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The Lord of Crows is now live on Campfire! Though the world of Ulinara has been in development for nearly four years, this epic is the first complete novel to be released to a broader audience. I recently chatted with the Campfire team about the development process, project planning, and balancing several cups of coffee with this whole life thing. One of the biggest components of the story was creating a Design Brief. This was my one stop shop for managing such a large worldspace and story. To learn more about my process, and my new novel, check out Author Spotlight: The Power of Coffee in The Lord of Crows.

The adventure begins in November. Campfire Technology recently announced a select monetization period for authors through the end of the year. Mind of Fire's The Lord of Crows is one of just 50 authors accepted for this trial period, with the published work on track to go live beginning of November. About the Story Being a thief requires more than just skill, and Sif’s had failed her miserably. After an ill-fated theft in a Fae ruin, she found herself cursed and on limited time. Were it not for the kindness of a relative stranger, Regis, she would have starved into undeath in the Red Basin. And then he died. Now, all she has left of his sacrifice is his bow, a rare vanawood relic taken all the way to the Kingdom of Vaspal. Sif journeys there in search of closure, and instead finds herself at the mercy of slavers. Though this misfortune isn’t quite her fault. Grim was Mechthild’s best war trophy, an orphan of the Eromani Civil War. Adopted into her mercenary company at an early age, his life has been one of brutal battles and humiliation. But when their company is betrayed and sold to the Lord of Crows, Grim finds himself as the only one who may save his Brothers from lifelong slavery. Together, these two find themselves in a nest of vipers, where survival takes many forms among the collared and even those they trust can betray them. There’s Rhys, a former Faithman and a slave of twenty years, who takes Grim under his wing. The Vaspali Dreamer, Frey, whose magic bends reality to her will. Then there’s Slygut, the dwarven overseer who cuts at old wounds for his own amusement. Apart, they and Grim’s Brothers are forever cemented as slaves. Together, they could find a way to break free and flee to the free country of Uswain. Perhaps even find the Brotherhood’s traitor in the process. One thing is for sure, the Lord of Crows won’t make it easy, and their every step is marked by the shadow of black wings. If their group is truly to survive, they have to break away from more than just their chains - they may have to learn to live.

This story was originally published on Vocal+. To read the original submission, click here. “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” Cedric prattled on. “In fact it wasn’t until the turn of the second age that there were sightings. Odd really.” “Why?” Yaro asked. He didn’t care and, frankly, he knew his answer didn’t really matter. If the past two weeks were anything to go by, the scholar would continue regardless. “Well, the Valley isn’t known for having large deposits of cattle. Or people even. Imagine going to a tavern and ninety percent of the food was spoiled.” Cedric bent over the flower cluster, thumbing over the gentle blue petals that twisted around an almond center. He pulled out a kerchief and clipped a bud for safe keeping. “Odder still.” This time Yaro ignored the man. Cedric’s way of thinking was mostly out loud, even for minor processes. It was useful for the collaboration of his colleagues - in the homely and well-populated halls of the Citadel. Out here however, it made Yaro flinch. They had already tested their luck traveling through the south as Northmen, and their luck had ensured their passage through the wilder portions of the Plains. But now they came to the true fringes of their goal, and the air had grown thick with unease. The Valley of Souls. Yaro grimaced. Our ancestors couldn’t pick something like, ‘The Valley of Definitely-Safe-Wilds’? What, did they see the fog and decide only the dead could be happy here? A part of him couldn’t blame the assessment. The Valley hung in the shadow of the Grey Mountains, and was nestled in a wild pocket of forest so dense and untamed that neither Eroman nor Uswain had claimed it. There were barely any paths, and those that had once been laden with stones had cracked and coiled beneath thorny thickets and weeds. The trees threatened to cover the sky and their branches reached out to them as if they were gnarled hands ready to drag them into their hollows. And if the looming dark circles of a dragon didn’t make one uneasy, the thought of the village further in certainly did. “There could be other creatures around.” Cedric’s voice broke Yaro’s thoughts. “What?” The scholar stood a few paces ahead and scanned the wilderness, frowning. “For the dragon’s food supply. I suppose smaller creatures like wolves and voxlings could supply a dragonling for a time, but as they mature, they would need larger and more robust forms to subsist on. The average draconid can devour a whole herd in a day, bones and all.” Yaro folded his arms over his chest. “And you thought marching into a starving dragon’s territory was the perfect research project?” “But that’s the point!” Cedric hissed. “What’s kept it alive here? We’ve seen barely anything since the last village. And do you feel that…” The scholar waved his hand through the air, and Yaro felt that deep gnawing chill in his core assert itself. On reflex, he rubbed his chest to soothe the ache. “Magically saturated air.” He agreed. “Not just saturated.” Cedric returned. “It feels… wrong. Angry.” Yaro groaned. “You do realize it’s called the Valley of Souls, right? We’re not vacationing on the Vaspali coast.” “For someone who served the Citadel as long as you have, you’re remarkably uninterested in asking questions.” “Because we’ve been over this for months.” Yaro said. “I’ve heard the stories a hundred times, from beginning to end, left, right, and backwards. All of this is just speculation until we reach the village to prove your so-called theory. And as long as we keep standing here talking about it, the likelier we are to attract your dragon’s favorite snack.” “The broaches should protect us.” Cedric puffed his collar out, pushing the yellow runic crest closer towards Yaro. Against the faded blue of his traveler’s cloak, the markings shone like the glint of light off a feline’s eyes. “You’re betting your life on that trinket?” “On my research.” Cedric corrected. He reminded Yaro of an indignant child, so sure of his own theories that he believed himself invulnerable. He even sucked in part of his lower lip. With the dark mustache and goatee, it was almost comical. Yaro arched his brow at him. Cedric’s brow deepened and he relaxed completely. “...but not needlessly.” He added. He adjusted his leather tunic and cleared his throat. “Once we reach the village we should turn directly towards the Grove. Better to not stay past sundown.” Pompous idiot. “Let’s just keep moving.” Yaro muttered. He began looking for additional road markers. Amid the harsh terrains and frequent storms, signs like paint or carvings would have been lost in only a few short months. Instead, the residents had left small circular blue gemstones embedded in the path and along a couple of trees. They glowed faintly, which helped among the wilds, and provided small beacons to lead visitors to what they thought to be safety. Yaro could imagine it easily; refugees from the civil wars, bruised and exhausted, their clothes chafing as they clawed their way through the wilds with little blue eyes watching their every hopeful step. He wondered if they had been terrified of the lights. Their glow reminded him a little of the will-o-the-wisps that flickered on the edge of the Red Basin in the far north. He had only seen one once, from a distance, and to him it seemed more like a burst of lantern light than anything magical. The Valley could be nothing more than superstition too. He thought. It wasn’t like tragedy was alien to the continent - they had seen almost three centuries of it, and a long slow death of tragedies for over a thousand years of subjugation by the Fae. True, their captivity wasn’t used as blood sacrifice for the eternal youth of one depraved woman, but the story of Bleakwind wasn’t entirely unique. “These gemstones are intact.” Came Cedric’s voice. To his credit, he was quieter in this announcement. “At the risk of blowing your mind, I noticed.” “I would think thieves, or even merchants, would try to take at least one.” That made Yaro pause. “Superstition?” “Mm.” The channeler ran his fingers over a gem, brushing away the leaves and dirt until the glow turned his brown eyes blue. “They don’t appear to be runes.” Cedric murmured. “They remind me of the crystals in far northern caverns, or deep in the trenches of the Dwarven kingdoms. Those were always underground. I wonder…” He reached beneath the stone and tried to pry it away from the ground. His fingers clawed and scrambled, knotting around dirt as he clenched his jaw from strain. Yaro rolled his eyes and moved to help him. The two clasped around the stone plank and heaved. A gasp of freezing air cut through the trees. It struck Yaro straight in his chest. The impact sent him reeling backwards, his torso radiating with fractals of ice. He cursed as he scrambled back to his feet, drawing his blade with the frantic scan of the wilderness. The tall grasses and thickets clicked and rustled together. The gnarled hands of the trees waved with the lull of the wind as it died, but Yaro couldn’t see anything trailing through the wilds. No birds took flight, no insects rushed away. Maybe… No. He shut the idea out of his mind. “Some kind of defense mechanism.” He muttered. Cedric laughed dryly and rubbed his chest. “I think that was Lady Madigan’s greeting.” Yaro clenched his teeth. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck, but he shook it away. It was the unease of what lay there, the unknown. Nothing more. He helped Cedric up from where he’d been knocked back, and the two continued on. Following the glowing trail, it did not take them long to see the first signs of the village. The wilds thinned around it, the tree arms creating an embrace of an archway to the entrance. Without the strange light roads to guide them, Yaro would have said it looked like any abandoned pocket town. Hopeful, slanted cabin homes were built right on top of each other and side by side a few feet away from a tall spiked fence to keep out… what? Absent wildlife? Invaders? A few portions of the fence and homes had tried to make use of the old Fae columns and towers, making the new buildings appear like tumors crawling out of the old ruins. How long since it was abandoned? Yaro thought. Ten years? Twenty? Wagons laid forgotten with spoiled food that by now was more brick than bread. Pens held the partially-buried bones of once loved livestock. The few villagers they found had all been buried in their own cemetery, but the animals had been left right where they had died. Surprised it wasn’t the other way around. He grimaced. He kept his blade close, scanning the doors, windows, and roadways for any signs of activity. Tracks, scratching, broken pieces of the buildings. But there wasn’t much, truthfully. The only occasional odd thing was the small archways of stone, shaped like looping gateways no taller than Yaro’s waist. The stone was as white as the animal bones. Almost… clean. In comparison, the wilds had crawled over the cabin logs and thatched roof huts, and thorns and flowers alike bloomed. The blue roses Cedric had marveled over ran in long streaks between stones, wood, and grass, bolstered by the glow of the central path. When silence met his thoughts, Yaro turned around. Cedric stood at the entrance to the village, his brow woven in a mixture of awe and… what? Sadness? “What is it?” Yaro asked. “I feel it.” He murmured. “Feel what?” “The Valley. What happened here.” Cedric exhaled, his eyes scanning every building, every arch and fragment. “They said when the army marched to stop her, all they found were ten villagers, already dead. Their bodies were almost… frozen in time, as if they had died in one sudden instant. It sounded too fantastical, even to me. But standing here… I can feel it. Like the village is holding its breath, waiting.” Yaro had to resist his grimace. “The magic saturation is stronger here than the wilds. We should limit your channeling so we don’t risk wild spells.” Cedric clenched the strap of his travel bag, seemingly ignoring him. “Look, there’s Solismar - the fortress of the noble family - there on the small rise.” It was only a fraction larger than the other buildings, and perhaps that was due to the elevation more than the construction. It was definitely one of the wider buildings, and it was made entirely of the icy Fae stone. Unlike the other buildings, it had none of the blue roses on it. Though there was a significant patch at the building’s entrance. Cedric must’ve noticed the same, as he immediately quickened his pace towards it and fell into a kneel. He drew out the clipping he’d taken from the wilds and held it against the other blooms. The ones in front of the tower were lush and vibrant, easily twice the size. Cedric grinned and laughed, then looked around at the buildings again. “Yaro, tell me, do you see any track marks? Any signs of battle?” Yaro nodded. “The footfalls of the soldiers and their movements.” “But the reports never mentioned a dragon being attacked. Or the scholars collecting blooms.” “Not that I recall.” “Then this is recent.” “This?” Yaro echoed. Cedric held up the blue bloom. “Dragonwing. These only grow in soil saturated by dragon’s blood. It’s incredibly rare to find them so… well… everywhere.” Yaro clenched his hand tighter around his blade, and once more scanned the village rooftops, the paths, the grass… Gods, what could attack a dragon? Let alone bleed it this much? And why would a dragon stay? He grimaced. “This Solis family is getting worse and worse.” “It could be unrelated.” Cedric said. “You don’t sound sure.” “I am not. My theory is getting more complex… dragons, blood rituals, and then there are these arches..” Cedric pointed. “I’ve seen Lorocan landmarks in a similar style. They called them spirit gates. They were meant to allow ghosts and essences of magic safe passage. The Solis family was believed to be afflicted with madness… but they could have been in close communication with spirits.” “I thought you knew everything about them.” Yaro frowned. “Hardly. Barely any records before the soldiers were found. It wasn’t as if Lady Madigan wrote out ‘Dear Diary, behold my master plans.’ All we have is the few escapees from sacrifice and the assaults against the village.” Cedric gave a thoughtful pause. “My theory is that Lady Madigan was trying to understand a Fae ritual site in Bleakwind Grove and it was twisted to be about her search for immortality. Using blood to force magic into being never ends well. Dragon’s blood would be potent, in more than just a few ways. It could explain the sudden death and disappearances of the villagers.” Yaro scanned the skies overhead, listening carefully for the beating of wings. He heard only a soft hum of wind in the thickets and against stones. Abandoned places always had a different form of quiet. The Citadel had it when the scholars went to sleep - a quiet that made the mind lightly buzz, and every sound become acute. “We’re losing daylight.” He said quietly. “Let’s find this grove, and quickly.” Cedric grinned a little, and his eyes drew up to Solismar. ~*~ Yaro had followed two rules in his life. One was to knock on door frames before he entered. The second was to never lose sight of the goal. That wasn’t to say ignore other observations - far from it - but panic and awe were quick ways to lose one’s bearings during an expedition. One thing Yaro appreciated in Cedric was that when it came down to it, he listened and refocused. There were times when his mind would stray back to theory, but he could be brought back. They clung to the roadsides and the small shadows of the buildings as they drew closer to the village’s heart. Cedric drew out his research notes and maps, chattering quietly about the Solis family madness - and the debate over if it was biology, or pursuits through cruelty labeled as such. A part of Yaro was grateful for the distraction, even while the rest of him was on constant alert. When he had been restricted to the boredom of Citadel patrols, it had been Cedric’s research stories that brought him out of the tower. He liked to think that his listening provided the scholar with some level of validation as his research took an increasingly cursed turn. The Citadel had wanted nothing to do with the Solis family, and Cedric’s colleagues were convinced of the superstitions - if not the outright danger. Lady Madigan had killed an estimated 123 victims - one for each month of her reign. Any channeler could tell him that a place filled with so much death, especially death at the hands of sacrifice, could shape the lands around them with toxic crystalized magic, twisted creatures, and volatile spell casting. The sighting of a dragon in the area had cemented the futility of reclaiming the Valley. “The Grove can be accessed through the Solismar mines… Ah! There.” Cedric pointed. The entrance was buried beneath scaffolding, right next to a slumped building that had barrels surrounding it. Explosive powder, Yaro guessed. A half-loaded cart even sat beside the building with added barrels waiting to be carried off. There were plenty of similar mines in the Grey Mountains - Ebonfall came to mind - where dwarven firestones and byron metals for runes could be extracted. From the lack of heat, Yaro guessed that Bleakwind mine had to be the latter. I hate caves. Yaro thought with a grimace. Always feels like something’s watching us. Cedric stood at the adit, glancing between his reports and maps, then down the dark passage. Long metal bars extended from the mine mouth and were nailed to the exterior rock, creating a spider-leg look to the entrance. “The Grove is through the mines?” Yaro repeated. “Do these go to the other side of the mountain?” Cedric shook his head. “No, there appears to be a break in the mountain pass - see?” The scholar showed Yaro the yellowed parchment. He could see the large blots of the mining tunnels, alongside dwarven elevation markers and symbols for natural dangers. Cedric had marked a darkened portion of the map that went far into the mountainside. “It doesn’t have an elevation marker.” Yaro frowned. “Are you sure that isn’t a dragon nest?” “All the other passages go deeper into the earth, not higher. I believe this is the underground Grove, a ritual site of the Fae that the Solis family used for their sacrifices… Do you have a torch, Yaro?” Yaro grimaced, already rustling in his pack to pull out two. He glanced around the mine, first checking for any spilled explosives before he lit them. The darkness skittered back against the cavernous rock. The yellow orange flames glowed against the rusted mining tracks. A few feet within the entrance sat a cracked old bird cage with a tiny avian skeleton within. Yaro glanced at Cedric; for the first time in their journey he looked like he was containing himself. He’d sucked in his bottom lip, and his knuckles had turned white around his torch. “One last leg.” Yaro said. “I can take the lead. We’ll be at the Grove before you know it.” Cedric nodded, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you want to turn back?” “No.” He said immediately, then steadier, “No, we’re here. We’ve come too far.” The spider-like metal bars had been used for hoisting old lanterns and supplies. Molded backpacks, helms, pickaxes, and rope had been left by their previous owners and made the passage feel all the more cramped. Netting had been strewn across the top of the tunnel and suffocated the rock. Rusted chains had fallen from their hooks and felt like heavy arms bumping against their bodies as they weaved through. Yaro could smell the dry, dusty air. At least there isn’t water, running or otherwise. He thought. The last thing they needed was toxin exposure on top of the eerie passage. Though that could have provided some answers to the village’s death rates. The deeper they went into the mines, the more Yaro felt like he was being watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The chains bumping into him passed and faded, the tracks guiding them further and further into the bowels of the mountain. The miners had left markings at regular intervals at each curve of the passage as it wound down or branched off from the main track. Yaro had seen them before in Ebonfall - ways to check composition, or to mark a venturing party’s progress. One mark per day, with the top additional marks for the number in the party… If the Lady sacrificed people here, wouldn’t they have left marks of their own? He frowned. Did they have their own passage to this Grove? Cedric shrieked. Yaro jumped out of his skin, readying his sword as he turned back. The scholar was pale-faced and heaving, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Something just ran past me!” Yaro held his torch higher, listening to the darkness. He heard a faint movement back behind them and his heart pounded. Slowly, Yaro crept back behind the scholar. As the orange glow brightened up the tunnel, Yaro saw one of the chains swinging back and forth. “For gods sake Cedric!” He groaned. “It’s just the equipment.” “No! It wasn’t a chain! It was colder than ice. I felt it!” Cedric clawed at his clothes over his chest, as if some growth had attached there he was desperate to pry off. Yaro sheathed his sword and placed his hand over the scholar’s. “It’s just the saturation! I’m not a channeler, I don’t feel it the same. If you want us to go, we can. But I need you to stay focused with me.” Cedric’s panicked gaze turned to resentment. “I know what I felt.” He shoved Yaro’s hand off. Instead of turning back towards the swinging chain and the entrance, Cedric faced towards the winding down tunnel with an ever-hardened grimace. Yaro tried to swallow his own pride, but it was difficult. Don’t lose sight of the goal. He reminded himself. It was a long moment before the tunnel shifted and changed. By then, Yaro had felt the slippage of time. He knew when they had descended that they had a good five hours of daylight left, but time got funny underground. They had followed the markings of a mining party with four others, winding down and down and down until the feeling of pressure overhead made Yaro’s head spin. The natural rock guided them until eventually, their passage started to smooth. The spidery metal bars stopped. Netted rock was replaced with an intricately carved weaving design. The tracks fell short, unfinished, and the clay became replaced with pockets of bright pale stone. It reminded Yaro of the spirit gates on the surface of Bleakwind, or the tower of Solismar. Eventually the smooth stone completely overtook the cavern, and they stood amidst a cold passage of a Fae ruin humming with a soft blue-green glow. “You were right then.” Yaro murmured. “If there’s a Fae ruin here, then there’s likely a ritual site not far.” Cedric said nothing. Instead he adjusted his map and continued walking. Yaro sighed. Had he truly insulted the scholar that much? Or was it another childish game? Focus on the goal. Even here, Yaro could see the marks of the miners. Some were even carved into soft blue crystal growths that hung in alcoves or poked out of a few cracks in the stone. The miners had marked five days, with three miners. Three? What happened to the fourth? “These crystals are sick.” Cedric murmured. “This color isn’t right.” “What do you mean?” “Natural growing magic is a deep, radiant blue. This is more like… a seafoam.” He said. This time Yaro heard the hurt in his voice. “I feel watched.” “...I do too.” Yaro admitted. Cedric glanced back at him, his lips thinned. “...do you feel the chill too?” “I do.” “Then we’re close.” Those three words hung over them for what felt like ages, until at last the ruin came to a staircase leading down. The crystal light had grown to where their torches were no longer needed. The passage yawned open to a large tower-like room where the magic grew like veins up towards a ceiling woven with pulsing light. More tunnels and staircases all descended down towards a central platform with a spirit gate, this one far larger and decorated with the same glowing blue gemstones that had decorated the path into Bleakwind. The faint hum of the crystal had grown in a dark corner of Yaro’s mind, scratching at his consciousness with words he couldn’t place. When they stood at the top of the staircase, Yaro swore it almost formed music. “Gods.” Cedric breathed. The gate’s stones pulsed. Yaro felt the fractal chill strike his chest again, this time not knocking him back but bringing him to his knees. Cedric clawed at his chest, seething in pain, his torch fallen to the stone. “I feel it.” He rasped. “Gods I feel it…” The hum was ringing in Yaro’s ears now. His core felt like it was exploding with frost. That gnawing longing for magic now replaced with fire. What the hell? The gate’s gems were glowing, no - calling. It sang out into the darkness, pulling them closer, closer… Then, the silence deafened. Yaro panted, and for a moment everything felt unreal. He looked over to Cedric, whose eyes were wide and locked on the gate. The scholar’s breaths were short and frantic, like an animal caught in a trap. “Cedric? Cedric?” He ran up to his friend and pulled him to his feet. The scholar’s eyes wouldn’t break away from the gate. “Cedric, focus!” Yaro yelled. The scholar’s lips trembled, and one hand rose to point back at the gate. That’s when Yaro heard them; the crystalline hum, one note at a time as if sounding off. Each grew louder and louder until the music became a crescendo and the freeze inside Yaro’s core felt near to bursting. The other passages began to glow as humanoid, crystalline figures shambled towards the gate. Yaro had never seen anything like them before - their bodies were ashen yet glowed with the same sickly green-blue of the crystals. Their bodies were thin with the skin stretched over bumps and crags, all leading to a triangular featureless head with blackened tendrils that trailed behind them like smoke. Some crawled, others walked, all with a strange grace like dancers meeting center-stage. “I feel them. I feel them.” Cedric rasped. “Oh gods…” Yaro could stand it no longer. He twisted the scruff of Cedric’s collar and pushed him back down the way they’d come. The song stopped. Yaro looked down at his runic broach - the symbol had cracked. They could be seen. He forced the scholar into a run. A primal terror gripped him. No longer superstition, no longer goals or research. He felt every inch of his body screaming to find the mining passage again. The hum of the creatures beat against the walls of the ruin, amplified by the crystals. They were catching up, Yaro could feel it. “What the bloody hell are these things?!” Yaro drew his sword, but it felt like straw. Cedric was hobbling, and the further they drew from the gate the more the scholar reached for the walls to pull himself forwards. “Come on Cedric, run!” Yaro growled. At last they reached the fringes of the mining passage. Yaro dared a glance behind him. The creatures were nearly floating in their grace to follow. Yaro could see a single line of crystals embedded in their triangular head, trailing up from a thick neck towards the smoke radiating from their bodies. Their blasted song burned against his mind, clawing under his skin and pushing against his fingernails. One of the creatures raised a hand, and Yaro felt the chill deepen as magic was brought into being. Yaro shoved Cedric to the ground. The spell loosened an electric bolt of sickly green energy. The blast flung Yaro back against a cavernous wall. Chains raked against his back and metal scraped against his armor. His mouth felt bitter and burned, his body twitching with agony as that fire lanced across his mind. The song became so loud that for a moment Yaro’s ears felt warm and wet. “Yaromir!” Cedric ran up to him, and Yaro could barely see him through the haze of pain. The scholar looked down at him, then back at the still advancing creatures. Yaro felt the weight of Cedric pressing against him, pulling him up to his feet again. He felt the frigid chill of another spell being cast, and this time the cry wasn’t theirs. Yaro blinked away his pain enough to see that several of the gate creatures’ chests had burst open, exposing green-blue crystal embedded in a ribcage. Like organs. Yaro scrambled to his feet and pushed Cedric ahead. Only a little farther, only a little farther to the surface. He felt the crackling of energy and threw one of the mining lanterns back at the creatures. A light broke up ahead, and Yaro’s heart soared. The explosives! “Keep running!” He yelled to Cedric. The scholar was stumbling against the walls and chains. When they reached the adit, Cedric nearly collapsed - and in the clarity of daylight he could see why. Cedric’s arm had been completely cut open. Blood stained his clothes and his skin had gone pale with the loss. The spell’s success in the cavern flashed through his mind. “Are you insane?” But there was no time. Yaro handed his torch to Cedric and ran back towards the mining building. He heaved an explosive barrel to its side and rolled it up towards the adit. The song was howling, screaming, no longer the gently oppressive hum of the caverns. The melody repeated again and again. Yaro grit his teeth and pushed against it with his own thoughts; focus on the goal, focus on the goal… He rolled the barrel towards the main entrance, then turned to Cedric for the torch. The scholar looked up at the sky - and Yaro’s heart dropped into his stomach. The beating of wings rushed against the village, and an enormous shadow blotted out the sun over the Valley. Yaro glimpsed a flash of fire, and a roar brought the gate creature’s melody into a terrifying reverb through their cores. Kith, kith, kith The dragon had come to feed.

