in the hands of an egomaniac of a Gamemaster. Maybe it was best I shut up for now (+1 Wisdom Gained).

"Now, you have five eras to choose from: Aegon's Conquest, the Reign of Maegor the Usurper, the Dance of Dragons, the First Blackfyre Rebellion, or Robert's Rebellion. You will have to choose a life born within Westeros. Unfortunately, Essos and Yi Ti are not playable regions from the start of your new life. Now, what will it be?"

Shit... I had to choose which era of Westeros I had to live in. Maegor's era was instantly out. His reign sounded like an era of random cruelty and bloodshed, even by George R.R. Martin's standards. I did not feel like I was a big enough fan to know how to ward off the tranwreck that was canon if I chose to be born during Robert's Rebellion and the same could be said of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. I thought for a moment. I was familiar with the Dance of Dragons. Enough that I felt confident that I could minimize it (if I was in the right House) or avoid losing my head. Aegon's Conquest sounded like I could survive unless I was unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of Aegon's dragons and even if that was the case, when did Maegor become king?

"I'll take my chances with the Dance."

"Interesting choice. Truthfully, I was hoping for another Blackfyre player, but, there's always the next death. Now, on to business. Which House would you like be incarnated in?"

"I could choose any House... Any at all?" I asked tentatively. The Gamemaster nodded.

"Any house you know of... except Targaryen. There are too many Targaryen playthroughs in that era.

Well, shit. I didn't know too many houses off the top of my head beside the Lords Paramount and House Hightower. If I remembered correctly, only the Starks and Martells got out of it unscathed, but I did not really want to spend my day in the freezing north considering that the Stark during the Dance took people down to fight in the war specifically so they could die. As for Dorne....

Fuck the Dornish.

"I choose House Lannister."

"Then you have two options:

Jason Lannister

The Heir (+1 Fitness, +1 Charisma,)

Tyland Lannister

The Spare (+1 Perception, +1 Intelligence/Cunning)"

I thought for a moment. Being Tyland would give me more freedom and would allow me overcome my dyslexic handicap faster, but being the heir of Casterly Rock seemed appealing... Plus, in these games, it was best to play to your stat strengths, right?

"Call me Jason, then."

"Alright Jason, call me Al... And don't expect me to let you exploit the Gamer system too much and, remember, if you trip during a dance, be sure not to break your neck."



A/N. I generally feel uncomfortable playing SIs, so I decided to try out a unique way of crafting an OC without it becoming me accidentally. For all multiple choice options selected from above, I used a dice app to make the selection: Roll a Die . There will be some Gamer features here, but not to the extent that it becomes a huge exploit like in certain fics. We'll see things like stat increases/checks, and Al checking in now and then and that will mostly be it. Thanks for taking the time to read this.
 
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TriforcedLink

Well-known member
So how much influence does the Gamer have on this? Will he still be able to create skills through action and increase stats through training?

I honestly love Gamer fics, but I think one of the big reasons many of them never get anywhere is because of skill and stat number bloating. It's a lot to keep track of.
 

almostinsane

Well-known member
So how much influence does the Gamer have on this? Will he still be able to create skills through action and increase stats through training?

I honestly love Gamer fics, but I think one of the big reasons many of them never get anywhere is because of skill and stat number bloating. It's a lot to keep track of.

Generally, I hope to keep stats fairly straightforward. The stats do have influence, but I want to avoid stat and skill bloating and making Jason good at everything.
 
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Jason I

almostinsane

Well-known member
"Jason..."

I shifted in my sleep, murmuring a little.

"Jason, come on. It's time to get up," a child's voice told me impatiently. This time, it was accompanied by a shaking of my shoulder. I swatted at it.

"'Tired. Go away, Tyland," I ordered. I heard a sigh.

"Lord Jason, tell me. Have you memorized the Citadel's account of Aegon's Conquest already?" a rather dry voice asked the child next to me shoved me awake. I yawned blearily, eyeing first the old man and then the child who had been my brother for the past eleven years of life. I smiled winningly in the old man's direction.

