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sapphicsylvari · 4 years

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Lights

@tyrias-library Hope it’s okay to tag you, even though this doesn’t fullfill a prompt!

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SUMMARY: The pirates of the Chimaera are well aware what eerie lights on the Open Sea mean - Krait. Their prisoners using these lights to wave down ships, begging for help. Every sailor worth their salt knows to avoid these dreaded towers, for their own good.

The fog lies heavy on the surface of the Unending Ocean, making navigation fort he Chimaera nigh impossible. The ship glides slowly through the waves, as distant thunder cracks, lighting up the impenetrable blanket of mist.

“Lights! Lights on the Horizon!” calls Cariyen, the ship’s only Sylvari from the Crow’s Nest, then swings over the small platform’s railings and descends the mast. “Starboard side, Captain.” She elaborates, when she is down on the main deck.

Captain Asha Gaets, flanked by her loyal First Mate Snezz, is already peering through her spyglass, brows furrowed as she strains to make out anything. “I see ‘em. Very faint. Think they’re moving a little.” She says, lowering the spyglass from her eye and looking down to her asuran companion. “Mh, bad idea, Captain.” Snezz remarks. “We’re too far out to be encountering anything friendly.” “I know.” Asha responds. “Krait.” “Those lights mean that they have prisoners, trying to wave down ships.” Snezz speaks up a little, as the crew gathers around. “We’d do best to avoid them, unless we want to join them in their cages.”

“Prisoners?” a sharp voice enter the conversation, as Farris Nightrunner, a young Charr, squeezes her way through the small crowd. “Boss, we gotta help them. Who knows what the greasy snakes are doing to them!” “That’s a terrible-…” Snezz begins, but is cut off quickly by Farris’ growl. “Coward! If we leave them, their blood’s on our hands. Your hands!” she snarls at the small Asura, who does not even flinch. “These waters are their domain, Farris.” He calmly argues. “If we engage, we will all suffer their fate. There’s courage, and there’s recklessness.” “Are you calling me a fool, you sniveling runt? You might run from a challenge, but we-…” Farris stops mid-sentence, interrupted by the Captain firing a gunshot into the skies.

“Good thing that decision isn’t up to you two.” Asha says, stowing her flintlock on her belt again. Snezz looks up to her with hope in his eyes, but she only graces him with a crooked grin. “Farris, you’re right. We’re going in.” “Captain-…” “No. Zip it up, Snezz.” Asha raises her hand for emphasis. “I’m not leaving these people.” A brief beat of silence occurs, in which Snezz leans back against the mast and huffs in exasperation, wondering how Asha Gaets even stayed alive before she met him, but elects not to further defy his Captain. Not out of respect, but because he knows her well enough to understand when she won’t budge on a decision.

“Cariyen, Liamu, Farris and Auri.” Asha calls again. “I want you with me on a rowboat. Snezz, you have command of the ship. Bring us in, but stay out of visual range.” “Aye.” Snezz says, and makes his way to the wheel. One of their deckhands is already pushing in a crate for him to stand on, while another two begin lowering the rowboat. Asha steps forward, her striketeam in tow. Her eyes narrow as she gazes at the lights.

There’s a tense silence among the rowboat’s passengers, as it approaches the Krait Deeps. Asha sits in front, staring on ahead, while the two Charr, Farris and her mother Auri are busy rowing behind her. Cariyen, the Sylvari is behind them, carrying a magical light in her hands to illuminate their immediate vicinity. At the back end of the boat sits Liamu, the tiny asuran necromancer, currently in the process of summoning a selection of horrors to aid in the fight to come.

“Cariyen.” Asha says, and the Sylvari snuffs out her light. She looks up, now much closer to the lights she’d spotted and feels oddly nostalgic, reminded of the glowing pods in the Pale Tree’s boughs she used to look upon from below. But that is where the similarities end. The closer the rowboat gets to the Deeps, the more the area’s eeriness is replaced by horror. Pained cries pierce the silence, the sound of whips and hateful voices taunting. Farris’ upper lip pulls back in a snarl.

