Not the length of your piece; the length of the moment inside it. Whatever happens has to begin when the sparkler is lit and end when it burns out.

It has to be night. There has to be a sparkler. The piece ends when the sparkler does. 400 words - shorter might be better.

Include the smell of smoke. Anywhere in the piece.

Daylight teetered in those last moments before the inevitable darkness when she lit the night’s first sparkler. The rich smell of charcoal smoke hung heavily in the humid evening air. Canada Day. One of many public gatherings dotted across the GTA where we, the huddled masses, banded together on the shores of Lake Ontario to take in every community’s fireworks display, from Hamilton to Kingston.

Whether inspired by the four sneaky beers already down my throat, or Gord Downey’s unmistakable croon lofting into the stratosphere from a nearby car - Courage (For Hugh MacLennan), we’ll never know. Either way, I was a moth, powerlessly drawn toward that hissing magnesium beacon.

Abandoning my teenage tribe and well-positioned folding chair, I paused only to hook two Molson Export bottles from the cooler before wordlessly padding off toward the curly mop of brown hair in a burnt orange tank top and cutoff jeans, Teva’s slapping against my heels with purpose.

I can’t even remember exactly what I said when I flopped down beside her, burning sparkler stuck in the grass between us. Still, it must have been A-game material, because my first impression of her face was the shadows of flashing aluminum reflecting from her toothy smile.

I think her name was Jen (a reasonably safe bet in those days, there were at least fifteen in my graduating class). If she told me her last name, that memory has long since surrendered to age and alcohol. The clink of Molson bottles and the acrid smell/taste of burning sulfur dominated the final few seconds of the sparkler’s fuse, creeping lower as we exchanged our most important details at the time—where we went to university, what we were studying, and our idealistic post-graduation plans.

Kingston, being the farthest east along the lake, fired the evening’s opening salvo, a willow burst of white, painting the sky to our left, the familiar distant pops arriving a second later. Neil Young took over the evening’s soundtrack, the opening riff of Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World belted out across the water toward our American neighbors. I recall wondering if the self-crowned park DJ was a genius, acutely aware of the song’s deep irony, or, more likely, mistook it for the superficial patriotic anthem the chorus suggested. Either way, probably Jen’s head landed on my shoulder, just as the sparkler went dark.

Let’s call it like it is: the paid-sub model here on Substack is not geared toward fiction writers.

Monthly subscription charges work well for non-fiction newsletters, offering a steady stream of new, unconnected content. It’s great for those writing about investment, politics, and several other topics.

For the fiction writer, it’s a lose-lose proposition.

The Fiction Writer’s Double Bind

If you keep your fiction free, you get exposure, but no monetization, and if you park it behind a paywall, you lose the exposure and likely still don’t generate any revenue because, let’s face it, why would a reader pay the equivalent cost for a digital book every month, just for a few chapters?

So, how does a fiction writer leverage the platform’s exposure capabilities and hope to see a fair return for their art?

This is the question I‘ve been wrestling with for several weeks, and I think I’ve found a solution that doesn’t compromise my desire for my novels to remain free for everyone as I build an audience.

The lightbulb went on for me when I started to think differently about what I was actually selling.

The Substack paid-sub model is geared to sell the content as the product. If you don’t pay, you don’t get it—simple.

My revelation, as a long fiction writer, was that I could actually sell something else instead, two somethings in fact—Time and Convenience—without limiting the exposure of my work and compromising my ability to attract new readers. The method came via a tool most will be familiar with—BuyMeACoffee, but not in the way you’re thinking.

Like many other authors here, I have a BMAC page where readers can choose to donate to my tip jar, or in my case, “Buy Bryn a Horn of Ale”, and it’s fine. But it suffers from the age-old problem of all non-profit ventures: the buyer isn’t getting anything in return other than the warm feeling of having supported an artist they appreciate. No magic bullet there.

Subscribe now

Selling Time and Convenience (Not Content)

Instead, I would point you to the ‘Shop’ feature on BMAC, which allows you to offer digital ‘products’ for sale. I can already hear your objections:

Great, Bryn, but what can I offer my readers that’s unique or different from the content I’m already posting on my Substack? That just sounds like more creation effort!

This is where all your serialized novel writers should pay attention, and it comes back to those two other sources of value I mentioned above—Time and Convenience.

What I’ve done is set up a digital shop for the complete, ad-free novel files of both books, professionally formatted and typeset in EPUB and PDF formats, ready for any e-reader. No monthly subscriptions, just a competitive, one-time price.

Step inside the Digital Shop

Here is how my digital ‘Shop’ on BMAC looks today:

• The Glimmerstone Enigma (Book 1): $4.99 (Discounted for new readers to dive in)

• The Siremirian Conundrum (Book 2): $5.99 (For immediate, complete early access)

• The Vanguard Bundle (Books 1 & 2): $9.99 (The ultimate value play for binge-readers)

The value proposition is simple: a reader saves the time of waiting 39 weeks for the complete serialization and gains the convenience of taking the whole story with them anywhere with zero “click friction.“

The best part is the pricing. At those levels, the price feels competitive to other platforms’ digital book sales, and my efforts with Reedsy deliver similar quality as well.

I’ve never felt right about asking Substackers to pay a monthly fee to access my work, and I’m not ready for the Bezos machine just yet (for several reasons!). But, as artists, we shouldn’t shy away from seeking appropriate financial compensation for our work, and this solution fits the bill for me.

So, whether you’re gasping to get the whole of The Siremirian Conundrum immediately, or you’re a fellow author looking for a monetization solution of your own, check out what I’ve built!

Bryn's BMAC

Until next time,

Bryn

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Week Two: Setting the Scene

Night has set across the library in [insert your hometown of choice here], which, during the day, intimates the warm allure of the sun; and at night, the distance. Within, across the high call desk, through the wooden stacks, and into the deep middle of the romantasy section, lies on the floor a woman in a long dress, arms laid vaguely about her head as though dancing, the blood seeping from her body making a mess of the worn carpeting. Several details in her vicinity reveal themselves: First, a step ladder fallen nearly on top of her, a toppled book settled perfectly upon her face. Second, a letter opener covered in something… sticky? lodged into her left lung. And third, of course, resting within her open hand: a literal smoking gun.

Each day, you will be given a new clue. Each day, you will be asked to solve the crime. And if you don’t solve it in time… you’ll be next.

Thanks to Ani Beeler and Eliza James for launching this. Am FEVERISH following the alleged rampant success of my first week. Apparently a South African Paramedic is now forever to be whispered in the annals of history.

To get started, let’s build our characters! (Mentally OR on paper OR however your heart desires.)

Our characters as defined by their differences:

~Character One~

Character One is sharp in mind and tongue, which does not endear them to anyone. They are someone who is, and must be, easily hated, and this works perfectly for what they have planned.