"Well, I don't know if I have it quite memorized, Maester Jarad, but I think I rather got the basics down. Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros with dragons, burned everyone who didn't submit, and won himself Seven Kingdoms... Well, six, but we're not supposed to mention Dorne in the capital, right?"

The child next to me slapped a face that looked to be a mirror image of my own even as a balding, elderly man sighed at my description. Yawning, I propped up my face with my elbow and smiled at him again.

“My apologies. I assure you, I was merely tired from studying your lessons late last night with Tyland. The letters were getting jumbled up again,” I explained smoothly, shooting said twin a grateful look which, with a slight roll of his eyes, he accepted even as Maester Jarad grunted.*

“Understandable, but your lord father charged me with the education of both his children. Tell me, Lord Jason. Who was your ancestor during the conquest and what was his role?”

Tyland shifted in his seat, his eyes brightening in excitement and I could not help but shoot a grin at him.

“Well, personally, I like to think that King Loren I Lannister was approached first by Visenya Targaryen for terms. One thing led to another, and scandalous adultery took place right here in these walls, culminating in a heartbroken Targaryen promising him Fire and Blood….”

Tyland tried to stifle a laugh as I continued.

“Loren, brave chap that he was, joined with Mern Gardener the… I don’t know how many of his name he was, and their armies clashed with Aegon the Conqueror’s in a field somewhere in the Reach. All three dragons took off as we were winning, and, yada yada yada, Loren became Warden of the West after kneeling and, Mern… I think he was dinner for Balerion the Black Dread.”*

“Riveting. I will be sure to send a Raven to the Citadel telling them of your discoveries. Why, I may even send one to King’s Landing,” the maester said dryly even as my brother could not take it anymore and burst out laughing.

“Well, if I’m dragon food, I’m sure my father will toss you off a balcony,” I shot back. Maester Jarad sighed.

“Sweet Mother above, what did I do to become saddled with impetuous children?”

“You left the Citadel?” Tyland asked helpfully. The maester shot him a look, but turned to me.

“Do tell me, Jason, what was the day and year that the Field of Fire occurred?”

Oh, crap.

***

“That was brutal,” Tyland noted as we made our way to the practice yard. Said practice yard was five hundred feet above the ground and build into a side of a huge fucking mountain, but that was Casterly Rock for you. I had explored and played in this place for eleven years and it was still abysmally huge. George RR Martin really suffered from a scale problem, I reflected.

“I know,” I answered my brother with a groan, “Making me the list the dates of who did what and where for all of Aegon the fucking Conqueror’s reign and then maths through lunch.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Good for you.”

“You provoked him.”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tell father you were sleeping during lessons again.”

“I already knew most stuff.” I grumbled like the eleven-year-old I physically was. If there was one thing I hated, it was straight memorization of dates and pure arithmetic. If it was related to something real such as how many apples this or that farmer would have after taxation or the quartermaster’s old records Maester Jarad brough out, I could understand it much better. I suppressed a sigh. That dyslexic penalty Al saddled me with was as bad as it was in my old life. Numbers and letters contorted themselves in my head, and my old reading tricks weren’t much help. Intellectually, I knew how to use them, but I had to relearn each of them one at a time. I was sure that old Albus Dumbeldore lookalike took great delight in watching me struggle and ask for help from my much younger (in total years lived) brother.

The tell-tale sounds of clashing metal and pained grunts brightened my mood considerably.

“The Seven Hells are you doing, Jace! Your enemy is on the ground. Keep your sword at the bloody bastard’s throat. This isn’t some feel good tourney!” a middle aged man shouted at a young teenager who, from the looks of him, stepped back from a grounded opponent. Jerkily, he moved forward to do as instructed. The master-at-arms sighed as he spotted us as we moved through a crowd of young squires watching the fight.