“Another game?” Pomp blinked; the purple veil flickering just enough to warrant the more human reaction on his features. His head was tilted down at the winning hand, and he tapped the cards. After he savored that moment, he laid them neatly across the table for Egmund to shuffle. “You’re stalling.” said Pomp. “Stalling? No. Quite the opposite. I’m enjoying myself.” “I’ve met many stallers in my time.” He said. “And they all do as you do. One hand after another, that same grumpy look twixt the eyes.” “I suppose my thinking face is rather grumpy.” “You have more rounds to win than time left.” Egmund nodded, thumbing through the worn deck of cards. “Do you know where I got these?” Pomp’s veil blinked again. “One of my buddies at the shop. He was a quick worker, you see, but he practiced magic tricks with them between customers. One pizza here, a little slight of hand there. It kept his mind and hands busy when the counters were too clean to bother.” “Is it a spell you charge with your games?” Pomp asked. He folded his arms across his ribcage. “I would be interested to sense it.” “I believe, my dear Sandman, you would have already. No, it isn’t magic that these cards hold. Just… memories.” Pomp tapped his fingers on the cards, the jaw set. The spirit sat as still as stone, with only the wisps of purple magics to surround him. The air was not as cold as Egmond had thought it to be. He had left the window open, perhaps foolishly thinking his guest would need such a way in, and even still the breeze was warm. And he smelled scents on it that he hadn’t smelled in years, perhaps decades. The soft detergent his mother used, the acrid cologne of his grandfather’s house, the sweets from the county fair not far from the field by his home. He even smelled a moment of his brother’s room - which thankfully, had been fleeting. “How is it you do that?” Egmond asked at last. “My memories hang on you. Do you see them, or smell them? I always thought you’d be…” “Rotted?” “Or dusty.” “I can be so, if that is your preference.” “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend. It’s rather nice really. Its been quite a long time since I’ve thought of any of these things.” Pomp’s veil blinked. Egmond shuffled the cards and gave them each a hand, waiting for the spirit to take his turn. He drew his cards, tapping them once in thought. “Actually… no.” Pomp looked up. “I’ve thought of those things quite a lot before today.” Egmund admitted. “You’re stalling.” “No, not at all. I’m enjoying myself.” Pomp leaned back again, though he relaxed his forearms on the table. “Many souls do this before they make the crossing. I sense they are afraid; there is a lot that they face on that bridge and then beyond it. And there is a lot to leave behind. It is natural to stall death.” Egmund played the first set of cards he had - three jacks. “And how many have asked you to a game of Go-Fish?” “Five.” “Five? In all your tenure?” “Most try to gamble.” Egmund glanced around his little room. “I have gummy bears.” The jaw twitched, and Pomp chuckled as he played three queens. “More prizeful than souls… Any 4s?” “Damn… Also. Is that really a thing? What do you eat?” “That is like asking the wind what it drinks.” Pomp said. “...sometimes dates.” “Like, calendar dates?” “No, the little raisin-finger fruits.” Egmund blinked, then laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t have those, my friend.” “It was a joke.” “Oh.” “So if you are indeed not stalling, and you are in fact not gambling, is this for questions only?” Pomp asked. “It’s for fun.” Egmund said. “Got any aces?” “Hm.” He slid the card across the table, and Egmund grinned as he tucked it away with the set in his hand. “I used to play Go-Fish all the time with my daughter.” He said. “I never let her win.” “Oh?” “Okay, only once. But she got good. And she taught it to my grandson as well. He was such a quick learner. I hope he’ll keep it up, even if these things go virtual.” Egmund waved his hand. Pomp stared at the cards, and for a few rounds there was quiet. Egmund could smell the old office at his first job, that old music store that smelt of papers and faint rosin. He smelt the hair of his first love, and the foul smells of the hospital wings. He smelled that one camping trip where his friend Luca stepped in bear scat… and he smelled the aftermath of too much beef jerky. “Ah Luca…” Egmund chuckled. “Is he over there, happy?” “I don’t know.” Pomp replied. “Was he happy when he left?” “Confused. It was sudden, after all.” “...it was.” “He asked if he had offended me during his D&D campaign.” Egmund paused as he laid down his king, queen, and ace. “D&D… oh! Oh my god… I totally forgot about that… did he offend? Its quite normal for bards.” “He was a gentleman.” Pomp said. “Got any 2s?” “Go fish.” Egmund’s phone buzzed, and he looked at the notification. “Ah! My grandson just posted a photo. Want to see?” “Sure.” He shifted his glasses to see properly, and pulled the message up. His grandson Alan and his wife Emelia filled the screen. Egmund couldn’t help but smile, even before he saw the words posted - he saw so much of his daughter in her son. The ears mostly. “My god… they’re expecting.” Egmund blinked. He stared at the screen for a moment, exhaling a laugh, and his eyes stung from the warmth it brought. A new child, a new bit of family running amok. He wondered if the child would be as chaotic as their grandmother, or as quietly devious as their father. Perhaps the kid would throw tantrums over their food touching on the plate and wear crazy shoe colors. Maybe they’d explode with excitement over digital things and try to build a computer, like what Egmund’s daughter had done all those years ago. He had worked his odd jobs for so many years to see such beautiful things - and it was there that his eyes fell on the cards laid on the table. “I can deliver them, after you.” Pomp offered. “What?” “The cards. As a gift.” Egmund laughed. “I guess people do not make many stops on their crossing?” “No. Not at all.” “Is that why so many loved ones find odd things after…?” “Am I being recorded?” “Is that a–” “Yes.” Egmund chuckled, glancing between his phone photos of the little nugget-to-be, and then the winning hand across the table. “Another game?” Pomp asked. Egmund’s phone lowered. “You’re stalling.” “No. I’m simply enjoying myself.”

One day beneath the willow We’ll meet there as friends One day beneath the willow When all the fighting ends I ask with what you carry Could you guide me safely there My arms have grown too heavy And the weight is hard to bear One day beneath the willow We’ll drop what needn’t stay One day beneath the willow No bodies will there lay - Northern Lullaby, 2nd Age of Man in the height of the Mourning War Ask a handful of northerners what the legend behind a willow is, and each of them will give you a different answer depending on where they are from. In the northeast, they will tell you about the frozen souls starting with Gilgaren; the old warrior who had spent his life devoted to Imren who in one fateful winter slowly froze to death as he tried to escape a forest. Despite the goddess's cruel season, his tears were because he would go to the side of Tetin and pass into the great void presented to the Old-Faithers at death. It is said that his sadness moved the goddess herself to manifest and shape the frost around Gilgaren into a weeping tree, cradling him in nature itself for eternity. If you ask the middle-north about the origin, they would tell you about how the winds of Laranth over the Ages has crafted all manner of strange trees and fungi to grow over Eroman. These are the same winds that created the legendary Harwood; trees afflicted with corrupted storm winds and the breath of the Sunfire that becomes so highly resistant to the elements and magic that it may as well be unaging stone. Even fire would need ages to kiss it, which is why only the fallen branches and loose logs may ever be gathered. Willow trees do not hold the same strength as Harwood, but even the most young green-scholar will tell you that channeling spells always seem to go smoother under the shade of a Willow. It is why many northern mages find solace there when learning new spells. Now, if you ask the northern elves what the legends behind a willow entails, they'll tell you the story of Issan Deranna - The Place of Weeping Trees. In an Age when the Fae subjugated and bred the elves for slaughter, there was a slave named Dylar who managed to escape. But, as legends go, he did not stop there. Under the cover of darkness or personas of other slaves, Dylar would sneak into fortresses across the northern Plains and help other elves escape. Eventually, he had gathered nothing short of an army of his own people, and they took refuge in a grove of silver trees. Some elves add the embellishment that they had begun to build a city there, but most call it a haven encampment. Until the Fae managed to track them down. The elves were massacred beneath the willows. Blood saturated the soil as they fought to maintain the little freedom they had. When it was done, the silver trees wept for the poor souls, dropping their branches to shield the bodies from desecration. Those silver trees became willows, and that grove became Issan Deranna. No scholars have been able to identify the grove, but that is hardly the point of a legend. What remains true is that, across the young races, willow trees remain a sacred symbol worthy of one reverence or another and are often associated with mourning. Perhaps this is due to the legends being borne out of tragic times - the Sunfire, the Fae occupations, the Mourning War itself, etc. Whether it is a small tragedy or a larger cultural one, the trees mark a sort of vigilance and otherwordliness associated with magic that has become less prominent in Nialios with each passing age. Tragedy and loss so profound that the gods - or even the world itself - is moved to action.