~Character Two~

Character Two is reserved, and rightfully so. They have a secret that, when revealed, will ruin everything.

~Character Three~

Character Three is boring & normal.



Day #1



Day One: Our beloved characters are hanging out in the local pub when the town gossip busts down the door. The Hemingway-or-bust high school English teacher reads romantasy???? Oh, and also, she’s dead.

Ok, Ok…I know I missed last week, the victim of an unexpected flurry of home activity. I’m hoping to redeem myself with a strong showing this week!

_________________________________________________________________________

“Another Teacher’s Ernie?” Glenda called over to her only patrons from behind the bar, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. Did I shrink it? She’d been working at The Snog in the Snug for less than a year, and it fit when she started. But now, no matter how she tried, it insisted on riding up, revealing an unflattering belly bulge. Not even her stretchy jeans came up high enough for ample cover. Maybe it’s time to break up with the chippy.

Ernie, the taller of the two men seated at the bar, raised his nearly empty glass wordlessly in confirmation. With one last futile attempt at wardrobe rearrangement, Glenda palmed the bottle of whiskey from the counter and headed their way. As far as she was concerned, eleven am was a bit early for blended scotch, but the Snog didn’t pay her for her opinions.

The other man, an insufferable ponce called Simon, had been talking Ernie’s ear off for several minutes, which was status quo. Normally, she tuned him out entirely and suspected Ernie of frequently doing the same. Her approach, however, reluctantly dragged her into the so far one-sided conversation.

“I’m telling you, mate, the entire genre is a thinly veiled cover for monster sex fetishes!” Simon’s tone carried all the usual bluster of someone who masked their ignorance through confident delivery. “That bird is definitely into shagging werewolves, or centaurs, or summik.” Simon stretched out both fists before pulling them back toward his body repeatedly, jerking his hips forward in a lewd, piston-like motion, before forcing a fake laugh.

Closer to Glenda, Ernie turned toward her with an epic eyeroll. The corners of her mouth twitched in response, but she kept it contained.

“For god’s sake, man, the woman is dead, show a bit of respect!” Ernie admonished him, sliding his empty glass across the bar.

Catching it between her thumb and forefinger, Glenda inverted the bottle. “Who’s dead?”

“Miss Hemingway, the sixth form English teacher,” Ernie said.

“And monster shagger!” Simon added, hoping that if he repeated the joke enough times, it would get funnier.

Ernie shook his head in exasperation. “They found her in the library last night. Apparently, she enjoyed reading Romantasy, and this one,” he tilted his head toward Simon, “Thinks that means she indulged in certain kinky proclivities.”

Glenda’s face wrinkled in distaste. “That’s horrible!”

“That’s what I’m saying! Thank you!” Simon instantly piled on.

“Horrible that she’s dead, not that she likes her fantasy with a bit of spice, you numpty!” Glenda fired back. “Honestly, Simon, sometimes I’m jealous of everyone who doesn’t know you!”

The pour spout dribbled to a finish before Glenda inverted it a second time, giving her regular a bit more than the standard. The uncomfortable smile on Simon’s face confirmed he was trying to work out if she’d just insulted him. Mission accomplished.

“What happened?” she directed the question deliberately at Ernie.

The taller man shrugged. “Dunno, but they found her in a pool of her own blood, holding a letter opener, so it’s definitely suspicious.”

Having convinced himself that she hadn’t intended to besmirch his character, Simon spread his hands wide, a look of disbelief on his face. Holding the pose until he had her attention, he looked at Ernie’s refilled glass, then back to his empty pint glass, then back to her.

“Same again?” she asked, snatching the glass from the smooth lacquered wooden bar top. “What was it?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, “If you don’t mind. It’s Stella. It’s always been Stella for as long as I’ve been coming here.”

“Of course it is,” She muttered, turning around to the tap on the rear counter.

“Whoa! Looks like you’ve got some love handles on the grow there, Glendy! You lookin to change it up from those bunches? Give your fella summik else to grab hold of?” Simon forced another laugh. Ernie’s hands instinctively rose to cover his face.

With one hand holding the glass and working the tap, the other reached behind her, giving the shirt another self-conscious tug before turning up her middle finger in his direction. “I’ve told you before, please call me Glenda…Glendy sounds like some chain-smoking slag that draws her brows on with a Sharpie.”

Her back to both men, Glenda pursed her lips, subtly releasing a long drool of saliva into the head of his beer. Forcing a sweet smile onto her face, she turned around, sliding the pint across the bar.

________________________________________________________

Day Two: Character One did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: Your viewpoint character of choice visits the crime scene to check it all out (how do they get past the police? Who knows). When they remove the book from her face, a cavity within its pages becomes visible—but it is empty. What could have been hidden within? Search for the item that has been lost. It is near her body, and it may be a crucial clue.

Day 2 Add

She watched him neck the first third of the pint. The change was subtle, but her smile shifted from a facade to genuine satisfaction. Personal indulgences aside, she needed to steer the conversation back to the murder, a confident title for what she witnessed last night.

The date had ended far earlier than she’d hoped. The modest expectation of a decent meal, and maybe even a shag, was dashed by an obvious mommy complex and a revolting obsession with something called Warhammer. At least she’d managed to scarf down a rocket salad before bolting when he went to the loo. Not her finest moment, but life was too short for that kind of bullshit.

The walk back to her flat, on the other hand, was far too long, especially in this rain. Arms folded across her chest, head bowed, she hurried across the street toward the public library. Normally quiet in the evening, particularly with the local uni already in summer recess, the building spanned three blocks across the south end of the common. Entrances on both sides offered a welcome cut through against the weather, making it an easy choice.

No one at the front desk, that wasn’t unusual anymore—cutbacks. The hollow sound of her heels against the stone floor echoed as she crossed the space. Clack clack. Children’s fiction. Clack clack. Fantasy/Sci-Fi. As she crossed into Modern fiction, the clacks stopped abruptly. Prone on the floor, in the middle of the aisle on her right, a woman lay motionless, the soles of her Clarks pointed at Glenda.

“You alright, Love?” she called, before seeing the blood. Rushing down the aisle, Glenda stopped short, resisting the urge to shout for help, a tingle of warning tickling her brain. The woman was clearly dead, the front of her dress soaked in blood, a larger puddle framing her torso on the floor below. Her eyes darted to the victim’s face, hidden under an open book, curious, then to the letter opener. Tiptoeing around the puddle’s crimson edge, she examined it closely. Handle and blade both bloody, it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots, but there was something else.

After a sweeping glance reassured her she was alone, Glenda carefully got down on her knees, the floor’s surface cold against her bare skin. Stupid miniskirt. bringing her nose close to the dull blade. and the dark purple smear near the tip, she inhaled deeply through her nose. The tang of wet metal, copper more specifically, dominated her senses, but another, more familiar scent tickled her brain. The Aussies…pints during the Ashes last summer…Black Currant! Snakebites, they called them, VB with a dash of black currant bitters. There was black currant jelly on the letter opener. Very odd.