“Get ready.” Asha order in a hushed whisper and draws her rifle. A splashing sound briefly draws her attention, but it’s just Liamu’s minions jumping overboard and swimming ahead. The group holds their breath and listens. Minutes go by, and Asha’s gaze rests on Liamu’s face.

The little woman has her eyes closed, and an expression of deep concentration on her features. “Twenty, maybe more.” She reports. “There will be many under the surface. I am drawing their attention to my minions.” “Cause some chaos.” Asha orders. “Once they’re busy with your little friends, we jump into the fray.” Liamu nods, digging a tooth into her lower lip, as she coordinates several individual undead at once.

An angry hiss sounds, then a battle cry and a cacophony of combat noises breaks loose. Asha stands up in the boat. “Auri, element of surprise.” The Mesmer nods and hands her oar to Farris. The air distorts around the boat as she raises her hands, channeling her magic, cloaking the group in a veil of invisibility. “Let’s give ‘em hell.” Asha growls and steps off the boat, just as it comes to a stop on the Deeps’ surface gangplanks.

The rest of the team follows her, Cariyen leaving last and pulling the boat onto the wooden planks. They stick close together, watching Liamu’s minions maiming and being maimed by their serpent enemies. Asha assumes a crouching position and levels her rifle on the largest Krait she can see, aiming directly for his head. When her shot rings out, her invisibility falls off her in a flash of purple magic. A barrage of bright blue arrows arches over her head and comes down on the Krait with the fury of a god. The group swarms out from behind their Captain. Cariyen seeks high ground, while raining her magical arrows down on the enemy. A cloud of toxic locusts ascends the tower, gathering around the heads of a group of Krait that were about to come to their brethren’s aid. Shrill cries fill the air, broken up and distorted by time itself warping and twisting from Aurelia Sharpwit’s shield. Clockhands made of ethereal light spin in reverse, rewinding the Krait into their previous positions, opening them up to attack. That attack being a jet of fire from the mouth of Farris’ flamethrower. Those that do not immediately die, shriek and try to slither away, into the water, but Auri’s magic freezes them in motion and her daughter’s flames consume them entirely.

While the battle on the central platform rages, Asha makes her way upward, rifle at the ready. The prisoners are all in the upper levels of the tower, locked up in crude cages. There are some stragglers in her way, most of which she can dispatch at range, or punt off the ledge with the butt of her rifle.

“Help! Please! Please help Quaggan!” cries a prisoner as Asha approaches the first set of cages. They’re unguarded, as most of the Krait are currently down, fighting her crew. Only one of them has movement inside, a little quaggan, all alone. Left and right are only putrefying corpses, picked at by birds. Asha rushes over, pulling her crowbar out of her backpack, and getting to work on levering the cage open. “Don’tcha worry. That’s why we’re here.” She assures the prisoner inside. The poor quaggan is beaten and bruised, and holding one of its hands close to its chest, clearly broken. It takes her some elbow grease, but Asha manages to wedge the doors open, and the quaggan limps out, fearfully looking up at its savior.

“It’s okay. Stick with me. My friends are distracting the Krait.” Asha explains. “I’m going further up. There’s more prisoners there.” “Quaggan will follow you.” They reply. “Too wounded. Nowhere else to go.” “I’ve got a ship. We’ll patch you up and take you home.” Asha promises as she moves on up, mindful to reduce her speed, so the quaggan can keep up with her.

Another voice addresses her as soon as she comes in view of the next set of cages, one platform up. “Hey, you! Let me out right now!” demands an Asura, with enough spirit in her to rattle at her cage’s bars. She wears black and red, tattered, but still very much recognizable as Inquest. Asha pauses, but shakes her head and jogs over to her, then gets to work on the door. “How’d someone like you end up so far from Maguuma?” she asks while she works, and the Asura huffs and puffs for a moment before responding. “We were on our way to Orr. That’s all I’m classified to tell you.” “You the only survivor?” Asha inquires, and the door creaks open under her assault with the crowbar. “I think so. I haven’t seen any of my krewemates.” The Asura steps out of the cage and Asha positions herself protectively between her and the quaggan. “Great. Well, I saved you, which means you owe me. So keep your mouth shut while I free the other prisoners and we all get to go home alive.” She states and moves on the next cage. Inside is a humanoid creature Asha cannot discern. They’re blue, but clearly breathing, clad in a full-face mask and adorned with a pair of luminescent wings.

