Okay, so I've been working on a project in my 'spare time' to keep my mind busy. This is an alternate timeline, a 'what if' scenario that I've been thinking about for quite a while. I'm going to post some of the story here and see what people think of it.
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December 9, 2002
The Office of Robert Shaye – New Line Cinema Headquarters
The office is thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and the nervous energy that always precedes a New Line premiere. The Two Towers is about to conquer the world, but inside the executive suite, the atmosphere is more “war room” than “celebration.”
Robert Shaye didn’t look like a man who had just minted billions. He looked like a man who had been told his house was being renovated by a squatter who was now charging him for the privilege. He paced the length of his mahogany desk, a copy of a legal injunction from the Jackson camp crumpled in his hand like a spent shell casing.
Toby Emmerich sat coiled in the deep leather armchair, a stark contrast to Shaye’s restless pacing. As the President of Production, he viewed the staggering tracking numbers for The Two Towers not with the warmth of a fan, but with the cold, calculating eye of a man tired of being the junior partner in his own success. To Emmerich, the projected billion-dollar haul was a double-edged sword: it proved the genre’s dominance while simultaneously handing Peter Jackson the leverage to bankrupt the studio’s autonomy. He watched the rain lash against the window of the Los Angeles office.
“He wants more, Toby,” Shaye growled, tossing the paper onto the desk. “More points. More oversight. More ‘creative autonomy.’ I gave that man the keys to the kingdom when nobody else would give him the time of day. I sat in meetings and defended a six-hour pitch for a three-movie gamble! And now? Now he’s treating me like a vendor.” He grabbed the paper again, took a quick glance, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the general vicinity of the wastebasket. “He thinks he’s got me over a barrel because of ‘The Hobbit.’ He knows I can’t even touch that script without MGM sniffing around for a distribution fee, and he’s using that stalemate to squeeze me for more points on Return of the King. He wants to wait me out until I’m desperate enough to give him the moon just to keep him from taking the ‘prequel’ to a rival.”
Emmerich sighed, leaning back in a leather armchair. “The problem, Bob, is that the narrative is already set. The press thinks Peter Jackson is the franchise. They think New Line is just the bank. If we push back too hard on Return of the King, we look like the villains in our own fairytale.”
“Then we change the narrative,” Shaye snapped, stopping at the window overlooking Los Angeles. “We prove that the ‘fantasy epic’ isn’t just a New Zealand thing, it’s New Line’s thing! We find something else. Something bigger. Something with dragons that actually talk and a world that doesn’t require us to fly halfway across the planet to a sheep farm. I want a production that I can touch. I want a director who knows his place in the ecosystem. I want to show the world that the ‘New Line Magic’ is about the studio’s vision, not one man’s ego.”
Before Emmerich could reply, there was a knock on the heavy oak door. It was an interruption Shaye usually would have barked at, but today, he was looking for a distraction.
“Enter!” Shaye commanded.
Shaye didn’t even look up as the door opened. He was too busy stabbing a finger at a map of the global box office projections.
“I don’t care if the New Zealanders think they’ve cornered the market on elves,” Shaye muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly low. “I want a property that makes Tolkien look like a warm-up act.”
Emmerich let out a sharp, dry laugh, shaking his head. “And there isn’t anything like that out there, Bob. There’s nothing with that level of cultural connection. It’s like trying to replace the Bible. You’re asking for lightning to strike twice in the same bottle, except this time you want to control the weather.”
The silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence that usually sent subordinates scurrying for the exit.
Mark Sterling, assistant to one of New Line’s VPs, felt the weight of it. He was twenty-six, dressed in a suit that cost more than his car, and he had spent his weekends since 1985 tucked away in basements rolling twenty-sided dice.
He was supposed to drop the trades, summarize the overnight tracking for The Two Towers, and vanish. Instead, he watched Shaye’s shoulders tense. He saw the genuine, burning frustration of a mogul who felt his legacy was being stolen by a director ten thousand miles away.
Fortune favors the bold, Mark thought. He cleared his throat. It was a small sound, but in the vacuum of the room, it sounded like a gunshot.
Shaye spun around, his eyes narrowing as if only just realizing there was a third person in the room. “Who are you? Where’s Miller?”
“He’s out sick today, Mr. Shaye. I’m Mark. From the creative development floor.” Mark’s heart was hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t look down. “I was listening to what Mr. Emmerich said. About the Bible.”
Emmerich raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “It was a figure of speech, kid. We don’t need a sermon.”