She got to her feet, suddenly very aware of how things might look if someone found her over the body. Still, curiosity got the better of her. Pulling the sleeve of her jacket over her fingers, she lifted the book gently off the poor woman’s face, looking into the vacant eyes staring back. She recoiled, a sharp gasp escaping her lungs. It’s Philippa Hemingway!

Suddenly aware of the accelerating thump of her heart, beating against her chest, she looked down at the book. The pages had been cut out to hide something, something small, no more than three inches long and less than two across. One of the shorter edges was stained crimson, long dry by the look of it. What the actual fuck?

She flipped it over. No label on the base of the spine. Not a real library book. She glanced at the title—A Farewell to Arms. Her eyebrows arched in surprise. Hemingway…a bit on the nose.

Whatever secret the book’s cutout had been hiding wasn’t immediately apparent. It couldn’t have been the letter opener—too big. After placing the book back where she found it, Glenda checked the library’s bookshelves—flush with the floor, so whatever it was didn’t escape that way. What if it’s underneath her body?

She hesitated.

Fuck it! I need to know!

Returning to her knees, she cautiously lifted the victim’s right shoulder, her face retracting in a grimace of disgust. Nothing. Shimmying around the blood puddle, she repeated the maneuver on the left shoulder, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

And there it was…a severed human thumb!

Glenda lurched back in surprise, the lifeless shoulder returning to the blood pool with a sickly squelch.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god!” she hissed.

What started as a gesture of compassion was escalating rapidly. The smart thing to do now would be to walk away and pretend she was never here.

Instead, she found herself reaching into her handbag for her pack of wet wipes and returning to the body. After two false starts, she worked up enough courage to lift the shoulder again and snatched the digit.

The wail of distant sirens snapped her head up. Shit. The Filth. Carefully folding the thumb up in a wet wipe, Glenda removed her heels and raced for the exit.

__________________________________________________________

Day Three: No, actually, Character Two did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: The stickiness on the letter opener tastes like honey? Strange. Thankfully, it was something semi-edible and not horrendously disgusting, since someone chose to taste it.

Day 3 Add

“Oy, Glenda!” Marcus’ voice from the kitchen snapped her attention back to the moment.

“Alright, alright!” she shouted back. Wiping her hands on a bar towel, she walked back toward the kitchen, still puzzling out how to subtly bring the conversation with Ernie and Simon back to the murder.

Holding the door open with her hip, she accepted two warm plates from Marcus before returning to her only customers.

“Here we are, gents, two full English.” She slid the plates across the bar and turned on her heel, retreating to the cooler behind the till. “What’s brought you in so early on a Sunday anyway?”

“Weekly market,” Simon replied. Unwilling to wait for cutlery, he plucked a mushroom from his plate and popped it into his mouth. “Ernie has artisinal tastes, and there’s a bird there I fancy.”

Glenda opened the cooler to fetch the bowl of butter pats. Her gaze lingered on the severed thumb, suspended in a pint glass filled with ice, before considering the bowl of jam packets. I wonder. Quickly rearranging the packets, she collected both bowls, along with two sets of napkin-wrapped cutlery. Depositing all of it in front of Simon and Ernie, she gave her troublesome another tug and leaned back against the counter.

Simon directed an upward nod her way, immediately snapping up a pat of butter. “Cheers, Glendy!”

“Cheers!” Ernie echoed, grabbing butter of his own.

She watched intently when Simon went for the jam. Hunting through the options, he finally made a selection. He peeled back the foil cover before levering the contents onto his toast with a smear. Black Currant.

Her lips stretched into a smile.

“Would you mind terribly if I used my own?” Ernie asked. He held up a burlap shopping bag from the floor beside his stool. “Weekly market!”

“‘Course you can,” she replied with a wave of her hand.

Focused on Simon, she only casually registered Ernie removing a jar from the bag. Plunking it on the bar before returning the rest of his shopping to the floor, the color caught her eye—purple.

The seal gave way with a metallic pop.

Glenda craned her neck for a better look at the jar. “What is that?”

“Honey, imported from America, North Carolina specifically,” Ernie replied, “It’s gorgeous!”

“He paid fifteen quid for that. Can you Adam and Eve it?” Simon scoffed. “Purple honey!”

“D’you mind?” Glenda asked, arching her eyebrows, reaching for the jar.

Ernie nodded. “Course! Try some if you like.”

She held the jar up to the light—deep purple. “The color is amazing! What makes it purple?”

Ernie’s eyes glittered mysteriously. “That’s just it, no one knows! Some think it’s down to the plants they source the pollen from, others think it could be the soil.”

Glenda brought the jar to her nose and gave it a long sniff. Hints of grape…and black currant.

__________________________________________________________

Day Four: No, actually!!! Character Three did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: When the gun is pulled away, there rests a piece of paper with something written on it in the woman’s hand. Now your character must find out: What does it say, and how did it get there?

_________________________________________________________________

Day 4 Add

Simon slapped his hand on the bar so hard the nearby cutlery rattled, bits of toast flying from his mouth. “Ha! Come on, Glendy. You expect us to believe that load of codswallop?”

Her dropping jaw pulled her facial features into a stunned pout.

Ernie’s shoulders shook in silent mirth while he swallowed a bite of black pudding.

“Accusing Ernie because of his fancy feckin honey? He didn’t even buy that until this morning. I watched him. There was a few bits and pieces missing from your little porky pie, wasn’t there?”

“I…I…don’t understand,” she stammered

“You just failed to notice a six-foot ladder, lying on top of the corpse, or the literal smoking gun in her hand, but you got close enough to examine the honey on the letter opener? Bollocks.”

“How do you…?” Glenda caught herself before finishing the sentence.

Simon smiled around the rasher of bacon he was shoveling into his mouth. “Because we were there, you absolute lampshade!” He tossed a worn leather billfold onto the bar, the flap falling open to reveal his identification card. “I’m DCI Simon Williams.” He tipped his head toward Ernie. “And this is DS Ernie Rees.”

After wiping his mouth on the napkin, Simon crumpled it and let it fall onto his half-finished breakfast. Pushing the stool back, he got to his feet, strolling casually toward the cut-through at the end of the bar, and her only means of escape. “I’m gonna make this real simple for you. How’s about you tell us why you killed poor Miss Hemingway, and what you took from the book?” In exchange, we’ll have a quiet word with the magistrate.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll knock off a couple of years.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Glenda said defiantly, her cheeks blooming pink. “She was already dead by the time I arrived.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that so?” He turned to Ernie, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “She has no idea, Ernie!”

The taller man smiled, clearly enjoying the breakfast theater while he mopped up a bit of egg yolk onto his toast.