“She’s put up a good fight.” The Asura comments. “And the Krait pressured her tenfold for that.” “She’s alive, though.” Asha says and gets to work on the door. “That’s enough for me.” “Quaggan knows her.” The quaggan adds. “She got captured near Quaggan’s home.” “When?” Asha asks. “Quaggan does not remember.”

“They were here when I was locked up. So, more than a week ago.” The Asura contributes. “Hey, do you have a ship or something? I’m not a good swimmer.” “I do. She’s circling the Deeps just outside of view.” Asha responds and gets the door open. She casts her crowbar aside and crouches down to inspect the creature. She looks horrible. There are deep gashes all over her arms and back, likely caused by bladed whips. Her wings have holes and the left one’s main bone is completely shattered, as if intentionally crushed. Under the creature’s heavily damaged armor, Asha gets a glimpse of greenish black flesh, an ugly infection, or a necrotic curse. She presses two fingers against the creature’s neck, feeling a slow, but steady pulse. Relying entirely on the mechanical exoskeleton around her left arm, Asha lifts the creature up and takes her out of the cage.

The rest of her team is luckily just ascending the planks. “Ah, good. We’ve got wounded.” Asha says and hands the creature over to Cariyen. “You and the Quaggan can go back to the boat and row over to the Chimaera. Tell Snezz to bring ‘er in, then take care of these two. Be ready for more wounded. The rest of you, spread out and gather any survivors on the central platform. Me and my new friend here will establish a perimeter.”

While she speaks, Asha pulls one of her pistols from her belt and hands it to the Asura she freed. “Don’t try anything funny. You’re outnumbered.” She hisses to her as she passes. “C’mon.”

Cariyen, and the Quaggan accompany them down to the platform, before getting on the boat. “I will see you soon, Captain. Be safe.” The Sylvari says, before grabbing the oars and starting to make her way back to the ship. “You too.” Asha calls after her, then turns back to the Asura.

“What a massacre.” She comments, as she steps over the piled up Krait bodies, burned, pierced and rotted away by Liamu’s magic. “They deserve worse.” Asha simply justifies. “You don’t look too hurt.” “I’m not.” The Asura admits. “They were too busy beating the living daylights out of my neighbor. I thought I could use that to slip away, but… Where would I go?” “Fair.” Asha says. “You got a name?”

The Asura hesitates visibly. “It’s Mhido.”

It took a good twenty minutes to reach the ship, but once she is back on the Chimaera, with Asha’s command passed on to Snezz, Cariyen has time to care for the wounded. She already cast a mild regeneration spell on the quaggan’s superficial wounds while on her way back. “Let me see your hand.” She asks, and the small creature shyly extends their arm to her. It causes them obvious pain, so Cariyen already has a numbing spell ready on her fingertips when she makes skin contact. The bone is, thankfully, cleanly broken. Cariyen closes her eyes, gently nudging the bone back into its regular place, and funnels healing into the quaggan’s body. Both bone fragments slowly connect again, a fragile connection, but with time and care, the injury would mend fully. She puts the arm in a splint and wraps it in a bandage for good measure.