“The dregs I put up with… Jace, Donnel. Take a breather, while I see to your future lords. The rest of you lot, find a partner and knock some learning into him. Hans, you’re green as a Septa, but better than the rest. Make sure they don’t kill each other,” he ordered as he turned to us. Tyland nodded his head in greeting.

“You’re as cheerful as ever, Ser Bryce,” he noted wryly.

“He means that you haven’t throttled someone to death yet, Uncle,” I noted with a smirk. Ser Bryce towered over us in full armor as always, a crimson lion adorning his breastplate. He grunted at me.

“Not for lack of cause, I assure you. Tyland, you’re good enough now to take opponent’s a year older. Jason, fight who you will. I will see to you both once you have the blood pumping. You know how it’s done: choose your weapons, find a good place on the field, and remember blunt weapons can still crack a skull.”

Our uncle didn’t beat around the bush, I mused as I went to the armory carved into Rock and pulled on a gambeson, helm, grieves, and leather gloves. It wasn’t plate, but even if I was going into real battle, it was damned good protection. Contrary to popular belief, gambesons weren’t shit tier armor. They were thick and heavy enough to protect against blunt trauma, swords, arrows, etc. It was perfect for sparring matches and preparing you for wearing goddamn plate in the future.

I grinned as I selected an arming sword and buckler while my brother chose the same sword with a kite shield. This felt a lot better than struggling with numbers in a musty room. Of course, learning was important, arguably more important if I wanted to improve my family’s position or make any number of changes I wanted to make, but in the end, this was Westeros. I needed to be able to fight and perhaps it was the fact that I made sure my stats reflected that or because Jason in canon was a gallant warrior, but it felt right as soon as I stepped into the practice field.

My first opponent was Daven Westford, a gangly young man two or three years my senior. I grinned winningly until I forgot my face was hidden beneath my helm. I raised my sword arm in greeting.

“Let’s have a good match, Daven,” I announced cheerfully.

“Aye, milord,” he replied, drawing his longsword and holding it in both hands. I felt adrenaline empty itself into my veins. Daven had gotten the better of me last time, but I knew the weakness of a hand and half longword like his.

With a mutual nod from one another, we began the match. We circled one another for half a minute, he trying to get me in wage of his long blade and me staying just out of reach as I adjusted my footing.

He moved forward with an overhead strike and I stepped aside from the blow, stepping backward as he pulled back his sword and delivered a quick slash. Dodging was the name of the game right now. My eyes followed his footwork as he exerted himself, waiting for the right opportunity.

There, he took too big a stride with his long legs. He was lunging forward. I grinned and ran forward as he aimed an overhead strike at me. I lifted my buckler forward to deflect (not block) his blade over my head and held my point of my sword at his throat.*

“Do you yield?”

“Aye, milord,” he replied, “Gods, how did you…”

“Just a matter of getting through your guard,” I told him cheerfully. Most novices tried to stay out of reach when it came to swords like his, but that was folly. Sooner or later, you’d get sliced. The key was to get close enough so that the reach didn’t matter. My arm throbbed from deflecting his blow, but it didn’t matter. Already I was moving to my next opponent…
****

I grunted as I fell on my back, my face practically bathed in sweat. Before me, an older boy about four summers my senior, shifted nervously. In Westeros, shithole it was, you never knew what the consequences were for beating the crap out of your liege lord’s son, even if you weren’t supposed to pull any punches.*

“That was a good feint, milord… I think you’d have gotten me if you rested a little?” he asked uncertainly. I barked a laugh as I pushed myself off. That didn’t matter. Spamming my matches and getting my ass kicked only made me more skilled, a little exploit that I wish applied more elsewhere. Of course, if I did break my arm or something, that meant my skill atrophied, a little balance mechanic that I think Al added on to check said exploit.

“Forget it, I’ll beat you later. Count on it, ser,” I told him, pulling off my helm to let myself cool down for a moment even as the courtyard seemed to freeze for a second. I looked up to find a ball of energetic scarlet gold hair and scarlet clothing practically glomp me.