What happened to the adventurers after they saved the world? This is a chapter 1 short story, meant to be an opening for a wider story asking, "What happens next"? Raella crept down the narrow alleys of San Mer’s undercity, breathing deep the cold damp air. The sharp rank scent of waste and decay came first, but pushing past it brought the scent of mold, trash, and even a metallic note. She had passed through warrens like this a hundred times before, and each had some sort of under-smell that typified the location. For San Mer, it was a chilly crisp scent - like the air during a snowstorm. Perhaps it was from the Fae ruin’s strong presence in the city - it was tough to say. Unlike other cities, the capital had far more denizens so openly living in the underworld. There were the gambling dens of course, but there were also nooks and niches for various merchants. Scholars who wanted access to the ruins began their searches here. Alchemists sought after the mosses, molds, and creatures that slithered through the waste and stones. Mercenaries accompanied them both to guide them through the labyrinthian passages, ready to strike as need demanded. Raella was none of these things, but if her hunch was right, she was nearing where she needed to be. She passed the scholars and alchemists, keeping herself hidden in the shadowy high rise that hung over the majority of the camps. She eyed the glittering bottles, barely concealed beneath burlap sacks, even glinting metals. One of the fool mages hadn’t even bothered to cover a pearly white staff that clutched a sizable sapphire. Bait, or carelessness? She wondered. A move that like would usually mean he would be relieved of his affects. Raella herself was tempted. A staff like that would have been worth a fortune - but wizards were very particular about these things. A fence would take a large cut of that commission just trying to find a buyer. No, better to take small things. She had learned that lesson ages ago. Small potions, gems, coins, the occasional artifact was all fair game. Once she spotted her target, she moved to it and out as silent as a shadow, returning to the high rise. After all - she couldn’t completely give up old habits. The high rise skirted the ruins, and eventually she was brought up to a corridor with a long train of sewer water like a river before a series of doors. The high rise lowered into a safe landing that only had slightly slick stones. The stone walls were nearly fuzzy from moss, and there was a strange glint between each of the doors, buried between grime and grit. Shards of glass, almost oily to the touch and several fragmented - it was an old lighting trick that she had seen in ruins before. Yes, she was much closer. Raella doubled her pace, her excitement guiding her more than these quiet clues. When she reached the last door on the lane, she saw the symbol that grew a bigger smile - the dragonwing flower, carved beautifully into the wood. She pressed against the door. It resisted. Raella got onto her knees and pulled out her lock picking tools, plucking each of the tumblers until she heard the satisfying clink of the door giving way. She grinned to herself, and slid her hand over the filmy knob to enter. “Look out!” An enormous spiked maul came sailing down. Raella darted forward and rolled, missing the spike ball as it hurled into the door. She glared at it, her heart racing, before turning back. And there he stood. His shoulder-length blond hair had darkened somewhat, though whether it was from the damp filth of the sewers or from age, she couldn’t tell. His small square of facial hair had grown curly, but not wild. He’d exchanged the robes and armor for a very simple linen tunic, apron, and trousers. But his smile remained the same. “You could’ve killed me, you know.” Raella said, standing up and dusting herself off. “Sorry. After my clinic mishaps I thought it best to install some security.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Besides. What’s one more hit to that head of yours?” She exhaled a laugh, and ran up to him. Lucien embraced her warmly, laughing a little himself as he held her close. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” “It’s been too long.” Raella murmured. “I know people just say that sometimes but…” She pulled back, brushing away his hair and cupping his face. “Gods. You look like an old adventurer now.” “I know!” He said, cradling her hands. “You’d think that retirement would have me turning paunchy and curmudgeonly, but sadly my experiences have not afforded such things.” “Never say never.” She grinned. Then paused. “Why are you down here?” “A few reasons. I could ask the same of you. After the Gates I thought I’d never see you again.” “Everyone sort of… drifted apart. I kept eyes on everyone for awhile but they moved on. I fell into old habits.” “Speaking of…” Lucien grinned. He eyed her, then looked down at her pockets. “What?” “I’d like my stone back please.” Raella blinked, then with a resigned sigh, pulled out the blue gemstone she’d pulled from their hug. Lucien snickered. “To tell you the truth I was a bit hurt.” He said. “I figured we at least could mosey a bit longer.” “You wanted to go to Uswain.” She reminded him. “What happened to you anyway?” Lucien’s bright expression flickered somewhat. He guestered for her to follow, and she did. He led her through the thin entryway, and back into the very small niche home. It had a fairly new wooden bookcase filled with alchemy ingredients. The tomes and scrolls she had expected to see had been carefully laid in a metal box. The walls had scrape marks from tiny tools, and a few tentative decorations had been placed around the small rooms. There was a small hearth with a cooking pot, a carefully wrapped food supply, a tent with a clean bed, and a small display rack of weapons and armor she recognized. “For the undercity, this seems very lavish.” Raella remarked. “Hiding doing well for you?” “I had more.” He said, pulling up a stool beside the cooking pot. He gestured for her to sit on the metal box. “After the Gates were freed, I took my coin and spoils to Uswain and spent time with the scholars there.” “How was it?” “Oh, Cvia was lovely! Wasn’t quite what I’d pictured, but I’m sure that’s expected. There is water there that looks almost completely blue. And it’s not because of crystals - their cities use a careful aqueduct system leftover from the Fae. And the city of scholars…” He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I could’ve sat forever amongst the Reginolic fragments, studying them.” “But you didn’t.” “Well no. There was a lot left I wanted to see. Seeing Moranda’s dragon, and the great light… I couldn’t sit in towers anymore and pretend it was what I wanted.” Lucien softened. “You told me about so many places. I figured it was time that I see them.” “I’m glad you did… but that doesn’t explain how you got here.” “Well I wanted a place I could settle into, at first.” He replied. “When I met the scholars here, they offered this row as a place of quiet. After our stint with Amalgam, any place had to be better than there. Though admittedly… I did feel a bit spoiled after Cvia. Did you know their beds are made of over a hundred counts of cotton threads?” “A hundred?” Raella blinked. “Cotton?” “I know! It was marvelous really. Some of the best sleep I’ve ever gotten. Anyway. When I arrived here, there were a lot of wounded and sick folk. So I opened up a clinic a few rows down.” “Based on your door, I’m guessing the undercity isn’t fond of healers.” Raella smirked. “The citizens are. Most can’t afford conventional magic, or the alchemists on the surface. I didn’t really need the money, so I helped for free.” Lucien rubbed his neck. “The alchemists and mages… well… they weren’t too fond of that.” “I thought most of the alchemists and mages around here were here for the ruins.” “Some are. Some are trying to get experience with their talents. Others want to make some quick money from the desperate people who live here. Others, like me, wanted to help but needed the money.” Raella frowned. “Couldn’t they have worked with you?” “That’s what I thought as well, and I did have help for a time. Mostly young mages who needed experience. Any money that was thrown at us went to the people who needed it. Eventually we had people trying to rob or sabotage the place. Finally… they burned it down.” “They burned down stone?” “All our stores, a few patients, all my students...” Lucien’s face was pained. “They did it when I went to a patient’s home to give them some tonics I’d made. By the time I got back…” Raella reached out for his hands. “I’m sorry. That’s horrible.” He offered a half-hearted smile. “After it happened, I mostly did house calls. But it’s all dwindled… Do what you can, you know?” “I know.” She nodded. “I’m proud of you though. You’ve come a long way since we met.” He laughed and squeezed her hands. “I think I still have the high pitched voice.” “It’s softened a bit.” She grinned. “It’s mostly the change of clothes that does it.” “You like my undercity chiche? This apron is top quality you know. Only the best renegades get to wear them.” “Ahhh that’s what it is.” They chuckled, and for a moment by the hearth, Raella felt a sense of calm she hadn’t had since the quiet at the Gates. Back then when it had been them and all their friends, plotting in secret, meeting in quiet, and finding ways to escape the Fae where they could. Until Moranda and Lindi. “I miss them.” She admitted softly. “Our fearless leaders.” “Do you think Moranda was actually one of the older beings?” “If Lindi was, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Raella sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you really think one of us could tame a dragon?” “Hm… Maybe not tame. I could feed it. Beg it not to eat me here and there perhaps.” She snorted. “Between limbs.” “Eeeexactly.” He chuckled. He shifted closer to her, making her closeness sink in comfortably. He smelled faintly of magic - that clean, charged air, with an almost earthy scent behind it. “So. Now your turn.” He said. “What are you doing around here?” “Visiting an old friend.” She murmured, closing her eyes. “I’ve missed you all.” “You’re an awful mush, you know.” He put his arm around her. “Well… I suppose I missed you. A little.” She jabbed his side, and he laughed. “Okay okay, easy. I’m old now. Yes… I missed you too El.” “Tell me a story.” “A bedtime story?” He guessed. “No, just any.” She said. “You had the best stories at camp.” “Well… I could tell you about the time the sewers were so backed up there was an explosion down in the lower wards. The scholars there were awash in sewage for weeks. I could tell you about the time I met my twin in Cvia. Ooooor… How about a fantastic story of dragons?” “Dragons?” She winked an eye open. “Well one dragon. But it is fantastic.” She settled against him, smiling softly. “Sounds familiar… and perfect.”

In this collection of writing resources, explore a list of "first lines" which could open the next story. See which premises get the ideas flowing and ask yourself, "What comes next?" Death was not at all what I'd imagined. To my left, a demon ready to destroy it all. To my right, the angel ready to save the world. And there in the middle, was me, holding my turkey sandwich. My captor had terrible knot formation, but impeccable taste in rope. The stasis pods were holding nicely. A shame. "Stop offering me croissants. No amount of sugar is going to make me incite a rebellion against Turon." The dreams were the perfect training ground. After three apocalypses, two invasions, twenty guilds and half a dozen uprisings, Andy thought he'd seen it all. And, he'd seen it all with Reymi. But after being left behind in the monster bog, he'd seen something he could never come back from. "Exercise them." The blood was everywhere, but that wasn't what terrified her. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the cities in the forest. This post is part of a short prompt series meant to help the up and coming writers with potential project ideas, or to help brainstorm more elements of their own existing stories.