Then, she turns to the unconscious creature. Her hands brush lightly over her whip marks, closing the open wounds and rejuvenating her body’s natural regenerative powers. Likely awakened by that energy, the creature jolts and grabs Cariyen by the wrist. “Where am I?” she asks in a sharp, heavily accented voice, attempting to sound menacing, but her fear shimmers through. “Be at ease.” Cariyen soothes. “You are safe. We attacked the Krait Deeps you were held in and rescued you. You are badly injured. Will you let me mend you?” A few seconds pass, and the creature’s grip loosens. “You defeated the Krait?” “Not alone. My crew and I did.” Cariyen responds and gently frees her hand from the creature’s. “I have to set your bones straight before I can mend them. This will hurt.” “Do not hold back. I can endure.” The creature says and Cariyen gets to work on the mangled wing. It is entirely limp, and the creature is likely unable to move it at all. One by one, Cariyen reconstructs the shattered bone, making her way from the base to the tip of the limb. The entire time, the creature is completely silent, only the odd, sharp inhale hinting that she feels pain. “What were you seeking among the Krait?” she eventually asks, while Cariyen begins mending the wing. “Their victims. We saw the lights from afar and decided to intervene.” The Sylvari explains. “In exchange for what?”

Cariyen pauses and looks up at the creature’s mask. “We did not do this for a reward.” She states and the creature falls silent again, in quiet contemplation of what altruism might be.

The sounds of a second rowboat being returned to the ship has Cariyen looking up. The Inquest Asura, Farris and a number of freed prisoners step onto the deck, in varying degrees on injury and weariness. There is more work to do.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #my writing #gw2 fanfiction #tyriaslibrary

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dawnajaynes32 · 7 years

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Inside the Mind of Aaron Draplin

Aaron Draplin will be judging PRINT magazine’s 2017 Regional Design Awards—now open to both professionals and students. Enter today before it’s too late!

Words by Rebecca Bedrossian

Surprise.

Poster design by Aaron Draplin for the 75th anniversary of PRINT magazine.

That was Aaron Draplin’s reaction when he got the call from HOW—to feature him again. According to the Portland, OR, graphic designer, the story hasn’t changed all that much. And to his point, there’s no lack of Aaron Draplin or Draplin Design Co. coverage on the World Wide Web. So much so, that I felt a bit of trepidation about the interview.

What could I unearth that hadn’t been covered before? And why would someone read this story?

My trusty go-to list of questions weren’t going to work for me. I didn’t want to write something that’s already been published. And I certainly didn’t want Draplin to roll his eyes during our chat. I realized I needed his help to build a new narrative. So I came clean and asked: What do you want to say that hasn’t been said before?

Art by Aaron Okanaya

It broke the ice and set the stage. We didn’t focus on his work for Nike, Ride Snowboards, Sub Pop Records, his numerous posters, album art and logo designs, nor his personal Field Notes brand, and we deliberately avoided his Lynda.com logo design tutorial that went viral last year. Been there, done that, and he designed the T-shirt. Instead our organic, candid and, as you’d expect from Draplin, entertaining conversation covered age, gratitude, family, and a book. While it sounds more Kumbaya than you’d expect from this born-and-bred Midwesterner, it comes with its fair share of self deprecation and the occasional f-bomb.

Draplin doesn’t beat around the bush. “How much more of this story do you want to hear?” he asks, honestly curious. “I’ll just never really be comfortable with being some kind of commodity.” He wonders about the saturation level, and admits that the pressure’s on, because the big names in design reinvent themselves. “Every three years, there’s a new talking point, taking a year off, a documentary,” he explains. “I’m just trying to get away with shit—that hasn’t changed.”

Art by Aaron Okanaya

At 41, Draplin wears his “middle age” as a badge of honor. “Every year I know myself a little better. Every year, there’s a refinement process.

“I can remember being 20 and talking to a 45-year-old. They were old. They were different. They wore a different type of clothes. They were beat down and said things like ‘my old lady,’ ‘those bastard kids.’ It was really cliché. Now I can’t tell when a guy is 55. It’s just how they carry themselves and how they laugh. My favorite rock ‘n’ rollers are 55 years old and you wouldn’t know it, because of the way they run their lives. That’s inspiring.

“There are weeks I work every day. You don’t get to put them in the bank. That goes to Uncle Sam. And they go and drop fucking bombs on developing countries with it or whatever the latest bullshit they’re doing. It hurts. I would hope they’d go build homes for people. I’d feel a little better about that.”