“You lost Jason,” a little girl accused. I smiled down at her and ruffled her hair, drawing a whine from her as I stood us both up.

“I’d like to see you try, Cira,” I smirked down at her, earning an excited look from her even as my brother groaned at me from where he stood watching us.

“Brother, don’t give our mother a heart attack. Please,” he requested. I laughed.

“Maybe I should tell her it was your idea. I think I have you to thank for pointing her in the direction of my ignoble loss.”

“Why would you think that? You wound me, Jason.”

“Step over here and that won’t be all I wound,” I jested.

“Tyland could beat you Jason,” our sister put in, making me fall down in mock horror.

“Your words… They hurt. I shall never recover…”I groaned, earning a giggle from her that turned into a sheepish gulp as the telltale heavy footsteps of Uncle Bryce made itself known. I looked up to find him standing by a mustached man garbed in silk and satin, his keen eyes looking us over. He shook his head.

“I too should like to see my sons try their skills against each other, Cira… Yet, I feel your mother and Septa Aida will have a word with you for skipping your lessons,” he informed her. I winced in sympathy. I didn’t know who was worse. Talking to either of them would mean an hour’s lecture and 42 minutes of prayer, a seven minute prayer to each of the Seven save the Stranger. I saw my expression mirrored in Tyland’s face. We exchanged a glance for a moment before he spoke.

“As long as she is here, can she watch Jason and I?” he asked. I nodded my head in agreement as we faced our father.

“She is Cira Lannister, the only daughter of Lord Tymond and Lady Estella Lannister. The purest maiden in all of Westeros. She should become accustomed to knights fighting for her honor.”*

“Jason, you really are full of horseshit. Fighting for her honor,” Uncle Bryce muttered, but he quieted down as our father raised a hand.

“He has a good point, Bryce. Your sister may dislike it, but my son makes a good point, Won’t you prepare the match? And you, uh, squire,” he paused, addressing my previous opponent, “Please fetch a servant. A couple chairs and a goblet of wine and fruit juice for myself and my daughter would make this afternoon a paradise.”

I smiled slightly as Tymond and I prepared. Tymond Lannister did not have a Tytos button like dear, I-hope-I-butterfly-him-away, Tywin Lannister, but he had a sore spot about our family being honored/outshone by others such as Matthos Tyrell. I spotted the resigned look on my brother’s face after he finished gulping down a flagon of water.* I gripped his shoulder. A silent promise.

When we returned, we found a much wider space available for us as the rest of the squires finally tired of playing at ignoring what was going on to watch us. My brother stiffened a little, but I gripped his arm and dragged us over to Cira, beaming as though her punishment was in some far-off future.

“Won’t you honor one of us with token of your affection, milady?” I asked grandly. She looked confused, but my father smiled.

“Give your ribbon to the one you’d have win, little one,” he ordered. She smiled brightly and grabbed a ribbon from her hair, letting it run freely. She pressed it into my brother’s hand.

“I choose Tyland,” she announced brightly, sticking her tongue over at me. I could not help but smile at her antics.

God, Al, Seven, whoever was listening… Please let this teach her to expect honor from whoever my father saddles her with one day… Let Father not put his pride before her then. It was a foolish prayer, a false hope given Westeros, but…

My brother and I faced one another, our stances mirroring one another as we moved around the clearing.

I don’t remember her from canon, but she is six right now.

My moved to strike at my brother and he deflected with his shield as he knew he would. I pulled back to dodge the strike I knew was coming.

I cannot let her be hurt by her own husband or worse… Taken by the Iron Men.

I looked at my brother and instead I imagined a man full grown, hooded, blinded, gelded. A victim of the Dance. A Dance that I needed to avert or keep my family safe from. I was tempted to press my attack, but father was here.

“Almost Tyland. Come at me like I’m an Ironman,” I ordered, as he made a few strikes at me, his footwork stumbling. I knew he was trying not to glance at father. I groaned in frustration. Damn it, Tyland.