Cover image courtesy of wix media and unsplash. This is a "Chapter 1" Short story, meaning that it could be used as the start of a new adventure set up then asking, "What happens next?" “Your pixies are here.” The orc woman in the door was stampeded by a horde of tiny goblins. They plucked the mischievous things from Reman, yanking them from his coattails, ears, sleeves, and pockets as they cackled. The goblins cheered collected their spoils and bolted back into the safety of the house to enjoy their snacks. “Thanks for the five minute nap.” The orc joked, passing Reman his payment. He stuffed it in his pocket. A small green pixie poked its head out and swatted him away. “Pesky little--come out of there!” He wrenched the creature out and passed it to the woman. “Same time next week?” She asked. Reman nodded. “Make sure the boss gets the order.” She grinned and shut the door gently. The orphanage echoed that visceral chew the pixies had. Gods, goblins were messy. Reman dusted himself off, glaring at the pixie’s useless cage. So much for reinforcements on the bars. “Buggers bit me…” He grimaced, looking at the small tooth rinds in his finger tips. May as well have been from tiny sharks. He shook his head and took out his appointment list, crossing off Ankle Biters (20) - Reding, orphans with an emphatic slash. He scribbled a reminder on the cages, then looked to the next order. Sparky Juice (3) - Paelfor, Green Boy Reman put his list back in his pocket and sighed at the quiet streets of Reding. A tiny port town, muddy streets, bustling produce, just out of sight of the orcish capital. A pocketful of countryside. Charming, rustic, all those things city folk say before they get their boots into a pile of gnome feces. Reman took out his pocket navigator, willing it to activate. “An’death Pael for” He said, summoning his will. Making a gesture in the air, the portal cracked into existence. Reman tucked away the navigator and stepped through. The other side winked into view, materializing from the darkened portal into a fire lit hallway. It was a humid summer night. Lanterns and small magical lights hung in the air, casting deep shadows into the stone walls. Within a few moments of stepping through, a figure emerged from the far hall carrying a large spear. “Ah, Boris, my favorite.” Reman said, throwing his arms up. The guardian emerged into the full light, a creature of stone and summoning runes carved into special fire parchment. It inclined its head towards the courier but stood still. “As vocal and warm as ever… Anyhow. Delivery for him.” A gruff, distant grunt emerged from the stone. Boris turned and led Reman through from where he came. The ruins had been spruced up since the last visit. Piles of excavation rubble had been removed, tables had been laid out, as well as tents to form a rather homey campsite. The main cavern also had more lighting in place. The once sprawling void now yawned into a series of high walkways overlooking old sarcophagi, lovingly cradled by plants and other stones alike. Boris led Reman down towards the lower levels where Sturk was writing in a notebook, knelt by a sarcophagus. “Ahhh, Reman. I hope the road wasn’t too dangerous.” “The road? Oh no. I spent the past dozen portals trying to prevent a pixie prison break.” “Pixies, eh? Mischievous things.” Sturk peered above his spectacles, analyzing some broken down runes before writing some more. “I’m surprised Telana has managed to make cages to hold them.” “She hasn’t.” “Ah.” “When I lose a finger, should I replace it with a dragon tooth or a razor?” “Personally I would go with a small, dulled hook.” Sturk chuckled and stood. “Perfect for an itch.” “Tempting.” Reman smiled and offered his hand to his friend, who gave it a vigorous shake. “How’s the excavation coming along?” “Well. We’ve made some room hereabouts.” He replied, moving to a nearby supply table. “Cleaned out the worst of things, gathered some names and some parting words. We would have been farther by now if the Council hadn’t chewed off my ear about respecting the dead.” Reman clutched his bag strap. “That wasn’t unexpected was it?” “No, of course not! What was was the Council pulling back most of my assistants due to other ‘pressing projects’.” “More pressing than these ruins?” Sturk’s brow furrowed. “I hear that sarcasm, and it rather wounds me. The Archon commissioned this job because like me, he believes there is something to be learned from the elder races. I know people worry about invoking ancient curses and necromancy and ancient burial treaties, but we’ve gone through all the proper channels.” “I wasn’t trying to insult you, Sturk.” Reman offered. He sighed. “... forgive me, then. Not too long ago I ran off Arnemus because he got another petition about removing us.” “Who’s the caller this time?” “Superstitious locals, nothing more. They’ve been a pain in my hide for the last year and a half.” “What are they worried about?” “What all common people worry about with magic.” Sturk’s brow heavied. “They don’t like the idea of a magister poking through abandoned haunted stones.” “C’mon there has to be more than that.” Reman grinned. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have a job delivering to those people.” The magister pinched his brow. “They believe this tomb to be protected by a dragon god. Zogathyyl, I think the name was.” “I’ve heard of him. He destroyed half of the southern lands and kept humans as slaves.” “Indeed. The locals believe my poking through here would provoke him.” “Last I heard of that dragon, he was slain by Gillen the Red.” “I heard the same.” Sturk sighed. “But they seem rather insistant so we’ve had to provide proof that we are not disrupting the sanctity of the ruins themselves. Between them and the Council I’ll be hairless by the end of the month.” Reman eyed the ring of hair that crowned Sturk’s head, smirking to himself. “You know Saer probably has a salve for that…” The magister eyed him, then laughed. “Which reminds me…” “Yes, your order.” Reman dug into his bag, brandishing the carefully packed vials. “Three bottles of lightning essence.” Sturk’s smiled. “Good, good. The storms are still in full swing.” He took them gently and Reman saw the bits of the man’s hair crown prickle to stand on end. “Your gold.” “Thanks… what do you need these for anyhow?” “Ah. I’ve no special proficiency with storm magic, but small doses of lightning help to wear away at some of the gunk and grime that digs into these tombs.” “What happened to not damaging the place?” “Small doses, Reman.” Sturk said carefully. “Plus it keeps the air cleaner. The heaviness to this place can wear on the lungs.” “That reminds me, when was the last time you’ve left the Pale Fort?” “Months. I fear the locals might find a way to shut me out if I venture too far out of this area, even with Boris on guard.” He grimaced. “All of my supplies have been delivered since.” “What about your navigator?” “Broken. The useless thing shattered when I tried to use it to get beyond the rubble in one of the upper archways. I have been waiting on another.” “When’d you order it?” “Also months ago. I have a feeling the Council had a hand in the delay but I can’t prove anything.” “Your work really doesn’t like you, does it?” “No, sadly it does not.” He shook his head. “But someone has to make breakthroughs in this bloody environment, and the barriers to this place make me all the more convinced I’ll find something.” Reman frowned. “Something that people don’t want you to find, though. I’d be careful were I you.” “You’re not. And perhaps that is best. My actions led me here to begin with. I must see that through.” He donned his wider brimmed hat and walked back over to the sarcophagus with the lightning vials in hand. Uncorking one, he summoned some of his will to it and began to focus it on a particularly grimy set of runes. The lightning zapped and flared on it, making chunks of debris, moss, and other growths sizzle off. Sturk grinned, though his eyes remained stern. “Now, forgive me Reman but I--” “No need. I’ll see myself out.” Reman chuckled and shook his head. For all the stress and barriers, Sturk did love his work. Uncovering old secrets was a large passion of his. Most mages looked to their shiny baubles, their positions of status, or were strict in their regulations. Sturk was a pleasantly malleable sort. Reman returned to where his portal had opened up. Boris stood there, motionless, his helmet of stone facing the doorway that led to the outside world. “Silent as ever?” There was the smaller glitter of magic from within the stone husk, but the golem merely stood there, clutching his fire spear. The eternal guardian. Fire spirits always had unsettled Reman, especially in this bound form. There was an unknowing unease around them. Their stillness especially was creepy. Their runed parchments which bound them moved over the cold stone and pulsed with the glow of their element. Flimsy paper chains to cage the pure things. Most mages had one. They were good guardians. But Reman didn’t like them. Too many things could go wrong before, during, and after the ritual. Entropy was a magic best left untouched. - The portal cracked and spun, whirring a flurry of papers. Telana placed her hands on the nearest stacks. Her gaze was unmoved from the small contraption in front of her. “Smooth trip?” Reman stepped through and placed the half-mangled pixie cage on the desk. She blinked a few times, her brow bent. After a moment she stood up and peered through the bars. The magical runes had been chewed through and the locks destroyed. “...I see.” She said. “Well. Always next time. I’ve gotten a new idea for a shock barrier?” “If it can shock me too count me out.” “It won’t!” Reman arched a brow. “Well, maybe a little. But that’s gotta be better than being bit.” Telana pointed to his hair. “You’ve got a little spit wad in there too.” He groaned and fussed with it. “Is there anybody else who can do that delivery? The time before this I had one of the kids bite me. There are entirely too many teeth at that stop.” “You can always ask.” She laughed. “What about everything else? Anybody give you trouble?” “One tried to stiff me on coins, and another tried to claim I didn’t deliver everything. And another… threw this at me.” Reman dug through his pack and pulled out an old sock. “What, no shoe?” “Not this time.” He unknotted the cloth and opened it up for her to peer inside. “Ugh, no.” She shook her head. “No no whyyyyy…” “He said we sent him the wrong ingredients so he decided to share his own.” “He pulled out his teeth for that?” Reman arched a brow. “He’s a surgeon Telana. I doubt those were his.” She grimaced and shook herself off. “Give that to Midge. I’m sure he can make something out of it.” “Can you actually…?” “What?” “I have a meeting with, uh… The big guy.” She blinked at him, then down at the tooth-filled sock, then back at him. “Please?” “Fine. Fine…” She looked over her desk and found a pair of tongs, which held the article enough of a distance away. “But you owe me, Reman Landerfel.” “Thank you!” He flashed a smile before backing away and past her work area. It was always the nicer place to re-enter Zenith. At the main gate one dealt with reception, angry customers, and long lines. In the workshops there was too much to knock down. Telana always kept her space relatively clear. Besides, her sarcasm was a welcome debrief after a long day of persistent deliveries. In the beginning, Reman had teleported by much less forgiving people. Telana had nearly flayed him the first time for scaring her. She worked in one of the outer corners of the office out of preference. She wasn’t shy, but she liked the quiet. Reman made his way through the other stations as dwarves bustled between metalwork, mages caged their own energies, and elven tinkerers imbued magical runes into different objects. “Hey Giff!” Reman waved. “Oh hey Reman!” The animal keeper smiled, waving up from his checklist which a monkey held on his shoulder. “How’d the deliveries go?” “Same ol’ same ol’.” “I can relate - hey, hey! No! You can’t eat that!” Giff raced towards his young pet griffin, shooing him away from some cats. Reman chuckled and shook his head. Same old, same old. He made his way towards the big boss’s office, who’s station was the largest and the most open. It wasn’t closed off from the rest of the tower, though it certainly felt like it had its own space. One had to descend a staircase away from the hustle and bustle of metals, animals, and spells into a large cave system. Braziers lit the way as the warm stone chilled with the depth of the caverns. Safes adorned the lower levels containing special delivery items, or dangerous magical sources. Golems roamed freely. They were the ones most able to tend to the sources without too much damage. At the bottom of the lowest path stood the boss’s chief golem, Arrus. Stone golems were the hardest to tell apart, though Arrus fortunately had an axe chunk that rusted in one of his shoulders - a present left by a very unlucky thief. “Are you here to see Niermyrrus?” He asked. “Yes.” “Follow me.” The golem turned and lumbered forwards, leading Reman down towards a more open portion of the underground system. It yawned into a wide expanse too vast for the braziers to stretch their light into, and thus it was like the dark hung as a black impenetrable cloud. Reman peered up into it, straining to see any figure. Though he didn’t know why he bothered. He felt that wisp of shifting air, then the quiet footpads of worn boots. The feet appeared first, slowly revealing the immaculate figure of Niermyrrus. He stood tall, his suit smoothed and his hands folded together. “You know you should really get some chairs around here… Some lanterns… torches…” Reman said, offering a smile. “I find them rather uncomfortable.” His boss replied. He returned the smile, though with the sharp teeth it looked more like he was baring them. “Ah… right. You asked for me?” He tilted his head. “I received a complaint. A rather loud one at that.” “A complaint? Who sent it in?” “The Council of Embers.” Reman blinked. “The Council? I haven’t dealt with them directly…” “They said you delivered faulty goods to some of their mages, including your esteemed fellow Doctor Charles Sturk.” “What goods?” His brow furrowed. “The only orders we’ve had from the Council were some alchemy ingredients, some elemental essence… For Sturk I just delivered lightning essence today--” Reman paused. For a moment his brow furrowed, thinking about the mage’s delays on his work. “The deliveries before this were ages ago. Why now?” “That is why I wanted to ask you.” Niermyrrus replied. “Have you turned in all your delivery receipts and navigator charges?” “Yes, Heymon should have them.” His boss nodded, pacing around after a moment. “They complain about something else?” “Nothing too concerning.” “So there is something