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	What is Facing Dragons? Facing Dragons is an alternate reality roleplaying game being developed by Dov Schafer, a doctoral candidate, and researcher at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia, Canada. His work on customizing games to match people’s intrinsic motivational preferences has lead him to partner up with a professional life coach to create a mobile game that actually helps people in the real world. As you “face your dragons” in the real world, such as relationships, school, looking for work, emotional and mental health, finding your purpose in life, social connection, etc… you also face the literal dragons in this game. Each dragon represents an area of challenge in life. They give you quests to complete in the real world to help you become stronger and better prepared. As you level up in the game, you also become more capable in the real world. The two worlds are connected. We thought you might be interested in taking a look at some storyboards we have designed and giving your feedback on the evolving concepts within the game.  The survey will take about 20 minutes and you will have a chance to win a $50 Amazon.ca gift card Thanks so much for your feedback! Together we can make a game that truly helps people
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Fire Sign

The granite soul, a weighty obstacle internal

now spin!

who spins to gain speed, hovering over a grinning maw

of glistening needle spines

jutting proudly from the bastion bluffs of solid state void

Gray brew, blue thunder

O heavy soul, spin.

Fragments distance themselves as small peices of the turbulent mass

fracture in chips

pressing hard against internal winds of my chamber

revealing deeper cracks that ache outward

seeking their paths to eachother

The whole shudders under the sudden realization of its state

a shift

a groaning thunk

vein lines join hands through the stone, spinning faster now

in peices…

Edges grind to hot powder

Viscous heat glows with impossible friction

Light as the center begins to escape the inferno in rays of brilliant red

Incineration, hot winds turn plasma, vortex and tumultuous brew

The internal chamber screams with halcyon torrents of fire

The liquid sphere comes alive, kissed by fire.

Spin turns to chaotic movement

Calm power, restrained

Eternal

San Xuan – of fish and fire

Darkness falls eventually, the smoke of atonement

Longer days, shorter nights, traffic jams and sardines

Ancient streets flooded with toes ripe for crushing

High heels, cobblestones and opinions

Strangers to witness the flames of San Xuan…

Last night was the summer equinox in Santiago de Compostela, which as you probably know refers to the fact that the sun is transiting the sky at its highest point and therefore it is the longest day of the year; in Spain they actually call it the shortest night of the year. Just as many cultures have foundations of celtic, norse, pagan, or various other ancient mythology underlaying a judeo-cristian world view, Santiago owes many of its fiestas, traditions, and superstitions to the Celtic roots that became Gallego.

The night is known as La Noche de San Xuan (gallego substitutes X for the spanish soft J and CH sounds, for example Xocolate instead of chocolate but pronounced like shwa). The fiesta is traditionally a night of atonement and cleansing, but done in a very pagan manner. Rather than the traditional catholic method of confession, gallecians jump over pits of fire to destroy evil omens and spirits that may be attached to them. The number of jumps must be “impar” or an odd interval (1,3, 5, 7) but 1 is bad luck, and even numbers are said to increase your chance of having a misfortune in the coming year. The optimal number of jumps is traditionally 3. One jumps over the fire, jumps back, and once again over; after fire jumping the fiesta goers should partake in charred sardines on bread, and drink red wine. The sardines here are large, the size of small bass, covered in salt, and grilled for a very long time over hot wood coals. The air is filled with the smell of fish and fire, a clash of elemental forces paying homage to the traditions of celtic magi. It is a night for renewal, a baptism of fire for the malignant inhuman spirits that cling to the Alma (soul).

The night begins with a cultural excursion – the school hosts these events in the evenings and they have all be ridiculously boring due to the long-winded spanishness of it all. I am very sure they have no concept of many of our spanish comprehension levels. We are brought to a lecture hall where they proceed to introduce some Gallecian anthropologist, which I would  find very fascinating in English I am sure, I do have a soft spot for pagan foundational mythos. After 30 minutes of spanish lecture on Tarot cards, I think to myself ” there is no way this can be much longer, the paper said 30 minutes. I wonder if they think I can understand all this”

30 more minutes pass.

After an hour sitting listening to a lecture in spanish, I think to myself once again “clearly now this will end soon, we have listened to this man speak for over an hour now in spanish. ”

Another hour passes

and nearly another.

Two hours and 30 minutes… that is how long we sat there listening to this lecture. Hey… at least its getting dark out now right?