I stayed my hand for a good couple minutes until I couldn’t take it anymore. I unleashed a barrage of strikes at him, and he was stuck on the defensive. I knew this would happen. It happened whenever father watched us.

There are worse things, Tyland. You were mutilated. You were broken. And the Jason in that timeline was dead and could not help you!

I at last had him on the ground with my blade at my throat.

“I yield,” he groaned and I offered him my hand. I could hear the rest of the squires cheering as I helped him up.

“You did good, Tyland,” Cira said helpfully.

“Yes, Tyland. An honorable defeat, to be sure. Just imitate your brother and you’ll be great in no time,” our father announced. His smile here seemed reserved for me, however.

“Just like I imitate him in Maester Jarad’s lessons, Father.” I reminded him and he seemed to take my hint, at least a little.

“Yes. That is true. You are both old enough. Tomorrow you will both sit at my side while I hold court. It is time you learn what it is to be my heir,” he announced. I suppressed a sigh. Again, he was paying more attention to me. Still, we both nodded.

“Of course father.”
I needed to build Tyland up. And I had an idea on just how I was going to do that.

A/N. I apologize for the long wait. The virus has my work busy and chaotic right now. At the moment, I am debating on whether to use stat checks throughout the story and put it at the end of the chapter as I did below or if I just want the stats to simply be shown to have an impact on the story (e.g. what happens when wisdom is your dump stat), so I'm putting up a poll to help me decide on it. Up next, there will be a little explanation on how Jason improves his skills, more character development, and Jason enlisting his brother's aid in one or two things.

Name: Jason Lannister

Age: 11

Stats

Fitness: 11

Vitality: 9

Charisma: 10

Perception: 5

Intelligence/Cunning: 9

Wisdom: 2

Authority: 3

Traits:

A Noble Death: +2 to Fitness when in combat; rate of experience gained in combat increased by .5% until level 10 in Fitness.

A Silver Tongue: +1 to Charisma

The Heir (+1 Fitness, +1 Charisma)

Dyslexic: -1 to Intelligence/Cunning when reading. Experience gained by reading decreased by .5% until base level 10 in Intelligence/Cunning.

  • Talking to Maester Jarad- Persuasion Success
  • Talking to Maester Jarad 2- Persuasion Fail
  • Duel with Daven- Fitness/Combat Success
  • Duel with various other squires- Success, Success, Fail
  • Talking to Tymond Lannister- Persuasion Success
  • Noticing Tyland’s Mood- Perception Success
 

prinCZess

Warrior, Writer, Performer, Perv
Unfamiliar with Game of Thrones, but...I assume the 'Dance of Dragons' is one or two generations back from the one with Ciri and all those happenings (most of which I do not actually know)?
I base this off nothing but 'Cira' and a presumption that the name got tweaked in the near-future for her daughter or granddaughter.

"Albus Dumbledore? Really?" I asked in slightly exasperation. The Being-Who-Appeared-To-Be-A-Merlin-Expy laughed.
Okay, that bit and the follow-up of 'my cosmic power takes time, y'know?' got a giggle out of me.

Still, I believe it is required by the code of the internet for the criticism to be spoken, be it to you or to the super-entity:
Read. Another. Book.
:p

George RR Martin really suffered from a scale problem, I reflected.
*looks at 10+ Goodkind books*
*looks at however-many Wheel of Time books*
*looks at 30+ books by Mercedes Lackey in Valdemar*
*looks at 4 books of Lord of the Rings bloated with songs and scenery-narration-porn of little to no relevance*

An oddly common failing in fantasy authors.
 

almostinsane

Well-known member
actually know)?
I base this off nothing but 'Cira' and a presumption that the name got tweaked in the near-future for her daughter or granddaughter.

200 years back, but good catch! I thought I'd make a little reference to her.

Still, I believe it is required by the code of the internet for the criticism to be spoken, be it to you or to the super-entity:
Read. Another. Book.
:p

Hahahaha.
 

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