This three-pack of Aaron Draplin’s pocket-sized Field Notes includes one graph, one ruled, and one plain paper notebook, each with 48 pages and a craft paper cover. Get yours in MyDesignShop.

With age comes self-reflection, and Draplin is grateful. “Aren’t we lucky to be alive, to punch into design every day? As I get older, it’s better to be chill about stuff.”

And chill he is. He didn’t get to be design’s big draw without his share of critics along the way. Finger-pointing is a waste of time, but the web hands everyone a bullhorn, and it’s frustrating. “That’s something that people expect from me, to be an incendiary character just for the sake of doing it. That is not the case, I wouldn’t do it,” says Draplin, throwing in a technical term for good measure. “You don’t want to shit where you eat.”

Draplin’s genuine love for design surfaces when he speaks about life after the limelight fades—and make no mistake, he knows it will. “When all this stuff fizzles, I’ll go back to living the life of why I got the call in the first place. Working on my own, loving it, and not knowing any better. That’s kind of a cool thing.”

His gruff demeanor, plain speaking, ball cap, and healthy beard led one wag to call him the “Yukon Cornelius of American Design,” but, Draplin says, “there is nothing blue collar about what I’m doing. We live manicured lives.”

Yes, he likes to work with his hands, mocking things up, the very analog and tactile qualities of design, but the reality is Draplin can usually be found pecking away at the computer in his shop, a hotel room, or on a plane. The prolific designer makes his way to design events large and small across the country. He travels on Wednesdays, speaks on Thursdays, and returns home on Fridays. “The more I get done on the plane, the more time I have free on the weekend,” Draplin says with a chuckle, “to have fun like normal people.”

TIME OUT

Though he loves what he does, he’s tired and questions how long he can keep up the pace. “Why are we working so much? Because we don’t know any better,” he says adamantly. “It’s all we know how to do. The world just holds us down. I got ahead by working a ton. And then what? How much more money do you need?”

He’s finally stopped worrying about money, because—honestly—he doesn’t even have the time to spend it. This has been tough for Draplin. He grew up in Traverse City, MI, and has seen people struggle. “And I have these carrots dangling in front of me,” he explains, “how can I say no to any of it?

“You’re taught to budget, to be smart and to keep everything in the positive. Then you wake up and realize, uh-oh, that wasn’t the way to do it.

“I don’t know how to solve becoming smaller. I don’t know how to solve becoming healthy. I don’t know how to solve not working so goddamn much.”

But he’s trying. Draplin now leaves the shop at 8 instead of midnight. It’s baby steps. And it feels like a luxury.

“I don’t ever want to worry,” Draplin admits. “I know what it’s like to have nothing. I haven’t had to think about buying a record for about seven years. That to me is such a success.”

WIRED FOR SOUND

“I know Aaron hoards music of all kinds,” says Robin Hendrickson of ATO Records. “I get to see him flexing and working out album art that bounces off the classic tradition of record covers. His first comps are a thrill. He’ll show you a wide range of possibilities, some you asked for and some you didn’t. It’s like the ideas are exploding out of him, almost too fast to capture. His work is clean, but never sterile or boring. Somehow it reflects his personality, which is gruff but never unkind.”

Hendrickson continues, “He’s clearly studied—and absorbed—the language and history of 20th-century American vernacular graphic design, but his work never devolves into retro pastiche.”

You can’t have a conversation with Draplin without sensing his respect for design—its history, its unsung heroes, and his contemporaries. He stays on the prowl for overlooked graphic treasures and celebrates them. Sure, he’ll drop the occasional Saul Bass or Eames reference, but he’s not precious about it. “I don’t want to be too professional, too serious, too on point or on strategy, because people choke on it”

This is unusual—when there’s so much value placed on how you present yourself to clients and where there’s no shortage of articles touting five ways to be more productive, make a good impression, or look smarter in meetings—but it’s pure Draplin. It’s part of his allure, refreshing, and he owes it to dad.