“I know,” Mark said, taking a bold step toward the desk. “But you’re wrong about there being nothing else. There is a property. It’s got the scale, the dragons, the magic, and most importantly, it’s got a fan base that has been waiting almost twenty years for someone to take it seriously. It’s not Tolkien... but for millions of people my age, it means just as much.”
Shaye crossed his arms, his curiosity finally piqued by the sheer audacity of the interruption. “Go on then. Give me a name.”
Mark didn’t blink. “Dragonlance.”
Shaye squinted, the name echoing in the high-ceilinged office. He repeated it slowly, tasting the syllables as if trying to determine if they sounded like “money” or “another lawsuit.”
“Dragonlance,” Shaye said. “Sounds like something I’d see on a black-light poster in a head shop. Toby, have you heard of this?”
Emmerich rubbed his chin. “Can’t say that I have. Where did you hear about it, kid?
Mark turned to the stern executive, keeping the catch out of his throat as he replied. “It’s a fantasy world built by TSR back in the mid-80s. I played in it as a kid. Wizards of the Coast owns it now; it’s one of their classic Dungeons & Dragons settings.”
Shaye didn’t just scoff; he recoiled as if Mark had suggested they pivot to producing hardcore pornography.
“Dungeons and Dragons?” Shaye’s voice rose an octave, thick with disbelief. “Are you kidding me, kid? I sat in a screening room two years ago and watched Jeremy Irons chew the scenery until he choked in a movie that looked like it was filmed in a Bulgarian parking lot. It was a joke. It was a punchline. We’re New Line Cinema. We have the Ring. Why the hell would I go from the gold standard to the bargain bin?”
Emmerich leaned in, his expression more clinical but no less skeptical. “Not only that, but Sweetpea still has the rights to that brand. But the 2000 movie didn’t just fail; it poisoned the well. The brand is toxic in Hollywood. If we announce we’re doing a D&D spin-off, the trades will bury us before we even cast a single wizard. They’ll say we’ve run out of ideas and we’re desperate.”
Mark felt the sweat prickling at his hairline. This was the wall. “That’s exactly why you don’t call it ‘Dungeons & Dragons,’ Mr. Emmerich. You call it The Dragonlance Chronicles. You treat it like Star Wars, not a tabletop game. And if I’m not mistaken, Dragonlance is technically a separate IP from generic ‘D&D’. It would be a job for the lawyers, not me, but I think Dragonlance would be available. The 2000 movie was a generic mess because it didn’t have a story. It was just ‘thieves steal a rod,’ and none of us gamers connected to it at all. But Dragonlance is a Greek tragedy with fire-breathing lizards, with a huge fanbase.”
“It’s still guys in capes with funny names,” Shaye muttered, reaching for a cigar. “What’s going to make this anything other than a discount Tolkien?”
“Middle-Earth is stable, and has been for a long time. It’s a world where the evil is growing, and the heroes are just that: Heroes. Aragorn is the perfect king, Legolas surfs down a staircase shooting orcs, and Gimli spends his time in combat counting bodies. Dragonlance is nothing like that. It’s a post-apocalyptic world where three hundred and fifty years ago, the gods dropped a mountain on the world and completely changed the landscape. Then they disappeared. Now, they’re returning, and they’re bringing flights of dragons with them.”
“Post-apocalyptic,” repeated Shaye, his eyes narrowing. “So, this is a world where civilization is wrecked?”
“Not quite, but close. Most towns are on their own, there’s not a lot of central government. The Knights are fractured, the dwarves are hiding, and it’s very much a ‘my town is all that matters’ attitude.”
Emmerich nodded. “Okay, that’s the background. What about the characters? What makes them different from Tolkien’s heroes?”
“These characters are only heroes because they have to be. But none of them are perfect, none of them are paragons. This story is about a man named Tanis Half-Elven,” Mark pushed, his voice steadying. “He’s a bastard child of two races who belongs to neither. He’s not Aragorn; the elves don’t trust him because he’s half-human, and the humans don’t trust him because he’s part elf. He’s the definition of a reluctant hero. And it’s about Raistlin Majere, a mage who’s literally rotting from the inside out because he traded his health for power. And his twin brother, Caramon, who’s the strength to Raistlin’s weakness, the ‘big brother’ that Raistlin both loves and hates. These aren’t ‘heroes’—they’re a group of broken people who haven’t seen each other in five years and frankly don’t always like each other anymore. They meet at a bar to have a drink, and they find out the gods have returned to the world, and brought the dragons with them. It’s a war epic with deep characters, people who feel real instead of being perfect archetypes.”