Darkness falls. We walk to a square where people stand shoulder to shoulder butted up against a busy street, as busses and garbage trucks try to tiptoe by like elephants lumbering through a school yard. Sardines the size of children’s’ arms are roasting viscuously over hot coals as people stand around doing seemingly nothing. What is the plan guys? The faces I recognize all wear questioning looks, where are we going and when do we start getting drunk?

Many of us want to try queimada, a witches brew lit aflame in a cauldron of earthenware and served hot (in taste and temporature). It is a mix of orange spirits, orange peel, an herb liquor of gallecian origin called Orujo Gallego, coffee beans, and cinnamon. It is brought to the table and lit on fire as all who will partake in drinking it recite an incantation that is meant to imbue the noxious concoction with exorcismic powers. Queimada is basically the alcoholic equivalent of the movie “The Excrocist”. It all feels very occult, the waitress stirs the flaming pot, it smells like an orange tiki torch, we sloppily pretend to follow along with the incantations.

It tastes like being hit in the mouth with a sledge hammer made of gross oranges. I get drunk of 2 small cups of it. Most of the girls don’t get past the first sip due to the taste and pretend to nurse their small cups which remain nearly full on the table by the end of the evening. Spitting out soggy coffee beans, I down a third cup of it. It really doesn’t taste that bad once you get a bit drunk. I think it would be good served ice cold, alongside some grilled spicy sausage, with a fennel and apple salad, and a glass of fresh orange juice for chaser. Alas we have no food and nowhere is serving anything but roasted sardines (which aren’t yummy). I slip into the night looking for an open restaurant… find none… walk home.

Who cares, its wednesday anyways and I didn’t want to be out all night. I slip into bed slightly drunk and put on the zen music channel on shoutcast, falling asleep the sound of some sort of windchimes and ocean waves, now at last free of evil spirits.

Timing is Everything

This morning was another struggle to sleep in long enough. The floor here betrays my footsteps with a creaky protest, and the occasional thudding pop  as the time-worn floorboards move under their grandmotherly patina. My bed is shorter than I am. Time moves slowly in the morning when everyone else is asleep. I take mental stock of everything in the fridge and pantry which I tend to do often at home. Thinking of things I can make that my Pepita (homestay mom) would try without being too shocked. I decide its time to introduce an old Spanish grandma to the idea of a cooked breakfast.

Ingredients swim through my head, tastes, textures, nebulous concepts. I know I want to make something with eggs, since they suck at cooking eggs and I have quite a bit of practice making a perfect poached egg (the key is adding a bit of acid to the water, and making it spin like a tornado before you gently open the egg into it at water level, so it holds together). Anyways I decided to make little baguettes with panseared chorizo, poached egg, and aged gallecian cheese on top, I call it Eggs Santiago.

My creation: Eggs Santiago

As soon as I am finished making it, Pepita walks out the door to work. I guess she didn’t understand what I was doing. I tried to tell her I was cooking her breakfast. It sits there. I feel slightly sad. I made too much for myself to eat alone; I am alone.

I put a little note on it that says “please eat this, good morning” and hope that the girl who is staying here eats it when she finally awakes from her slumber.

(will post more soon, going out for some drinks)

near La Plaza Roja - Old Town, Santiago de Compostela. You can see the cathedral in the distance.

Ok justs got back from a night drinking Gulden Draak and gin and tonics… I forget what happened today. Doesn’t really matter, but I do remember that I wanted to tell you that people seem to store dishes in the dishwasher, instead of the cupboard, which seems odd to me. I have a picture of it.

I don’t know if my homestay mom is just super lazy or if that is the custom of the region; it seems kind of ineffective tho. They wash the dishes by hand and then put them in the dishwasher for storage.

Anyways, I am pretty drunk still, even tho I got lost getting home and walked for over 20 mins. Everyone here drinks a lot.

First day of lessons

So, today was my second ¨real day¨in Santiago de Compostela technically; I woke up properly today at 8:00 instead of eye peelingly early, and had a decent breakfast of the yogurt drinks I had bought the night before at the grocery store, and some slices of chorizo, a grannysmith apple, and a whole little kiwi. I feel like I have secret nutritional knowledge, fueling myself in the morning while the rest of the city drinks coffee and smokes, useless pretending to be awake.