else?” He shook his head. “No, they more put a strain on our deliveries. But I doubt it will last long. They rely rather heavily on our services.” “A strain? You mean they tried to halt us?” “Briefly, until I reminded them of their alternatives.” His boss chuckled. “That is it really. I wanted to make sure that we had all of our information in order before I responded to their latest complaint… Thank you, Reman.” Reman nodded slowly, watching as his boss moved back into that enigmatic shadow. He felt a strange twist. Could the Council be that determined to stop Sturk’s research that they cut him off from Zenith? What was so damning about his job? Something didn’t sit right. He frowned. He followed Arrus back up to the main surface point and then continued on by himself, eventually making the quick stop to drop off the delivery payments and let his navigator be analyzed for his end of day clock out. A strange feeling had filled him. He hadn’t had a complaint against him in years. Sure, he’d had things thrown at him or been reamed a few times, but who hadn’t? Some complaints fell short with their customer service, and only the rare few made it to the big guy. It had certainly never been something Reman had been called in for. Perhaps it was why Niermyrrus had been so relaxed on it. Once checked out, he stepped into the streets of Zenith. The lamp lighters were at work. Twinkling, warm fires dotted main street. Reman rather enjoyed the simple sight, though tonight his mind was elsewhere. He made his way a few blocks over on autopilot, his hands gripping the strap of his bag. A cool mist hung in the air. The prickle of energy promised rain. The Dark Frog cast a soft amber glow against the increasing night. The owner, Ellis, had several boxes laid out on the tables and was piling materials into her arms. Reman grinned a little and moved inside. “I thought shipment day was two days ago.” Ellis blinked from behind a sack of flour, grunting with the effort of it with the other baking materials. “That was ‘Tweak ‘em Day’. Today is shipment day.” “Ah.” Reman stepped forward and took one of the large bags, which was enough for her to move the others to the kitchen bar. “They didn’t send their full supplies last time so they oversent now…” Ellis sighed, wiping off her hands. She looked over at him. “Why does this always seem to happen with deliveries?” “Hey don’t look at me. Unless it’s a magic donut, its not my domain.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Oh… help me get the rest of this away, will you? You want your usual?” “That would be wonderful, thanks.” Soon the baking supplies were carefully tucked away, and he was sitting at the cafe’s counter, nibbling at the free candies she left out while she worked. “You should really get some new preservation chambers.” Reman remarked. “They’re how old?” “Ages. And they’re sentimental.” “Sentiment that could get pests inside… You could always get new ones and keep the old ones for yourself.” “Do you deliver things in your spare time?” “...no?” “I don’t bake in my spare time either.” Ellis grinned back at him. “Don’t your workshops have a way to fix them up?” “Probably… I’m sure Telana could find some way to reinforce it… Though I’m hoping her priorities are on the pixie cage.” “Didn’t work out how it planned, huh?” “Nope. You were right.” Ellis made a gesture in the air like she was adding a slash to a tally. Reman rolled his eyes, though he was smiling. “I’m sure I have a few chunks missing.” “I noticed your hair was rather rattled, though that’s not too far off from your normal look.” “You’re so mean.” “Mmhm. I know.” She brought over his drink and a pastry, then pulled up a chair of her own behind the counter. “How was business?” Reman asked. “About the same. I had some Mevese people come in today. Loud ones. They ate about half my stock.” Ellis frowned. “One was a bit strange though.” “Strange how?” “Well you know how Mevese like to use magic instead of speech? This one didn’t do too much, but I caught him looking around and poking through things. It made me uneasy.” “He didn’t take anything, did he?” “Oh no. Not that I’ve seen… I felt he was looking for something, though I don’t know what.” “Another snack?” Reman grinned, taking part of his own. “I wish. He didn’t eat much. Left most of it for the others.” “That’s almost insulting.” “Almost? I’ve spent years trying to figure out all of these recipes.” “And with some nudging from Mimi.” “Yes, and some nudging.” Ellis shook her head, looking out towards the rain that had quietly started going on outside. “You know… I was thinking of expanding the shop.” “Really? What would you add?” “An alchemy station, and maybe sell some things along that line.” “You miss that.” “Of course I do. Plus I already use the materials and practices here, why not broaden that?” “Why not?” Reman echoed, smiling a little. “We have supplies next door. It could bring in some more business too.” “That’s what I was thinking. I’m already doing it… and if I get a more professional space, I could even rent its use as long as people clean up.” “You know casual users aren’t very clean.” “Well, it wouldn’t be for casual users.” She said. “Like a new mage who doesn’t have a work space, or an adventurer who just needs to brew for a bit before their next quest.” Reman smiled at her. Ellis had such pure dreams. But they never were just dreams; she always planned that next step. He liked that. Despite such momentum, she had a very steady presence. “I think that would be great. Really.” Reman replied. “In fact…” He dug into his bag and pulled out some money. “Consider it an investment.” “You’re kidding.” Ellis snickered. “No, I’m serious. Take it.” She blinked at him, then down at the bag. After a small hesitation, she took it, and though he could see she wanted to investigate she simply held it close. “...thank you, Reman.” She smiled. “It might be a little self serving.” He joked, swirling his drink. “I rather enjoy these.” “Its a good thing. There are so few vampires in Zenith. I’d never get the chance to make them.” “Well. We’re not exactly… culinary beings.” “Shocking.” Ellis snickered. A beat passed. “So. Enough about me and my business… How was the day’s deliveries?” “Well… some of the same stuff. I got a sock of human teeth thrown at me today, that was a first…” She wrinkled her nose. “I know. There were also the pixie mishaps… By the way, if you lost a finger, what would you replace it with?” “Well… if it was a pointer or a thumb, a tiny whisk. Something like a pinky I might go with a hook or knife for ingredients.” “Sturk also said a hook, but for itching.” “Oh that’s a good point…” She snorted. “Point?” “I get it, I get it…” He shook his head, then sighed. “... I’m a bit worried about him.” “Sturk?” “Yes.” “This is the scholar sort?” Ellis asked, moving to grab another flask of Reman’s brew for him. “Yeah, he’s been out on an excavation trip for a time. The Council doesn’t seem too happy with him. They’ve pulled people out, delayed some materials…” “The Council isn’t exactly known for their cooperation though, are they?” “No, I suppose that’s normal… and yet…” Reman’s brow heavied. “I got my first serious complaint today.” “You’ve only gotten unserious ones?” “Ellis, I mean I was called by the big guy to come in.” She paused. Her expression turned more severe. “...what happened? I mean, who made the complaint?” “The Council.” “Have you done a lot of deliveries for them?” “Not directly. Some of their mages, sure. And Sturk is one of them.” He said. “They claimed I delivered faulty goods quite some time ago.” Ellis frowned. “A bit delayed now, isn’t it?” “My thoughts exactly. Though combined with Sturk’s frustrations I can’t help but wonder if they actually want him to complete the excavation.” “It does seem… curious.” She admitted. “It could also be some mages broke their goods before an inspection, and you’re their way out.” “Perhaps…” He still felt that doubt. It was hard to not to. “Well… you could always avoid those prior mages’ deliveries. At least, for a time.” Ellis said. “If that would help allay things.” “Maybe.” She shook her head. “Reman, you’ve started the maybes… You’re thinking too much again.” “Maybe.” He grinned at her. Ellis chuckled, pouring him another drink before cleaning up the rest of the shop. The Dark Frog still held its warm glow as he left; that last stop in his routine before settling down for the night. He needed no sleep, really. Nor the food, or the pastry - which tasted much like dust to his mouth, though he imagined it was rich and sweet to other beings. Reman instead made his way to the city’s cemetery and the tombs where he stayed out the evenings, reading among the peaceful sleep of the dead. The cliche amused him, and the stillness was peaceful. The living were so.... Twitchy. From his small, private collection of tomes he began searching for the bestiary he had, which mentioned legendary beings such as the ancient dragons and the heroes who killed them. Zogathyyl, the Black Dragon. Ancient blood, scorched scales. Chaos elemental, tyrant of the lowlands. Slain by Gillen the Red in 1234. Reman nodded a little. Perhaps such a tome would be of use to Sturk and his research. If nothing else but to add context to the fears of the locals to what secrets the ruins held. - Reman felt the prickling of the sun before light dawned on the cemetary. He was walking the grounds, hands poised on his work satchel, reading the tombstones and listening to the crows. He had attempted a human sleep once more. Though it troubled him. Humans spoke so fondly of sleep visions. Dreams, even nightmares, was a source of pure curiosity. The mind at undisturbed natural thought. Instead of any tangible vision, he felt that distant call from his homeworld once more. A cool wind that resonated from the darkness of oblivion. Silent. Unwavering. Intangible and yet so close he felt it lingering in his bones as he walked. Duran McGennan, 1262 - 1284. Beloved son, friend, and brother. Reman tilted his head. A man of youth, with a name reminiscent of Zenith’s earliest inhabitants. A noble family perhaps? And yet the grave was overgrown, mossy, and largely crumbling. He knelt to the dirt and placed his hand over the plot, making a sign with two fingers. A red mist pulsed up from the earth. Reman breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Long lingered decay, layered by perfumes and fine linen; only an echo of the body that laid there. The plot had been filled ages ago. Only the earth remembered. “Thought I’d find you here.” The grass crinkled with heavy boots. The scent of swampy earth, the harsh metal smell of armor, and the faintest hint of dried honeysuckle. Reman smiled to himself. “Back from a funeral?” “Sharp as ever.” Branduin walked closer as Reman stood and the two shook hands. “From Englewood no less.” “Aye. A drake nest gone bad, but an assassin took advantage of the confusion. The funeral was for the Mangrove King.” “My condolences.” “Appreciated.” He nodded, offering a small smile. “I had not seen him in many years.” “Since Greta’s wedding, I’d imagine.” Branduin chuckled. “Gods that makes me feel old…” “You are old, my friend.” “Says the dead man.” He returned. “How have you been? Still carting off spoils?” “Most days. Other times I’m having new spoils thrown at me.” “Oh?” “Yes, just yesterday I got enough teeth to invest in the dentistry round here.” He laughed. “Any monster teeth? I’d invest in that.” “Sadly not. I might ask the man next time.” Reman gestured for them to walk. “It has been a fairly mundane time.” “You goin soft? I thought I heard nostalgia in that voice.” “Perhaps a little.” He admitted. “Not nearly enough to leave really.” “Why not? You hardly need money to travel. We could do contracts like the old days.” “It would not be the same. I’m afraid my trade is rather domesticated.” “Domesticated? Even your hobbies?” “Well… not completely.” “Well, what’s next then? Marriage? A brood?” Branduin laughed. “What was a domestic vampire in your world?” “Complicated.” “Hrmph.” Branduin paused and scratched his beard. A large amount of gray had come into it since the last age had passed. His eyes were cradled by bluish pouches, and new spots had appeared in his complexion. An old warrior - a fearful thing. “How is Renna?” “Ah… she was in Vilmont last I heard… Competing in the arena there.” “I sense avoidance there.” The old man grumbled. “A little. The girl is brash. At least there its a more controlled battle. She is too eager for blood.” “Reminds me of when we first met.” “Perhaps.” Branduin grimaced. “Glory in battle is only found in Arenas because of the cheering. What accolades have we?” “Respect?” “Ha! You had teeth thrown at you.” “Maybe I’ll need them someday.” Reman shrugged. “But the point stood still.” He sighed deeply. “Ah Reman… I have bout as much bloody respect as you have heartbeats. What did the Mangrove King have, hm? A kingdom. A fecking swamp. People who loved him… People to bury him.” “…I have found that the rituals of death are more for the living. A last send off for those now beyond our aid, as well as a reminder to those connected of their bonds…” Reman blinked at him. “Are you not reminded that you should go to your daughter? She may bury you, but wouldn’t you rather she do so proud of your life?” Branduin was quiet. His brow was heavy with discomfort, appearing much like a scolded child. “... for a dead man you are rather talkative…” He grinned at last, meeting Reman’s gaze. “All your imagination, I’m sure.” He laughed then. “Well… then. Drink?” “Later, I’m afraid. I’ve got an errand to run before work.” “Then I shan’t keep you. I’ll be staying at the Exalted Lemon for a few days before my next contract.” “Your next Vilmont visit, you mean…” Reman teased. “You should see Ellis before you head out again. She will be furious if you don’t.” “I’m old, not an idiot.” Branduin chuckled. “Later, then.” “Farewell.” Reman watched the man leave the cemetery. Branduin’s left leg still shifted with weight, and one shoulder was still lopsided. One ear was still half-burnt beside the scar on his neck, and he still wore the same armor he had nearly thirty years past. His stride was easy, slow, determined. He was as Reman had always known him; a man of purpose and values, and yet blind to one spot that reminded him of her. Reman smiled a little to himself. The sunlight prickled his skin with it’s alien sensation. It was like tiny pinpricks on a canvas, teasing the tension. Such strange light. He had always thought. But it was simply that he was not of Zenith. This light was not for him. He lingered in it regardless, watching as colors swept away the darkness of the evening with a painter’s stroke. Reman inhaled until he felt the clenching in his chest, closed his eyes, and then shift. As swiftly as the sun rose, Reman’s form dissolved into a fine mist, and he spirited away.