Emmerich leaned back, his eyes glinting as he thought. “Twin brothers? At odds with each other?” He softly caressed his chin as he pondered the possibility. “The kid might have something, Bob.”
Keenly aware of Emmerich’s scripting vibe, Shaye stayed silent and waited. Mark tried his best not to fidget in place as Emmerich sat in silence for a full minute. When Emmerich returned his attention to Shaye, there was a predatory glimmer on his face that matched his smile.
“He really might have something,” repeated Emmerich. “Phoenix, maybe, for this Raistlin character. If he’s not too young. And a big guy for the brother, like Brendan Fraser.” He blinked and focused on Shaye again. “Think about it, Bob. Jackson’s movies are about ‘destiny’ and ‘purity.’” He glanced at Mark. “You’re saying that this is about choice. It’s grittier, it’s more cynical, and the villains aren’t just a giant flaming eyeball in the sky, right? These villains are human?”
Mark nodded silently, and Emmerich looked at Shaye. The word ‘cynical’ had landed. New Line had always thrived on a bit of edge—this was the studio of Nightmare on Elm Street, after all.
“And the dragons?” Shaye asked, blowing a cloud of smoke. “Jackson doesn’t have one in this movie, but if he goes on to do the Hobbit afterward, he’s going to have a massive CGI dragon to wow people. How does your ‘Dragonlance’ match that?”
“He’s got one dragon,” replied Mark with a bit more confidence. “Dragonlance has three in the first book alone. It was designed specifically to show off dragons in the game. And they aren’t the brainless ones that we saw in 2000, either. They’re smart; they’re characters, not just obstacles. And near the end of the third book, the dragons go to war. Not just one, but dozens. It’s like…like a fantasy version of ‘Top Gun’, but the planes have scales and can think for themselves.”
Emmerich nodded a shade more enthusiastically. “Like the dogfights in ‘Pearl Harbor,’ Bob. Imagine that level of kinetic energy, but with fire and actual stakes.”
Shaye didn’t speak for a long time. He just watched the smoke from his cigar curl toward the ceiling, his mind clearly working through the logistics of a counter-strike. He looked at the crumpled legal papers on his desk, then back at Mark.
Emmerich, sensing the shift in the room’s gravity, leaned forward. He picked up the thread Mark had laid out, his voice dropping into that smooth, analytical tone that had greenlit a dozen hits.
“You know, Bob,” Emmerich said softly, “Jackson’s whole thing is ‘realism.’ He wants Middle-earth to feel like a dusty history book come to life. It’s all brown, grey, and moss. It’s ‘sacred’ to him. And his heroes are, like the kid said, too perfect. Can you even imagine Legolas taking a piss in the forest? He’d never touch something this loud. He’d never do a movie with ‘Pearl Harbor’ dragons or heroes this... jagged.” He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s the one thing he can’t—or won’t—do. It’s too commercial for an ‘Auteur.’”
The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t the heavy, suffocating silence from before; it was the hum of a machine starting up. Shaye and Emmerich locked eyes across the mahogany expanse. There was no need for words. They were the architects of a studio built on calculated risks and middle fingers to the establishment. They were thinking about the trades. They were thinking about the 2004 winter slate. They were thinking about the look on Peter Jackson’s face.
Shaye finally snapped his gaze toward Mark. The junior exec felt like he was being pinned to the wall by a spotlight.
“Seven a.m. tomorrow,” Shaye barked. “I want to see everything. I want the books. I want a breakdown of these ‘Chronicles.’ I want to know who owns every comma in those scripts. And Mark?”
Mark stood straighter. “Yes, sir?”
Shaye leaned over the desk, his expression turning deathly serious. “If a single word of this leaves this room—if I see so much as a blind item in Variety about ‘New Line looking at dragons’—I will not only fire you, I will make sure the only thing you ever ‘develop’ in this town is a tan while you’re parking cars at the Ivy. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Shaye,” Mark said, his heart hammering a rhythm of pure adrenaline.
“Get out,” Shaye ordered, already reaching for the phone. “And find me a copy of that first book. The ‘Autumn’ one. I want to see if these ‘friends’ are actually worth a damn.”
Mark didn’t walk out of the office; he practically floated. Somehow, he’d taken his shot. Now he just had to make sure it hit the target.
