Westwood Narrative Part 1 news

The holidays are over

and we're back to work on High Moon! Thank you everyone who has been checking out High Moon throughout the holidays. We're happy people are interested!

Here are a few things we've been working on:

- "Drag" casting system (select an element, then drag the casting circle to either yourself or your opponent.
- Several new environments (The Creepy Hollow, River of Sticks, and more!)
- Fixed a lot of bugs and fleshed out the "rules" for each element.
- Nearly finished all of the spell FX visuals (fire is a lot more "explody" now!)
- Began single player design
- Starting conceptualizing menu's (far from finished though)
- Designed "Foci", these will help you alter your elements and tailor your play style. Working on getting them in game and playable
- Added new features (4 player hot seat duels!)
- Redesigned the element icons to match spell FX.

Here's a few mock ups! (these are most likely going to change to some degree)

We are ITCHING to get ready for our kickstarter and to show off the game more. Just not quite there yet. In the mean time...we'll be posting bi-weekly (weekly if we have the time) narratives. The narratives will follow each of our 6 characters, and tell the story of how they ended up in the Elemental Duels.

So...without further adieu we present the first of these Narratives! Written by Darren Atherton and Stephen Gibson.

The Drunk

Like the fires of hell were lickin’ his heels the man stumbled forward with grim conviction.

His stab at swiftness was marred by the jagged whims of his boots. Dirt and dust fumed up behind him in the gloomy night like sandy whooping from the lungs of some fated desert wanderer. Was just a short while ‘til he reached the horse pen, where he wobbled ‘round the back. And there it was.

The perfect spot.

He planted his wily boots on the cracked earth, unbuttoned his fly with graceless fingers, and let loose.

Scarcely a thought crossed his mind as he swayed in drunken rapture, throwing caution - and urine - to the wind. That was until a mighty strange sound caught his ear, the rapid patter of locust's wings. Nasty little critter landed on a ghastly little oak not far from him.

Strange, he thought, a locust flyin’ in the night. But then came another, and yet another, ‘til a disorderly flock of rapping insect wings emerged from the eerie darkness. A wrigglin' writhin' mess of 'em, glinting like stars in the alabaster shine of a slivered moon.

His yellow stream tapered off, spatterin’ on his boots as he stared slack-jawed at the spectacle. He could of sworn it was takin’ the shape of a tall, gaunt creature. Becomin’ manlike.

He staggered slightly, undecided between fear and awe. Wasn't the first time he'd seen this sorta thing, but there ain’t no gettin’ used to it. And he was far too liquored up to know if he was hallucinatin'. It’d make for a good story at the card table if he lived to tell about it, that much was certain.

The air tasted sweet and vile all the same, like a dead possum buried in rose petals. But soon the revoltin’ swarm of buggers quit shiftin’ about.

Yep. A man.

Vestments dark as charcoal; the brim of the man-creature’s hat seemed wet with tar that dripped into an inkish veil over a lost face.

“You… you,” the drunk hiccuped, “look a few whiskers short of my ol' lady!” He puckered his lips and leaned in for a kiss.

The hauntin’ figure reached into the drunkard’s chest and gripped his heart.

Wincing in pain, he choked out, "Yep...just like 'er!"

The creature let go and pocketed its hands like some greedy tycoon, "Darkness does not take kindly to mockery, dear friend. And for hell's sake, button up,” It's voice was delicate and unusual.

It pulled an army man’s medal from its vest and tossed it at the drunk's feet. There the medal bloomed up into a murky ghost that mirrored the drunk, who took one glance and reeled back in disgust.

"On second thought, how ‘bout ya just go back to rippin' my heart out? You damned dirty demon..."

The demon laughed, "But this is more fun, old friend..."

Suddenly the drunkard’s heart was frosted over and the creature pivoted about, walkin’ off and soakin’ into the distant night. The drunk moved after it, slouched in his poncho like his head was pulled by some wretched gravity in the blackness.

Out in the dark the demon’s eyes flashed with the redness of a fallin’ sun, a sun the drunkard remembered well. Was the same sun that shone a lifetime ago when his back was a bit straighter, his suit was grey and dignified and he was on horseback among nameless comrades. They was ridin’ over the passive slopes like a granite wave come to drown in sludge the Apache plainsfolk settled down below.

Soon he stood in a pool of blood, the faces of braves dancin’ ‘round him in the dark. They hollered and yipped and jeered, blades and arrows ready. The drunk was afraid, but prepared. He was ready for the long slumber.

And then came a blusterin’ crack of thunder. It was so loud it froze the jeering Apache in their tracks. Lightning and fire climbed 'cross the sky and the whole vision started fadin’ and flickerin’ like the end of a picture show.

From somewhere outside the demon’s nightmare, someone else was tinkerin’.

In moments the sound of the thunder became the panicky stompin’ of horse’s hooves; the strikin’ red lightnin’ merged with the crackle of flames flyin’ up the walls of the horse pen. Straw bales burst in smoke, and old timber beams fell and leaned against one another. The whole place looked like a giant’s bonfire. And there was the drunk, wakin’ up in the midst of it all, with no way out.

But there was somethin’ more. Round ‘bout him in a nearly perfect circle was somethin’ like a sphere of safety, clear of flames and smoke. The blazes tried to enter the circle but they couldn’t. Instead, a rather tall figure emerged, standin’ at the edge of the little flameless sanctuary.

“Westwood,” it spoke. This wasn’t any demon, no sir. Its voice was deep and rasped like a bullfrog trapped in a tin can. And it was even taller, broader.

The drunk pulled himself to his feet and capped his wild head of hair with a tattered ten-gallon. He was about to speak before bein’ muted by the straight on glance of the figure whose face, like the demon’s earlier, was lost in shadow. ‘Cept of course for two gleemin’ eyes, like pistol fire, bright and startlin’. Not a blink.

The being stepped forward, and the drunk’s eyes widened. An anxious heat churning in his ribcage.