Simon circled back to Glenda, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Besides the ladder, you also didn’t notice the note she had in her hand, wrapped around the pistol grip. We didn’t see it either, until we pried the gun out of her hand.”

“Not only were you foolish enough to threaten the woman in writing, but you even signed it!”

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdrew an evidence bag containing a rumpled piece of paper and read from it. “Meet me at 9 pm, south side of the common, and bring the key, or you’re dead - Glenda.”

“I didn’t sign my name—” She froze, realizing her mistake. Her chin sank to her chest. “How did you know?”

“Why do you think we’ve been coming in here every week for the last few months, ever since the museum heist?” Ernie called from his seat. “For the ambience? We’ve had our eye on you.”

Glenda’s gaze fell on Simon. “So have you just been pretending to be a complete arsehole this entire time as well?”

Ernie answered first. “No, that’s entirely genuine.”

_________________________________________________________________

Day Five: The police are floundering, the town is flummoxed, and I mean obviously the woman herself is finito. So. How does this story end? Who murdered Ms. [—]?

_________________________________________________________________

Day 5

Glenda tugged at the hem of her shirt and let out a sigh. “Fine, I wrote the note, but I didn’t kill her, I swear.”

“Make me believe that,” Simon challenged her. “Cuz from where I’m standing…” his head tilted to one side, brows arched.

“She was in on it, the ring leader in fact.” Glenda began.

“April Hemingway, the sixth form English teacher, the mastermind of the museum heist?” Ernie’s tone was doubtful.

“The very same, as God is my witness.” Glenda held up one hand, as if swearing on a bible. “There were four of us from around the country, all specialists. I was the fence.”

“Come on then, who are the others, let’s have the names.” Simon prompted her.

Glenda gave a long shrug. “Never knew them, never even met them, I swear! She kept us all siloed and used codenames. I was called Kerouac. She named everyone after authors.”

Simon paused her with a raised hand. “Kerouac? She named you all after authors?”

“So, what was the key you demanded, and why was it so important?” Ernie asked.

Glenda nodded before turning to Ernie, lifting her chin defiantly. “I did my bleedin’ job, didn’t I? The buyers were lined up and getting more than a bit irate since I hadn’t delivered the artwork, and of course, everyone wanted to get paid. Only our security specialist—codename Steinbeck—had the goods locked up somewhere and went dark, likely holding out for a bigger share. Hemingway said she knew where to find the key, and would bring it to me. When I hadn’t heard from her, I wrote the note.”

Ernie pushed his empty plate aside, his cheek bulging in an attempt to pry a stubborn piece of bacon from between his teeth. “And where’s this key now? We know you haven’t gone anywhere apart from your flat and The Snog since last night.”

“The unis are tossing the flat as we speak; if they find it first, it’s game over,” Simon added.

Glenda’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two men for a long moment. “Well, turns out it wasn’t really a key, was it?” Taking two steps toward the cooler, she reached for the handle.

“Easy!” Simon barked.

Holding up her hands in surrender, she used two fingers to open the cooler door and extract the pint glass, sliding it across the bar’s surface.

Simon recoiled, taking a step back. “Jesus Christ! Is that a finger?”

“A thumb, actually,” Glenda confirmed. “That’s what was hidden in the book.”

Well, whose is it?” Simon’s lips curled in revulsion as he leaned in for a closer look, wiping away a line of the rapidly forming condensation on the glass surface.

Ernie let out a sigh, his head shaking in disbelief as he reached down for the burlap bag at his feet.

Glenda shrugged. “My guess would be Steinbeck’s. He was an expert with locks, alarms and safes. His job was to hack the systems at the museum, to get us in. Maybe it opens a digital lock, wherever he hid the paintings?”

Simon pulled the thumb from its icy tank, holding it up for a closer look. “And you think Hemingway killed him and hacked off his thumb?”

Glenda nodded. “I don’t think she was retrieving it from the book. I think she was hiding it there, for me to pick up!”

“What gave you that idea?” Ernie asked idly, setting his shopping bag on the bar, rummaging through it, obviously looking for something.

Glenda looked from one to the other in disbelief. “Didn’t you notice the book title?”

Ernie raised his head from the bag. exchanging a blank look with Simon.

Glenda transitioned from a headshake to an epic eyeroll. “Tottenham’s finest, you two barnacles! It was A Farewell to Arms…Ernest Hemingway…get it?” She spread her arms in a look of stunned disbelief as they stared back, unfazed. “Her name was Hemingway, she cut off a finger, and chose A Farewell to Arms to hide a severed thumb? What a perfect setup to leave me a cryptic clue on where to find it! Only someone got to her before she could meet me on the common.”

“So, who killed her then?” Simon was growing impatient. “Who was the fourth member of your crew?”

“He was the infiltration specialist, could get in and out of anywhere without being seen, so she said. And apparently, if someone did see him, they didn’t live to squawk about it. Like I said, I never met him.”

Simon pressed for details. “But what was his code name? Tell us that at least.”

“Fleming, Ian Fleming.” It was Ernie who spoke. Extracting a pistol from his market bag, two gasps hissed from the silencer. The first shot struck Simon in the right ear, the second caught Glenda in her left cheek. Both crumpled to the floor.

Sliding the gun back into his burlap tote, Ernie calmly rose from his stool, crossed to Simon’s still form. Stepping around the crimson puddle expanding around his head, he casually snatched up the severed thumb, added it to his shopping bag, and exited The Snog.

As many of you know, I began this journey without the benefit of any literary education or practice as an author. The taxonomy and evolution of literary genres weren’t topics of interest either. I just waded in and started writing. My love of Fantasy and my D&D experience made the high-level navigation clear. Beyond that, I clung to several ideas I wanted to explore and prove I could do it. More importantly, I needed to confirm if there were others like me out there who would be interested in reading it. The Unexpected Vanguard trilogy is the result, and I can finally put a proper label on it.

Fantasy for the Masses

The genre always felt polarized to me. Readers either love it or they don’t. There was no in-between. When I thought about this, I wondered if that came down to the large-scale world-building—hundreds of pages of history, politics, complicated magic systems, and excessive scene-setting required for the underlying story to make sense. Did these elements serve as a gatekeeper to the casual reader? Could a story retain enough of the fantastical elements of the genre and remove the barrier of complex background setup before getting to what many non-fantasy folks see as the ‘good stuff’ - plot, characters, setting? If it could be done, would it open those gates and usher in a new audience that often shied away from the genre? I’ve tried to accomplish this by building on a fairly well-known system—the mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons—while avoiding the detailed explanations. My thought was that hardcore fans generally know those rules and don’t require the explanation, while the uninitiated would appreciate getting to their ‘good stuff’ without the complex definitions.