Cover image courtesy of wix media and unsplash. This is a "Chapter 1" Short story, meaning that it could be used as the start of a new adventure set up then asking, "What happens next?" Kestrel had been brought to the footholds of many lords and kings, but never in chains. The cold strangled his wrists, scraping against the bone as he fidgeted for comfort. Usually he would have donned his finest suit, the emerald one with a fine angular collar and golden cuffs. Of course, it wasn’t real gold. But he was fortunate to have a friend or two who had mastered their crafts. Even high born ladies in this country had admired the detail, and Kestrel had been told the nobility of Vaspal was particularly venomous towards fakes. Of course, they never said so. But he recognized snide comments veiled in friendship, or the sideways looks as they spoke to the other high born. Kestrel longed for the Eromani court, or the bluntness of the Uswaini Admirals. Here the halls were so wide and grand they made everything else clamor to have some semblance of greatness. I wonder how much longer it’ll be. He grimaced. As he sat there, outside the great doors, he couldn’t help but admire the intricate handiwork of the castle. It drew his mind away from the reigns that held him. The white stone had faded with age, turning into a soft gray. Instead of looking drabby, it made the intricate nature reliefs sharpen as the center of attention. The doorways were all decorated with interconnecting bands, vines entangling each other with trees intermixed to source them. Even the floor, while coated in a thick layer of polished glass, had carvings enveloping a detailed fresco of golden figures, reddish fire, and green magic. All meticulously preserved by the Vaspali people. Just by looking at them Kestrel knew the Age. The Fourth Age of Fae, the Elder Race’s cultural Renaissance, thanks to the subjugation of humans, elves, and dwarves. He wondered just how many of his ancestors had toiled here on their hands and knees, only to be devoured like roast pigs in celebration. The doors of the entry hall opened and a middle aged man emerged. He was human, with graying hair and a face deprived of sleep. He wore a black and white tunic embellished with golden vines. These Vaspali sure kept to a theme, that was for certain. He was not the fanciest dressed man Kestrel had seen, but with his ring of keys and his confident stride, Kestrel guessed he was the steward. As the man approached and set his eyes on Kestrel, the steward’s upper lip stiffened. “I take it you are Lord Layne?” Kestrel nodded and stood. “Not a lord, my lord, just a sir.” “Mm. Well, Sir Layne, his Majesty has many responsibilities to attend to, and one in particular demands his attention at this time. However, he said to allow you freedom of the main hall and he will join you at his earliest convenience.” “Within eyesight and weighted down, of course.” The steward blinked at him. “Of course. If his Majesty deems it appropriate, perhaps you can be allowed a mark.” “I’d rather avoid that, if possible. I like my skin how it is.” “That is for His Majesty to decide. Follow me.” Kestrel grimaced and gave a reluctant nod. A mark, more or less, meant being magically branded. He had seen it on a servant when he’d arrived - a black grotesque coil on the center of the chest. He wasn’t certain if it could be removed, or to even what extent the removal was possible. Still he would rather avoid that enlightening moment. The steward led him past the great doors and into the throne room. The tiny confines of the entryway exploded into the enormous length that made the seat of Vaspali power. The furthest wall had large thick windows that drew in the Sunfire glow, causing the whole room of white stone to shine like finely spun gold and red silks. And yet the light was not even the most impressive. The throne sat with its back to those windows, the seat made of large stretching metal bands, all bursting outward from the chair. The metal was ancient Fae, easily recognizable by the almost obsidian color. Some of the bands had been painted gold, and shards of mirrors poked between both causing the light to further dance along the throne itself. The seat of Vaspal itself looked like the exploding sun, poised westward to capture the omnipresent sunset of the Sunfire. Golden lines on the floor guided one up to that far off display, creating a path for the king or queen to walk straight up to his or her seat, with the walls and square jutting columns poised only to frame the throne and the grand hall. The only other decoration in this place were golden framed portraits running the length of the walls. Kestrel stood in the blinding light for a long moment. He had heard of the grandness of the western throne, but had never seen it up close. It had been a point of pride for the other elves he’d spoken to. The endless light of gold, the glow of the Sunfire hanging forever in the background, the natural fixture that chased away the dark of what other eastern cultures knew as night. It was the pinnacle of the constructs of the escaped slaves; from their place on the dinner table to the seat of kings. Even without its beauty, it was the warmest throne room he had ever stood in, and that itself made Kestrel admire the design that much more. The western cliffs and cold mountain passes that he had trudged through to get here had been long, arduous, and miserable for proper toe circulation. He glanced over at the steward who was also keeping an eye on him. The man had his hands poised behind his back, a stance Kestrel recalled many of the guardsmen perform at attention. Perhaps that was a former life? “I don’t believe we were properly introduced.” Kestrel offered. “You know my name. What do I call you?” “I am Rialto Beltan, first of the Beltan House of Healers and Majesty’s Steward.” “The House of Healers?” “The organization of mages, herbalists, and scientists seeking progress. My family lends them funding and, at times, direction.” Kestrel felt his ears twitch. “Is your organization paired with the Faiths? I understand there are several Vestibules here dedicated to medicine.” “Some of them, yes. It is more likely that our members volunteer with both rather than a partnership. We have some… differences, between the Faiths.” “Such as?” “Methods.” The Steward’s mouth twitched a little. “Tell me, have the gods healed your blood?” Kestrel bristled. Bluntness. Alright. “No, and I have not asked them.” “And why is that?” “They have bigger things to worry about than I.” Steward Rialto broke a smile at that. A small one. Though Kestrel imagined it was because he had struck a tone of agreement. He let his statement linger there, looking around the throne room once more. His eyes traced over the square columns that jutted from the walls, ones that sectioned off a few portraits at a time. Each face was captured in oil paint and framed in filigree and gold. The colors were all dark, muted, even muddy from a distance. Up close, the more detailed shades and shadows came forward, emphasizing the frame that surrounded them. One caught his eye; a young human woman, her skin dark and freckled. Her hair was intricately woven with ribbons and gems through the tightly wound curls, framing her face like a crown. Her gown was a rich dark velvet, with golden accents and a low cut. Her eyes stared out into the room, brow slightly arched, her hands folding over each other on her stomach as if to hold her ladylike poise and posture. The depth of her gaze was immense. The artist had captured the fine details of her eyes, her individual lashes, down to the flecks of green that would have been hidden in her iris. The plaque at the base of the painting read, “Baroness Ellia Dan’Gallagher.” Kestrel blinked in amazement. The Dan’Gallaghers had died out with the Baroness in the last war with Eroman. Their sacrifice held off raids for over a year. No one had ever painted a member of their family. At least, that is what he had thought. Who managed to get her to sit for this? He wondered. And when? He searched the corners and hidden points of the Baron’s dress, trying to find a signature. If it was there, it was well concealed. He heard the door to the throne room open, and when he turned he saw the king himself. His royal majesty, King Arden Isolewen, appeared nothing like how Kestrel thought. He strode in with confidence and poise, true, but he looked very little like the elven people Kestrel had seen in his travels. Vaspali elves were one wrung above most others, their territory was all but dedicated to their health and wellbeing, and he supposed royalty got even more care. The King’s face was full of light, his features sharp and angular like most elves, but there was a softness that smoothed his face into a warm one. Instead of illustrious robes and fine colors, the King had instead donned a light armor of dark iridescent scales, fur, and leathers. It was simple in design, but was lavish in its own way. He was almost entirely covered, save for the face. He scanned the throne room until at last his eyes set on Kestrel. He offered a small smile and inclined his head. “Your Majesty.” Kestrel bowed, though still found himself looking up at the King as the man approached. The King gestured for Kestrel to rise, and he did. To his surprise, he found he could meet the King’s eye level. “You are one of my people.” The King replied. Kestrel nodded, though he did not know if this was to his benefit or not. He was, afterall, still in chains. Still the King continued. “I confess I was curious as to whether you would visit the palace. I have heard a great deal about you from my court.” “That could mean many things, your Majesty. I hope good ones.” Kestrel admitted. The King laughed. “As I would hope as well. Lord Tierney regaled me about a time you visited his estate.” “Ah… yes… I remember the good lord.” His gut sunk a little. “Many pressed Lord Tierney that he should confer with the scholars of Kvia, to ensure his collection was as he had thought. Lorocan raiders are hardly the credible source he made them out to be. I am pleased you were able to resolve the issue.” “His relics were little more than scraps. He did have a painting of Lunendon by Pasquale Hass that was worth a small fortune, however.” “Yes he informed the court as soon as he collected on his sum.” The King chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. His gaze then turned to the painting of the Baroness behind Kestrel. “So what do you make of her, Sir Layne?” “Her? ...she’s beautiful. The artist likely did her justice.” He gave a slight nod, pleased with this. “She was a woman worth such an effort, without question. But I refer to the craftsmanship? I would have you appraise it.” “Well… do you know the artist, or when the palace acquired it?” Kestrel’s brows bent. “Shortly after the Battle of the Bluff, when the Baroness and her forces fell. A servant smuggled the painting into the west and was presented to us within the month. As for the artist, none have come forward… at least, none able to recreate the skill.” The King gestured for them to walk the length of the wall. “They say you have an eye for the Ages, my Lord Kestrel.” “Yes, your Majesty.” “Might I ask what brought you to the past, and to Vaspal?” “I… it was a personal matter, your Majesty.” “A personal matter that spewed into the streets, I would add.” The King said. “Though I wonder what warranted your crime.” “Many things, your Majesty. Panic being one of them.” “Yes I imagine so. That medicinal hut you attended to is one of poor repute.” More than you might think. Kestrel thought, though he kept that to himself. “If you are seeking treatment, my lord, I would make you an offer.” “An offer from the King?” Kestrel blinked. “And it doesn’t involve hanging?” “I have not made the offer yet.” Kestrel shrunk a little at that and nodded. The King looked to each of the portraits again, then wandered more towards the far back of the room, where the throne and windows stood. There the reddish gold Sunfire glinted off the scales of his armor. He shimmered like dragon hide. Perhaps that is what they were. “Each of these portraits has come in time, whether by gift to the royal family, or by circumstance.” The King said. “I do not have the eye for antiquity as you do, though I can sense familiarity among each portrait. They were done by the same hand, or a twin of that hand, I am certain. I would like you to examine them all. Tell me what you see, what your eye tells you. In exchange for this service, you may use the guest quarters for residence during your investigation, and accommodations will be made for your stay.” Kestrel listened, waiting for the “but…”, or some other negative side to dig in. But a beat passed. Then another. The King looked out the window, his poise still and calm. Finally Kestrel broke the silence. “My lord--er, your Majesty… I believe I committed a crime?” “Yes you did. Your stay is, of course, monitored, and you are not to leave the palace without an escort. As for your sentence… I will be considering the penalty during your investigation. Your behavior and hanging would be a waste of your talents. Should your answers prove… enlightening, perhaps the service to the crown could pardon you.” “That’s… a very generous offer, your Majesty… these paintings must mean a great deal to your family.” “And to me.” The king said. “Do I have your word?” “Of course, your Majesty… but I’ve a question, if I may.” “Granted.” “Hasn’t your family employed other appraisers? There are many skilled craftsmen in Eroman or Uswain that could tell you just as much as I, I’m certain.” The king chuckled and turned then, walking back towards Kestrel. “You do not often make sales pitches, do you? My father refused to explore the paintings, and my grandfather by contrast, sent out hunters in every direction. You will have access to what they have found. As for why I am offering this to you… You are here, you are motivated, and I have heard your recommendations by close members of the court. Circumstance has aided you, nothing more. Use it wisely.” ~*~

Getting started is one of the hardest parts of writing, next only to keeping up the project for the long haul. Below I've gathered several writing prompts and exercises, all in one place. If looking to try something new, or add something to your current project, see what you can brainstorm below! Search through a book you've read recently. Pick out some key words that jump out at you. Then, use these words as a basis for a short story, poem, or premise. Choose a "Word of the Day" - there are words posted on Mirriam-Webster. Write a paragraph of thought centered around that word and its meaning, themes, or feeling. The character has spent their whole life searching for something - a place, a person, a specific object - and it is suddenly revealed that something doesn't really exist. What happens next? In a world of magic or sci-fi, characters discover affinity for things opposite their personality. For example, an individual raised as a hermit has the ability to control metal. What is this world like under antithetical powers? How would your character seduce the Devil? In your world, all are eventually called into a meeting with the High Overseer. No one knows when, or even why, these meetings happen - only that citizens emerge in a new light. What decisions are made in this meeting, and why are its contents forever secret? This post is part of a short prompt series meant to help the up and coming writers with potential project ideas, or to help brainstorm more elements of their own existing stories.