Spanish class is going well so far. It is taught 100% in Spanish, but since we are the introductory level students, the prof doesn’t expect us to understand anything yet. I am sure we are learning far more than we are required to know for the first test, because we always ask questions about word usage, or how to say certain things and end up derailing the lesson for about 20 mins.

Our prof is a high energy but pretty informal woman in her late 20’s or early 30’s. I have a hard time really telling how old Spanish women are since they seem to stop aging at 30 until they hit 50 or so. I guess the rich people eugenics of the old nobility payed off for some of them.

I am writing this post before class on Wednesday of my first week. I think today I will try to find the athletics department and work off some of the food that I had to eat up till this point due to not knowing where or how to eat  anything healthy for the first few days. Also I am drinking about 3 glasses of wine per day but its fucking cheap and delicious. I love that (good) wine is cheaper than milk here; thats the way it should be

Pulpo a Feria – oh my…

5am… I wake up like a shot; eyes peeled and covers seeming heavier than a ceiling pressing down on me. I geuss I had enough sleep due to the 4 hour siesta the day before. My favorite saying is “siesta y fiesta” because everyone who I say it too chuckles slightly, then nods fervently and proceeds to say something in spanish, which I nod too and say “si”.

5:30 laying in bed without the covers, decide it might be time to start trying browsing the internet. I geuss this is Jet Lag. insidious fucking feeling, knowing that the whole city is having a comfortable sleep and you are incapable of it. I kill time untill 7:30 with romantic notions of sauntering around town and trying cafe americanos at various barristas while watching people and pretending to read the newspaper.

Walking out the door, something immediately struck me as out of place. Nothing was open… at all.

I walk untill 8:00 and notice some cafes are OPENING… ie) the chairs are not outside yet, and they are sweeping inside.

I find a cheap cafe that doesn’t seem to serve food during the morning, only a coffee bar; proceed to order a cafe americano and sit down pretending to read the paper. Most people think I am italian or spanish and assume I speak fluently because I say almost nothing. There is no such thing as artificial sweetener here, so I am forced to use a packet of sugar. I eat the small amaretto bellini cookie that comes with the 1.3 euro coffee ( about $1.95) not overly expensive.

I then walked to the next place and having perfected practicing I was reading the paper, decided to apply my skills to completely deceive this particular barrista into thinking I was Spanish. It was fun being completely incognito, sitting at the coffee bar surrounded by locals, no one the wiser than I was actually a spy from Canada, inspecting the quality of their morning ritual.

I have come to the realization that the Spanish draw their energy in the morning from sugar in the coffee, the small croissant or cookie, and contemplation. No wonder no one is awake until 9:30.

School today was basically lots of waiting around. We arrived at 9:30 to be shuffled off to a room to take a placement test to determine our spanish level. I got put in a group of 4 people that knew absolutely nothing. I am very pleased that I get to be in the retard group. The group consists of a Japanese dude from vancouver, a talkative flustered seeming girl from UBC: Okanagan, who has a terrible spanish accent, myself, and a famous actress from Palestine, Yasmine Elmasri, who lives in Paris and just finished co-starring in the movie Miral, with Willem Dafoe and that chick from slumdog millionaire.

Plot A chronicle of Hind Husseini‘s effort to establish an orphanage in Jerusalem after the 1948 partition of Palestine and the creation of the state of Israel.

Jerusalem, 1948. On her way to work, Hind Husseini, (Hiam Abbass) comes across 55 orphaned children in the street. She takes them home to give them food and shelter. Within six months, 55 had grown to almost 2000, and the Dar Al-Tifel Institute was born.

So to summarize, we got a jew, a palistinian refugee, a vancouver japanese, and an irish catholic in our beginner class.

I ended up having a 2+ hour conversation with Yasmine about american exo-politics over some more coffee, and the warmongering state of the world. I think I recognize her from the movie Caramel.

Speaking of caramel I just now realized I have 5 cups of coffee today, all with real sugar in them… fuck

I tried Pulpo a Feria today – the local dish of octopus and paprika. I don’t think it is meant to be eaten alone. I couldn’t finish it because I was starting to feel really twisted inside, like my stomach was trying to punch me in the head for being an idiot.

This is the type of dish you SHARE with FRIENDS while DRUNK.

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Night Time in Old World Spain

This post is basically a suplimental to the previous one about my 5 hour walk around Santiago de Compostela. I wont say much but instead let these pictures and videos talk for me.

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