Reprising the Ensemble Cast and Found Family

The second tenet that I wanted to embrace was the return of the ensemble cast and found family. While these dimensions in fantasy haven’t disappeared by any means, the current trends, which I’m less fond of, have been driving toward single main character stories delivered in the first-person perspective, often with the structured stat blocks and power-ups more common in video games. I yearned for those classic fantasy tales of a group coming together, building a relationship, and tackling a shared problem. The stories of Tolkien and Jordan, Weiss and Hickman. Is it a taller order for a first-time author? Absolutely, but it was the story I wanted to write. Seven diverse main characters, multiple points of view, third person.

Hopepunk and Avoiding the Power Trope

This was probably the most important idea I wanted to embrace. Lately, it seems not a single day goes by without the constant erosion of hope for most people, particularly in North America. Layoffs everywhere, rising prices, stagnating wages, the rich getting richer, the elite avoiding accountability, and the promise of a better life for the next generation getting farther out of view. The sense of powerlessness and frustration builds with every morning’s headline.

I didn’t know how to label the work at the time, but I wanted to offer a fantasy escape that could also help restore belief in our collective ability to make a difference. I needed to show that there is still hope for improvement by staying true to who we are as human beings and embracing each other when everything is trying to divide us. We may be unremarkable punks in the world’s current power schema, but refusing to accept seemingly grimdark surroundings and choosing to make the world a better place through kindness and small, courageous choices can have a potentially profound impact.

This is a message I believe many need to hear right now, myself included. When I came across the definition for this fantasy subgenre, I was ecstatic to finally find the definition I had been grasping for since the first words of The Glimmerstone Enigma hit the page.

This is Hopepunk.

Ironically and unintentionally, I try to show the power of humanity with a group of non-humans, but you’ll also notice my characters aren’t very powerful. That one is deliberate, and a big part of the point.

Together, we rise!

Until next time,

Bryn

Writing The Glimmerstone Enigma began as an experiment while I was between jobs, and has turned into a labor of love and many late nights. My goal is to keep the entire trilogy free to read. If you’d like to support the project, you can [Pledge a Subscription] for the long haul, or send a one-time high-five via [Buy Me a Coffee]. No pressure either way, I’m just glad you’ve come along for the adventure!

Now that the entirety of The Glimmerstone Enigma has been published, I feel like I can share more about some of the story evolution and specifics that I shied away from earlier. Of course, I’ll continue to avoid spoilers for those who aren’t fully caught up.

For anyone familiar with my journey, you’ll recall that ‘author’ was not a skill set present in my wheelhouse until less than two years ago. For those who may be newer to the Stack, I won’t rehash the Bryn Norel origin story, but you can find it here.

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The Seven Seat Problem

What I want to share today gets at the heart of one of the major creative hurdles any fiction author faces when they first sit down to write—who is the story about?

I think most of us start with the concept of a high-level plot, but it’s no secret that one of the ingredients for memorable fiction is memorable and relatable characters, and this stops many would-be authors in their tracks—How many? Who are they? What makes them interesting?

Obviously, the larger the cast, the greater the challenge, so many writers keep it simple the first time out, sticking to one main character that often takes on a personality very similar to the author themselves (or who they wish they were), and there’s nothing wrong with this approach, particularly when a writer is trying to find their authorial feet.

Expediency over Effort

In the case of The Unexpected Vanguard series, I started with seven main characters and a handful of significant side characters, a fairly tall order. So, am I some literary ingenue with previously undiscovered mad character development skills? Absolutely not. Those who know me in real life would tell you I’m ruthlessly practical, bordering on lazy, always trying to think my way to a lower-friction, lower-effort solution. So, where did I find the collection of weirdos you’ve all come to love in the story?

RPG Meets MC

The answer lies in the common thread that runs through many dimensions of my fantasy writing—Dungeons and Dragons. More specifically, in this case, I ripped my characters straight from my current tabletop game.

I have a group of friends that gets together once every three weeks for gaming sessions that started before COVID. It’s a definite highlight of my social calendar. In fact, we’re playing tonight (Yay!).

When I was first considering trying my hand at fiction writing, I thought it would be cool to immortalize the characters my friends had developed and lived once every three weeks for lo these many years, directly into my story.

With their blessing, I instantly had my ensemble cast, a blend of each of them as people and their game persona that I’ve had the benefit of observing for quite a while—the way they think and speak, the quirks they consciously or unconsciously incorporate into the characters, their motivations and fears.

Sorry J.R.R. (and other necessary edits)

I’ve definitely taken a degree of creative license here and there, and even had to change their names in two cases to fit the narrative. My friend Marc, being very new to D&D when we started all those years ago, decided to name his elven ranger “Segolas”. Now, I couldn’t have good old JRR rolling over in his grave, so I had to rename him to something a bit less obvious and landed on Segwyn.

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Similarly, my friend Julie, who happens to be French and also a beginner, named her halfling bard Sabine, which similarly didn’t really fit the world I was building. After seeing a documentary on the pirate ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy and the discovery of his flagship, I knew I had to go with ‘Whydah’ (pronounced wi-DAH), which, of course, must be delivered with a Boston drawl. For those unfamiliar with the story of the wreck and its treasure, you can find it here.

Tics, Hammers, and the Imposter Syndrome

While the world of Venn, and the plot are all mine, the characters in the book are my interpretations of their creations, down to Tsuta’s neurodivergent tics and social awkwardness, and Lunish’s imposter syndrome, the latter originating from the player rather than the character. Another D&D beginner, she always worried she didn’t know enough about the game to play it properly. In fact, the scene in Chapter 16 where our little druid gnome prepares to attack the Sklir with a tiny carpenter’s hammer is a direct callback to one of her first battles on the tabletop, as was the fireside intervention a couple of chapters later, where the rest of us tried to convince her to embrace different tactics in the future.

The Smartphone Substitute

Even the more prominent side characters in the story - Grym and Glamos - were my twin sons’ characters from our attempt to introduce D&D to our children as a substitute for smartphones—a longer tale worthy of its own post.

So, if you’re an author searching for character inspiration for your own story, look around you; they may be closer than you think.

Where’s Bryn?

For those who have been paying attention, you’ll recall that I’m a player, not the DM in this campaign. That means my own character is also in the story. Any guesses?

Until next time,

Bryn

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To dive into the first tale featuring this motley crew, start reading The Glimmerstone Enigma, the first book of The Unexpected Vanguard trilogy here.

I’m pretty versatile in my talents, reasonably strong with the written word, and a half-ass decent musician (at least I used to be).

The Art Barrier

However, when it comes to the more traditional definition of “art”, I’m pathetic. Stick figures test the limits of my skills, yet looking at the map above, you’d never know it.

I suspect there are many other authors in a similar position - strong with words, weak with artwork.

There is no shortage of perspectives or advice when it comes to the most obvious illustrative requirement for any author with constraints like mine - cover art. We all need a cover, and if you can’t draw it yourself, there are software tools, the debatable AI option, and the choice to commission someone with more skill to do it for you. I’m not going to rehash those old chestnuts. It’s been explored ad nauseam.

