...and now for something completely different.

  I talk about TTRPGs and adventures a lot on this blog, but this isn't the only creative endeavor I work on. My wife and I also write novels together; we've got six written so far, most fantasy, none published yet. Self-publishing in 2024 rewards long series and multiple releases available, so the plan is to have at least one trilogy and one quadrilogy complete before going our on our own, assuming no traditional publishers bite.  Formatting and cover design are their own hassle, I can definitely post more about the state of genre publishing more if it's something that sparks interest. In the meanwhile, we've just finished off the first draft of our latest novel, Shepherd, a fantasy set in a world more Classical Greek than traditional European medieval. Here's the prologue, excerpted for your reading pleasure: 

  Shepherd
By B. K. Gibson
  Prologue
   Don’t break. Don’t run. Don’t break. Don’t run.
   Sweat blurs Philon’s vision. Blink, shake head. Shoulders, arms, and back ache. Ignore it all, keep the shield up, keep the spear up, keep pushing.
   Don’t break. Don’t run. Don’t break. Don’t run.
   “Forward, Citizens! For your polis and your gods!” It seems impossible, but the citizen to the left and the citizen to the right grind forward into the wall of bronze spearpoints ahead, so Philon pushes forward as well. A stone from a sling clangs off his helmet. The bronze dents but does not break.
   Don’t break. Don’t stop. Don’t run. Don’t stop.
   The enemy Shepherd reacts to the press, running behind the enemy line with a shout of alarm. Answering screams from Philon’s fellow citizens ripple towards him, and a wave of alien terror turns his bowels to water and his legs to jelly. The man to his right falters, his shield droops, the enemies’ spears lash forward, seeking the fresh gap in the wall. A bronze spearpoint gouges Philon’s vambrace and he almost drops his spear.
   Don’t break. Don’t run. Oh please oh please don’t break.
   “We have them! Master your passions, Citizens, and PUSH!” Determination, pride, and rage wash over Philon’s heart, chasing out fear as his own Shepherd draws near. His comrade’s shield slams up as the man shouts in anger. Philon hears his own voice join into the inarticulate chorus. Shouting, they surge forward once more.
   Don’t stop. Don’t break. Don’t stop. Push. Push. PUSH.
   Now it is the enemy line that falters. Above their shields Philon can see the white flashes of their eyes as entirely natural fear takes hold. A gap opens in the shield wall before him. He thrusts. Finds cloth and flesh, a scream of anguish erupts, with echoes up and down the line as more of the strange attackers begin to quail and fellow citizens also find their marks.
   Don’t break. Keep the line. Don’t stop. PUSH.
   Cheers and shouts of triumph steady Philon’s heart with a rekindled courage all his own. His line moves forward, their line moves back, with all the stumbles and falls that implies. More than an hour in the hot sun has everyone weary beyond belief, but both sides know what victory looks like and the men of his city stand taller, white grins flashing beneath their helms.
   Embrace the Passion of War. Don’t stop. PUSH. PUSHPUSHPUSH…
   The break happens first right before Philon’s place in the line. Overborne by the Passion of Fear, one of the enemy casts down both shield and spear and turns to flee, stabbed in his unarmored back for his trouble, but not before his cowardice infects his fellows. Now by fives and tens men cast down arms and armor and turn with wails of despair. The lines shudder, spears flashing like lightning as the enemy who still stand firm fall from their shield-mates’ abandonment.
   Don’t break. Keep in line. Don’t stop. Stay in line.
   The time for spears is soon over. Philon feels the weight of the sword on his hip. Running down the broken and shattered remains of the enemy is sword-work. Ugly work. Needed work. Wherever these strange soldiers hail from, they cannot be allowed to live to threaten the polis again. Now shields without insignia and helms with no crests are thrown off and the whole of the enemy line splinters. Shatters. Flees.
   NOW. FORWARD.
   The line roars. Legs cramp in protest but Philon joins with his fellow citizens in a run, stabbing out with his spear at enemies who trip and fall. Screams of panic from the broken enemies mix with shouts of rage from fellow citizens as the retreat becomes a rout. Hooves thunder to the left as the small company of city cavalry gallop down on the flank of the invading army. All tiredness is forgotten in the rush of victory.
The river of humanity parts around a hulking figure in grey who crouches with one hand upon the earth. Philon slows, falters, as he beholds the massive man, a rock of calm in the midst of rout. The stranger is clad head-to-toe in unadorned armor of hammered iron, crude and heavy. In middle of all the chaos, the stranger has eyes closed, meditative.
   Another wash of triumph and rage sends Philon forward again, along with all his fellows. Every Shepherd of the polis is out today, pouring every ounce of passion they can muster into their fellow citizens’ hearts, ensuring neither Fear nor Mercy stays the spears of their people. Another wave of shouts resounds from victors, reveling the day of triumph.
   Suddenly, stillness.
   Philon staggers as all rage and courage leaves him. A thrill of fear begins to churn in his guts, but now that too is stolen away. Hushed gasps expand outward as the battle goes completely still, both the winners and the defeated going to their knees in the sudden shocking calm.
   Even the whimpering of the wounded ceases.
   The only movement is from the giant of a man in the iron armor, as he lifts his head and shrugs his mighty shoulders. Philon is near enough to see a wolf-smile flash on the stranger’s face as he sighs and opens his eyes.
  Eyes as green as grass.
   Now the ground quakes, the earth parts, opening beneath Philon’s comrades all over the battlefield. Clangs and grunts sound throughout but no screams of terror, no cries of pain, no shout of confusion. The best Philon can muster is a dull curiosity as the dirt rends before and behind him, consuming his fellows in the space of a breath.
Horror should overwhelm the survivors. Three quarters of the able-bodied Citizens of the polis, gone. The flower of their city’s finest, gone in an instant.
   Sluggish, stunned, Philon rises, turns to flee over the riven field. With almost equal apathy now the strange invaders turn again to pursue.
   Philon barely feels pain when a slingstone crashes into his knee, driving him into the ground.
   He barely feels his own sorrow despite the tears rolling down his cheeks as he turns his face towards his enemies, advancing unopposed.
   He can only barely feel his heart-deep shame as the stranger advances towards him coldly, reaching for manacles of iron.