LIKE FATHER LIKE SON

Visit draplin.com and you’ll find an entire section—an anomaly in the business of design—dedicated to his father, Jim Draplin. You see the love, and then hear it when Draplin speaks about him. “We lost my dad a year and a half ago. I don’t want to be the person who doesn’t talk about this shit. He died. I’m trying to make light of it, because he used to make fun of that shit.”

Draplin’s tone is light as he describes his dad as an incredible character, larger than life, who sometimes opened his shows for him. He admits sometimes the crowd didn’t know what to make of him. “He was as comfortable in front of a tool-and-die shop as much as he was in front of a bunch of nerdy designers, telling crass jokes, Don Rickles style. I’m so thankful I celebrated him viciously while he was around.

“I mimic my dad in terms of my design career: the business practices of how to enjoy your life and how to make things—how to laugh. That’s what I took from him,” explains Draplin. “It’s been cool to apply it to the stuffy thing of design. It’s been refreshing to defy some of that shit with it. People don’t know how to laugh.

“Dad kept me on my toes. He always made time. So getting in front of a client just reminds me of how my dad could loosen things up.” Draplin laughs, then continues.

“And look at me talking so much about my dad all the time. He always hogged the limelight. Still is! I need the world to know that without my mom, I’d be nothing. Fact.”

ON PAPER

That practice of loosening up came in handy when John Gall, creative director at Abrams, called about making a monograph. Draplin countered with, “Don’t you do this at the end of your career?” Excited and equally leery to get a big-league call, Draplin plans to keep it little league—as authentic and naive as possible. “It’s got to feel real to me,” he says.

Abrams has a history of publishing books by great designers and, though it’s early in the process, you can bet the Draplin book will be a bit of a departure. It won’t be a typical design monograph. How could it be? And Gall recognizes the value in that.

“I’ve been looking at younger/mid-career designers and wondering why they don’t have books, and if there is even an audience for such a thing,” Gall explains. “Most graphic design books we see are super expensive monographs by older or dead designers. I started looking at people the same age as Stefan Sagmeister was when Abrams published his first book. These are designers who came of age during the internet and social media era. These are voices we haven’t really heard from in book form yet. And they have a lot to say about how to make it in the design world today.

“Aaron’s style is rooted in utilitarian American design, but not totally as he’ll happily incorporate a lovingly designed Swiss grid. He’ll pull from the cool overlooked moments of the 1970s, but then something like Field Notes comes from another place entirely,” continues Gall. “He’s the designer all the kids want to be when they grow up. He has opinions and he’s willing to express them (even if he has to step on some toes), but he’s also a really nice guy with a strong sense of where he came from. He’s an inspiring speaker and entertaining graphic design raconteur. He makes beautiful things that you want to have. Beautiful lovingly printed objects. Aaron makes being a graphic designer look like the best job in the world.”

When I asked Draplin about the book, he goes straight to the Abrams site and tells me that it will live in close proximity to the Eames book. E follows D after all. Draplin says, tongue in cheek, that though the book will make him look “smart and articulate,” he’s not going to pass up this opportunity. It will be his guide to messing with the world of design.

“I take it very seriously how I don’t take it seriously,” he says.

After all, entertainment is a tricky business.

This article is from the Summer 2015 issue of HOW. Since it was published, Draplin’s stellar “Guide to messing with the world of design” earned a place on our sister site PRINT’s 25 Best Design Books of the Year.

The 2017 PRINT RDA: Extended Deadline. Enter Now!

Enter the most respected competition in graphic design—now open to both pros and students—for a chance to have your work published, win a pass to HOW Design Live, and more. 2017 Judges: Aaron Draplin / Jessica Hische / Pum Lefebure / Ellen Lupton / Eddie Opara / Paula Scher. Student work judges: PRINT editorial & creative director Debbie Millman and PRINT editor-in-chief Zachary Petit.

Draplin image: Leah Nash. Hische: Helena Price. Lupton: Michelle Qureshi. Scher: Ian Roberts.

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