The Geographic Anchor

I want to share a tip on overcoming a far more urgent and earlier challenge for anyone writing in the Fantasy genre. Like it or not, you simply must have a map. Maybe not your entire world, but at the very least, you must visually ground your readers in some representation of the setting, since the story is happening in a world you quite literally just made up.

Without it, readers will struggle to follow along. Even as the author, the surrounding world sparks questions that will impact how you tell the story. Where are they going? How did my characters travel? How long did it take? Could an event be seen or heard in another location? How do I describe the area?

When this hits for the first time - often as you’re trying to get those first couple of chapters on the page, it can trigger literary paralysis as you’re driven into a spiral of wider world-building concerns (cultures, politics, terrain, inhabitants, the names of things) that feels like a mountain standing between the fledgling author and the tale they burn to tell.

Sidestepping the Spiral

Circling back to my initial point, if you don’t have the artistic skills and tools to tackle even the first task - drawing the map, it all begins to feel insurmountable. It certainly did for me. My years of experience as a Dungeon Master weren’t much help here either. Yes, I had cobbled together chicken scratches representing the local terrain for my players many times, and they were always gracious enough to embrace the mud-puddle depth of my drawing, because at the table, the game transitions quickly into the theatre of the mind, or a very specific battle map charted out in five-foot plots. In addition, there is a constant stream of interrogation for clarity that isn’t available between author and reader: How far away am I? Can I see the castle from here?

As I began to write The Glimmerstone Enigma, my hopes of completing a large part of the first draft without investing in the geographical anchor of both a map and the world-building pillars that support it evaporated before the first arrow flew.

How Do I Work This?

What’s the solution? Put the story on hold for months, toiling to craft every element of the surrounding world? Then, find and likely pay for someone to draw a professional map that reflects everything I imagined, worthy of the novel’s printed pages…I could practically hear my new hobby, excitedly embraced on a whim, rotting on the vine.

So, I took a different approach. What if I could instantly find a map that already reflected enough of the core ‘big picture’ elements of my plot points to be ‘good enough’, and then write the story around that geography, allowing me to craft the world-building, chipping away at its enormity as I went?

I can already hear your skepticism: Great idea, Bryn, except you’re writing fantasy. The world hasn’t been illustrated in any form. If you take a map of Colorado, rename it “The Outer Realms of Darrympi,” thinking no one will notice when your characters approach the city of Boulderdash, then you’re a naïve fool. Credibility shot, opportunity lost.

And you’d be completely right. This was where my DM experience paid off in spades.

Enter the Wizard—Azgaar!

In a prior tabletop attempt to atone for my artistic anemia, I wanted to create a “Wow” moment, treating my players to a ‘real’ map after years of visual inadequacy. What’s important here is where and how I produced it on such short notice, because that is precisely how the world of Venn, and all the associated maps you see in my novels, was geographically brought to life almost instantly.

There is a wonderful online tool for fantasy gaming that can very easily be adapted to solve this very real authorial problem - Azgaar’s Fantasy Map Generator

I don’t know who Azgaar is, but just from the name and the demonstrated capabilities, he’s clearly a wizard of unparalleled proportion.

When the site loads, it will not impress you with visual UX. There is no rich interface or slick menus. There is but one button— “New Map!” However, when you hit that button, Azgaar’s arcane majesty becomes instantly apparent. It generates a unique world map for you, complete with detailed topography, communities with names, populations, and political affiliations, and even a sprinkling of fantasy landmarks— strange monoliths, mystical whirlpools, and the like, just waiting to be folded into your tale.

Recasting the Spell

The best part? If the rendered map doesn’t fit those ‘core elements’ of your plot (in my case, I needed a mountain range that factored prominently in the central geography), just hit it again, and Azgaar will create a brand new world, hopefully more to your liking. I spent about thirty minutes cycling through world creation until I found the geography that suited my needs, but that is a far cry from months of world-building and cartography.

Once you have your base, the customization at every level is the real magic. You can zoom in and out, changing the scale to fit the scope of your story to your heart’s content. Every name, and every dimension - from the country level down to a specific river or road, level of relief, the fonts, the colors, all of it - is editable, allowing you to tie the map and the world directly to your story. When you’ve got it just the way you like it, Azgaar allows you to save and download the file, providing a professional-grade, permanent record of every mile your characters travel.

The Efficiency Play

One note about Azgaar’s ‘function over form’. The customization toolset isn’t the most intuitive, can be frustrating at times, and requires some practice to master. That said, it’s a quantum leap over starting from scratch. Remember to save as you go and regularly download your map to your local machine. Don’t make the same mistake I did. If you don’t take an early download, the site will eventually reset, even on an open map, and you’ll lose everything. Once you have the file, you can return to the site and load it back up to keep tinkering.

With a few hours of my own customization, Azgaar allowed me to race past the specter of the initial world-building, map-making barrier, and get back to telling the tale of my unremarkable crew and their struggle against the Red Queen.

Without that glorious wizard, Bird and the others might never have escaped my imagination! Now, back to the action - the crew is face to face with Sklir demons, and Whydah is about to do something really, really, stupid!

Until next time,

Bryn

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I never aspired to be an author. Two years ago, I was a corporate executive.

You May Find Yourself…

With a background in Economics and Political Science, I had my sights set on the world of trading and finance, carving out a nice little space for myself, leading large global operations and client-facing teams for various multinationals. Throw a family and children into the mix, and I found myself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife, but I never asked myself—Well…how did I get here?

Because this was where I thought I wanted to be, I let the days go by, let water hold me down.

Fast-forward thirty years, and as it does with many people, it took a drastic change in circumstances two years ago to force self-reflection.

After the Money’s Gone

Suddenly, I found myself laid off in a shrinking job market, and over fifty. The employment opportunities weren’t coming as easily as they always had before. A lot of my network had retired from corporate life or taken an entrepreneurial turn. The application process spoke volumes in its silence. Too expensive, too old, too inflexible about the value of work-life balance. The days went by, doom scrolling filling the hours that turned into months, waiting for something to break.

Thankfully, I didn’t find myself in another part of the world or living in a shotgun shack. There was still my beautiful house, with my beautiful wife, but something had to change.

Water Flowing Underground

I’ve always loved Dungeons and Dragons, since picking up the game as an OG back in the early ‘80s. I naturally gravitated to the role of the Dungeon Master, the scene setter, the storyteller, the facilitator of adventure. I’ll admit, there was a long hiatus through my twenties and thirties, but the spark returned in my forties when, together with two friends, we desperately sought any way to sever the tether of dependency we had mistakenly allowed our children to develop with their smartphones.

Same As It Ever Was

The game returned as a potential solution, and I was instantly reminded of how much I loved the escape of fantasy, the possibility of self-determination in a magical world, the wonder of mythical creatures, all fiercely opposed to the measures of my career success: KPIs, EBITDA, and Operational Efficiency, but infinitely more pleasurable.

One of the most frustrating things about being a Dungeon Master is the sheer volume of fantastic potential stories you accumulate but never get to tell, if you’re doing it right. The game is grounded on player agency, so if the party chooses to go in a particular direction, as DM, you have to honor that and roll with it (no pun intended). As a result, each of us who has played the role for any length of time has a drawer full of tales we never got to tell.

Am I Right or Am I Wrong?

From this collection of circumstances, my origin story as an author was born. It began, as such tales often do, on a whim. Why not put the unproductive doom scrolling aside and pass the idle time riding the current of employment pursuit by taking an honest stab at telling those drawer-bound tales? I had to take David Byrne’s suggestion and ask myself—How do I work this? What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe I’m not very good, or maybe no one reads it. So what? As someone who responds to achievement, this was the chance to prove I could do it—tell the whole story. Write a novel. What I found was an unexpected source of joy.

My God, What Have I Done?

When my purgatory of unemployment finally ended, I rejoined the working world but with a new outlook. I may get paid for my expertise in operations, client engagement, and efficiency, but in my soul, I now know, I am a storyteller. The satisfaction of generating even a small measure of enjoyment in others for my words, the next chapter, the next adventure, is so much greater than exceeding annual corporate objectives that I’ll never give it up, even if I have to force it into evening and weekend moments, and it never earns me a dime.

Where Does That Highway Go To?

So, if you find yourself wondering— Where is my beautiful house? Where is my beautiful wife? I suggest you consider it metaphorically. They might be right there, on the edge of your vision, just waiting for you to recognize them for what they truly are—the activities that bring you happiness, even if they don’t pay the bills.

Once in a Lifetime.

Until next time,

Bryn

To dive into the first tale that escaped the DM’s drawer, start reading The Glimmerstone Enigma, the first book of The Unexpected Vanguard trilogy here.

What was your “How Did I Get Here?” moment that took you down a different path? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

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Only through inspiring each other will more of us find our “Once in a Lifetime” moments!

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As authors, we put a lot of thought into the actions of our protagonists, particularly in the fantasy genre, where every spell cast and sword swung is heavily scrutinized for authenticity, situational intelligence, and narrative panache. But how about the monsters? One of my gripes with many fantasy works is authors who overlook what should be intelligent, cunning creatures and treat them like meat bags of rage in their fiction.

I learned long ago in my time as a Dungeon Master that my ability to get into the monsters’ heads, along with a thorough understanding of their abilities, had a huge impact on the quality of the encounter for my players. I’ve carried this lesson over to my fiction.

The Smaug Gold Standard

Perhaps the best widely recognized example of this is Tolkien’s portrayal of Smaug in The Hobbit. His ability to make the dragon’s intelligence and cunning pop is a huge part of what makes Bilbo’s encounter so memorable to us as readers. Bringing this kind of depth to your monsters will undoubtedly elevate your work.

The “Secret” Manual

In the D&D context, there are lots of resources available to accomplish this, from the stat blocks and descriptions available in the Monster Manual, Fiend Folio, Volo’s Guide to Monsters, and others. While those are statistically informative, they lack the flavor to really bring your creature to life.

So, where is an author to turn when trying to determine the sensibilities of an irate Griffon or how hobgoblins would approach attacking a village?

For this, I will share one of my secrets that I carry over from the game. The best resource I’ve ever found on monster behavior and tactics is The Monsters Know What They’re Doing. The website author, Keith Ammann, takes an in-depth look at hundreds of different creatures through a series of blogs, providing interpretation and guidance on how to ‘play’ them to the best of their abilities.

Now, of course, he focuses on their statistics and capabilities within the context of Dungeons and Dragons. That said, he also gets to the root of what drives each monster on a more fundamental level, how they see the world, and optimize their survival within it, all shaped by their intelligence and skills.

So, DMs in the audience, if you haven’t yet discovered this online treasure, you’re welcome! I have no doubt it will bring your encounter game to the next level and make for more memorable tabletop sessions.

For all you fantasy authors, Ammann’s insights are just as applicable in considering how to write a monster successfully into your fiction. I start with his thoughts as the building blocks of personality and behavior, and fine-tune from there.

👁️ Behind the Screen: The Sklir Reveal

In the upcoming chapter of The Glimmerstone Enigma, readers will get their first live look at the Sklir demons. Since we are ‘Behind the Screen’, I’ll share that I modeled the Sklir off the Babau demons found in D&D. You’ll notice, when the proverbial shit hits the fan, the Sklir aren’t just brutes. They demonstrate all the tactical depth and psychological cruelty you would expect from minor demonic assassins. This raises the stakes of the encounter—and changes how the Vanguard needs to think about them going forward.

Even if your baddie is entirely a product of your own imagination, feel free to cobble together different elements of a world view for them from others he’s already crafted—the cunning of a dragon, the arrogance of a lich, and the ruthlessness of a pack of gnolls. Voilà!

So, the next time you’re getting ready to introduce a monster into your fiction, give them the same courtesy of thoughtful consideration and tactics you would for your characters. I guarantee your readers will appreciate it!

Until Next Time,

Bryn

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New to the world of Venn?

If you enjoyed this dive into how I bring monsters to life, you can start the journey here with the prologue and the first few chapters:

[Get started reading The Glimmerstone Enigma]

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Writing battle scenes is one of the most challenging tightropes an author walks. You have to balance the “Rule of Cool” with the established mechanics of your world. Nothing pulls a reader out of a story faster than a protagonist “one-shotting” a boss in direct contradiction to the power model just for the sake of theatrical convenience.

In my world, actions have consequences, and gravity still applies.

The Choreography of Chaos

Describing a multi-participant brawl—swords, martial arts, spells, and monsters with otherworldly appendages—is a linguistic nightmare. In early drafts, my vocabulary often abandons me. Pages get littered with “slashed,” “stabbed,” and “exploded.” While revisions polish the prose, the harder part is imagining the moves and counter-moves.

I’ve spent hours mentally choreographing a fight, only to struggle with the translation:

• Does a demon’s tail sweep catch a character in the ribs or knock her feet out?

• Can she roll out of the way before the second strike, or is she pinned?

• How many strikes can a body realistically take before it fails?

D&D: The Blessing and the Curse

Since I’ve committed to grounding The Logic of Venn in the rules of Dungeons & Dragons, I have a built-in reality check. The concept of “turns”—movement, actions, bonus actions, and reactions—helps me break down a fluid battle into logical increments.

The challenge? In a game, players and the DM hash out these complexities at the table while the story momentarily waits ‘on hold’. In a novel, I don’t have that luxury. I have to layer those simultaneous actions into a smooth, narrative flow that feels like a dance, not a spreadsheet.

My Secret Weapon: The Math Rocks of War

The most important ingredient in a fight scene is determining how long it lasts and—more importantly—who actually wins. To stay true to the spirit of the game, I actually break out my “math rocks.” While I’m writing, I’m rolling dice in the background. I track:

• Hit Points & Accumulated Damage

• Attack Success or Failure

• Saving Throws & Spell Effects

Now, of course, if it’s a battle that the protagonists must win to move the plot forward, and the dice, together with my ‘competent monster logic’ (more on this in the next post), suggest otherwise, then it’s back to the drawing board.

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In fact, this is where many of the heist/grift layers originate from within my fiction. A question I regularly ask myself in those circumstances is: If they can’t win a fair fight, how might they manipulate the circumstances to tip the odds in their favor? My wife has walked in more than once, alerted by the sound of dice click-clacking across my desk. When I tell her I’m “writing,” she gives me a look of pure suspicion.

When the Dice Drive the Plot

Using D&D Challenge Ratings and Stat Blocks acts as a narrative guardrail. In Chapters 25 and 26 of Glimmerstone, you can see the literal effects of the dice:

1. Tsuta’s Banish spell fizzles because the demon made its saving throw.

2. Tsuta fails his save against Fear (while Bird succeeds), forcing the brave monk to flee.

I didn’t choose those outcomes for “convenience.” I let the dice shape the narrative. It keeps me honest, the stakes high, and adds a texture of realism. If the dice say a hero fails, they fail.

The Takeaway: Next time you read a fight scene in my books, picture me behind the keyboard, frantically rolling for initiative. The Unexpected Vanguard aren’t protected by plot armor—they’re guarded by clever planning and, occasionally, a little bit of luck!

Until next time,

Bryn

What are your thoughts on the “Rule of Cool’ vs system adherence in fantasy fiction?

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Welcome to Behind the Screen! I’ve created this new blog-style section to share the D&D-inspired mechanics, worldbuilding lore, deeper character profiles, bonus content, and writing craft that power the world of Venn. You are already subscribed to these updates, so you don’t have to do a thing. However, if you are only here for the fiction, you can easily toggle these updates off in your account settings.

“Did you just make that up?”

For many readers, the prologue of Glimmerstone was their first exposure to a deliciously haunting piece of equipment: the Death Whistle.

“She gazed at the full moon peeking through a narrow gap in the tent's gnoll-hide walls. Now or never. The small clay skull featured a tube protruding from the top of the head, attached to a gold chain threaded through a loop on the skull’s posterior—her death whistle... Air blown into the tube created a resonance of pure despair, a haunting, distorted scream of pain and agony, somehow both human and otherworldly. On its own, the shrill wail manifested a foreboding sense of doom in every ear it reached. Enhancing it with a fear spell made its impact utterly devastating.”

I’ve been asked many times about the whistle. Since it doesn’t appear in D&D, many thought I’d entirely made it up as a homebrew item.

I did not.

I came across it during my research and thought it would be a fantastic addition to the Red Queen’s persona and the history of Venn.

The Aztec Connection

The death whistle is a real historical artifact originating from Aztec culture. While archaeologists are still debating their exact use—whether for psychological warfare or human sacrifice—the sound they produce is unmistakable. It is often described as “the scream of a thousand corpses.”

Their size and shape varied to some degree. Here’s a photo showing a crude version very similar to the one the Red Queen herself uses:

If you doubt its ability to intimidate, listen for yourself:

The Red Queen’s Strategic Brutality

According to the few historical writings I’ve been able to find from those early days of Venn, these whistles were a common tool of warfare among the tribes in southern Siremiria over five hundred years ago. As the Red Queen swept across the land, she immediately recognized its intimidation value. Shamelessly appropriating the local culture, she, of course, took things a step further. After subjugating the death whistle’s artisan from the first tribe that used it against her, she ordered the immediate execution of anyone with whistle-making skills in each subsequent tribe she conquered.

I found more than thirty references to the use of death whistles in tribal skirmishes in the area before her arrival. By eradicating everyone associated with it, she ensured its signature intimidation in battle remained exclusive to her purpose. With her death, and that of the sole remaining artisan, at the hands of the gnoll hordes, a unique item that once played a dramatic part in the local culture and history vanished from Venn…at least for a few centuries.

Until next time!

Bryn

Did the sound of the death whistle live up to the description, or was it even worse than you imagined? Have you ever encountered a piece of history that felt like it belonged in a fantasy novel? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

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New to the world of Venn?

If you enjoyed this dive into the Red Queen’s history, you can start the journey here with the prologue and the first few chapters:

[Get started reading The Glimmerstone Enigma]

Many of you have asked about the “why” behind the world of Venn. As you follow the journey of The Unexpected Vanguard, you’re seeing the final result of years of worldbuilding, gaming, and research.

Today, I’m pulling back the curtain.

Welcome to Behind the Screen! I’ve created this new section to share the D&D-inspired mechanics, deeper character profiles, and the historical research that power my writing. You are already subscribed to these updates, so you don’t have to do a thing. However, if you are only here for the fiction, you can easily toggle these updates off in your account settings.

What to Expect

This space is where I’ll be sharing a variety of things designed to give you a deeper look into the mythical world of Venn and my journey as a writer.

1. The Lore of Venn

I’ll be diving into the geography, people, history, and mysteries outside the novels themselves. Many ideas come to me while writing that don’t fit the current narrative but still deserve to be shared. For example, we know the Red Queen used a death whistle to intimidate her enemies during her march across eastern Siremiria—but where did she get the idea, and what caused it to disappear from Venn’s standard toolkit of warfare?

2. Insights from the Keyboard

It’s no secret that my work is inspired by Dungeons & Dragons. As a long-time Dungeon Master—the storyteller role in the tabletop game for those unfamiliar—that creativity sparked my journey as a novelist. Here, I’ll explore how I turn dice rolls and mechanics into a narrative, what has worked for me, and the struggles of building a world from scratch.

3. The Real-World Connection

While Venn is fictitious, its bones are built on real history. The Beacons used as an early warning system in The Glimmerstone Enigma were sparked by the ‘Bongsu’ system of 10th-century Korea. I adopted their functionality—nearly 700 beacons across a peninsula—and used a little magic to adapt them for Venn’s purposes.

4. Exclusive Bonus Content

Every story has moments that don’t make the final cut of the novel but are too good to leave on the cutting room floor. In this section, I’ll occasionally share deleted scenes, “lost” chapters, and unofficial vignettes that explore what the characters were doing when the main narrative’s spotlight wasn’t on them.

Join the Conversation

I want this to be a two-way street. If you want to know more about a specific monster, magic item, or piece of history in the chapters, let me know!

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Until next time!

Bryn