When I crossed the Grenadan River, my cart nearly spilling with wares, I had expected to be received by some mayoral figure or emissary. Instead I found before me a village carved out of the mountains. Caves had been scooped out of the hillside like honeycomb, and little rock structures lined the roads. Without knowing what the village was, one could hardly call it a village at all. There was no sound of voices, or signs of movement, or the energy that came from a place of life. A small line had been laid out with pebbles to mark the threshold. I had my mule halt just outside of it. The rock piles remained still. Silence ebbed over the scenery. Up close, I could see the glitter of exposed mineral veins peeking out from the caves. Now that I sat still, that familiar scent of silver filled my nose, bringing back a hint of home. “Hello?” I called out. “Hello?” My voice echoed back. With this, I smiled and climbed down from my cart. “I come in peace!” I shouted. “Come in peace!” My echo returned. The ground rumbled up against my feet. The pebble line danced in place, and as the energy grew they folded away from the center of the village entrance. I tucked my hand to my chest and gave a low bow. “Dr. Sergio Vallez, for the emissary of Sela Terra.” The earth rumbled again, this time from farther off. Stone hissed on stone, clamoring and clacking together. I trembled with excitement, but I didn’t look up. No, I had to obey their customs. You might think a peek would have meant nothing but innocent curiosity. To a human yes, or perhaps a dwarf, but in all our knowledge and traditions, we did not know the extent of the Golem’s eyes. And stories of less polite visitors were often strewn over the mountainside. I kept my head and body bowed. I contained my excitement. I kept my arm outstretched until the rumbling could no longer distract me from the ache in my shoulder. I heard the whirl of wind and stone approach. With it came the sensation of being watched. A deep, rumbling mrrrr emanated before me. “My lord, I am your humble guest.” I replied. “Mrrrhrrr.” Stones tapped the ground before me. Once, twice, thrice. I exhaled relief and looked up. The golem was a construct of whirling stones all encircling a runic plate. Dozens of rocks encircled the plate like earthen shields. Immense energy radiated off the core, the fixture - Its eye. This one was a shimmering azure blue, like the purest of sapphires. For a few moments I could only marvel. The runes that held the stone in place reminded me of the ancient Fae writings back in the capital. “Hrrrr.” It’s eye shifted in place, “looking” over my form. I stood up fully and rolled my shoulder. “Err - yes, of course.” I straightened my tunic, smiling as politely as I could manage. “My Lord, I am an archivist from the Tower of Adall, from the East. I have spent my life studying--” The golem raised a series of stones. Five smaller ones encircled a larger one, as if to mimic fingers surrounding a palm. “I -- right. The point. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of an interview, my lord.” The blue energy core behind the eye glittered. It moved between me to the cart at my side. “Mrrrr?” “Yes, I brought wares as well my lord. Some are provisions, some artifacts and gems…” The golem moved forward. At first, it floated, and the stones surrounding the core whirled in place like a tornado. But as it gained momentum larger rocks moved towards the left and right sides, then the bottom, forming appendages to carry the core. The stride reminded me of the great apes that walk on their knuckles and smaller hind legs. As it approached the cart, the Eye shifted in place, the stones carrying it to move up and down as it browsed the goods. “M-my lord, if I may?” I offered. I kept my stride slow and visible, though it took some effort. A spring met each step as I moved beside the enormous creature. Oh if my mentor could have traveled with me, he would be tickled pink at the sight. I grabbed some of the tarps that had kept my wares shielded from weather and pulled them aside to reveal the cart’s contents. The creature made a soft, almost trilling like sound. It was not quite a rumble, but rather a deep and pleasing sound. The golem’s eye flashed with energy, and I saw the collection of cooking pots glow with a soft blue aura. “You… want a pot?” The golem made a second pleased sound, and I nodded. Privately I made a note to thank Dr. Ramsay, who had mentioned golems often traded for such pots. “My lord, I’d be happy to grant you all of them. In exchange, would you answer a few questions.” “Hrrrrrrr.” The golem replied. It turned its eye towards me. I saw the inner blue flash and twist. The inner threads of white light shifted. As I watched, I saw them join together, like paint drops in water, until their swirls joined to form the image of a humanoid sitting down beside the golem nearby one of the caves. “Of course,” I replied. “I will set up our seats promptly.” The golem did not respond. It’s eye turned back towards the cart of pots and wares, it’s motion completely stilled. Without the thrumming of the magical core it would have been completely still. I turned back towards the front of my cart and gathered two chairs from it. Did golems even sit as we did? I suppose they could form a rear end to sit on, or even the chairs if wanted. I had brought with me one of the metal benches our archivists prized so dearly. A simple thing, with its own locks and hinges so it could be folded for travel. Still, looking at it now I could only imagine the snap of metal under the crushing weight of mountain boulders. I glanced at the stilled village, then at the emissary at the cart. Then, keeping the bench close to my body, I waved an incantation across it’s length. The metal glowed briefly with soft creation light. As I held it, I could feel a slight heft within, as the spell took to increase the metal’s strength. It would only last a short while, but were it used, it would hold. A few minutes later my cart was gently guided into the golem village. With an affirmative hrrrrrn from my interviewee, the bench was set up near the base of the leftward hill with the cart of wares completely unveiled. Some of the other golems had roused themselves at the spectacle, though instead of coming closer, they moved up into their caves. A few others moved deeper along the mountain pass, and briefly I wondered what further structures these creatures might have created. “Hrrrrrrn.” The golem leaned over the bench. In a whirl of energy, the creature’s form closed in on the runic plate. A few stones were discarded like stray hairs until it had thinned itself. A rock the same size as the plate moved up the form and sat atop the core. Thinner stones had moved outward to be slender appendages, and the golem’s eye came to rest at a squared out center. “You honor me.” I replied, offering a small bow. The golem’s stones shifted around him, the core remaining inhumanly still, as if it adjusted for the interview. In its own way, I found the gesture cute. I moved to my cart and folded down the wooden lip that I could sit on. I shuffled through my travel robes to pull out my notebook, then got myself comfy. The golem’s eye fixated on these moments. The vigilance would have been terrifying in my novice days, back when a hawkish gaze was isolated to children watching the stumpy little dwarf rush to classes. After years of hyper-vigilant archivists, professors, and tutors, the golem’s gaze was simply… larger. Faintly I wondered if these creatures saw humans, dwarves, or elves as the same. Or if their vision even worked the same as ours. But well, perhaps I could find out. I swallowed a grin as I settled. My host sat patiently across, unblinking. “Thank you very much for agreeing to this.” I started. “I’ve studied quite a few magical creatures in my time at the Tower, but I confess that I have always wished to have a conversation with you in earnest.” A small rumbling sound emanated from the creature. Not quite the rumbling, pleased sound that came at the sight of the pots, but perhaps a polite response to the statement. “Among the races of flesh and blood, our people have given names. Such as my own, Sergio Vallez. Is there such a thing I can call you?” The golem stilled, as if considering this. Its eye lowered. Then, after a few moments of quiet passing, it replied with a series of small click sounds. It reminded me a little of the tick-tock of a clock. I did my best to repeat the sound. The golem made a “Hrrrn” reply, then repeated the click-clack-clock. I listened carefully, sucking in my cheeks to more precisely mimic the sounds. At the second attempt, the creature’s makeshift rock head gave a single nod. “I’m curious… your language… The clicking is similar to some sounds within the dwarven dialects. They are of similar roots, aren’t they?” “Mrrrr.” It replied. The eye swirled with smokey figures, and short stout humanoids stood hammering against piles of stone. “Of course… many early rune smiths were dwarves, weren’t they? Did dwarves live in the village with you for a time?” The golem replied with a short, firm, negative huff. I nodded. Perhaps from travelers, or even their earliest creators? “And the rest of your language; Is it largely based on feeling? How much does the core convey?” The golem’s makeshift rock head tilted. After a few moments, the eye at the being’s core shifted again. The smokey magic within swirled and danced as if in bursts. It surrounded ghostly figures of humanoids and dwarves, then retreated back to a central core. “I see… you get a sort of sense from the creatures around you, and the core in turn produces a sound we can recognize.” “Hrrrrrrrn.” The creature replied. This made me smile in turn. “The Tower - where scholars such as I come from - haven’t much made this journey, but this pass has often been visited by merchants, has it not?” “Mrrrrrrn!” The golem said, the core glowing with warmth. It extended a swirling arm of rocks, making a few other sounds. The core flashed with images of figures and the large rock formations arriving, conversing, and passing smoke items between each other. The golem before me straightened then and gestured to my cart. I hid a grin. “You… would you like a pot now?” “Mrrrrrrrrn.” It replied. I set aside my notes, then turned to the stack of pots and pans. I scanned over each one briefly, using my sleeve to quickly polish off any stray dust or grime. I chose a small but wide copper pot with a braid carved around its middle. When I turned I saw the golem’s eye brighten, shifting over its center of being as it examined the gift. I held it out for the creature. The golem’s front limbs mirrored my own and hovered in place, waiting for me to drop the pot in its arms. I gently set it there. The golem continued its inspection. Small clicks, clacks, clocks, sounded from within the core. It was like the smaller stones that made up the creature were rushed together quickly, chattering with excitement. After a few moments, the golem brought the pot up over its head and let it rest there like a bowler hat. Once there it folded its arms in the lap of stones, the golem looking back at me expectantly. “It matches your eye quite nicely.” I replied. “Mrrrrrrr.” I chuckled to myself, and carefully pondered my next question. ~*~ In my travels and subsequent studies of the rock formed creatures known as “golems”, I would like to amend earlier essays on the brutish nature of such beings. Rather, in my experience, I found them to be more mischievous than the lesser cousins of the Fae. I arrived in the golem village with a cart, a mule, 29 pans, 13 pots, three weeks of supplies, a tent, a broom and dustpan, two notebooks, a satchel of charcoal, ink, three quill pens, and a length of rope. Upon leaving the village I had my mule, my backpack of basic food supplies, my notebooks, ink and one-and-a-half quill pens. Where did the rest go, you might ask? To the Golems. My visit intent was to observe, interview, and adhere to the highest levels of respect. I too had heard stories of rock giants who crushed the unlucky bandit, or the traveler who dared to trespass into the creature's territory. I remembered the stories of the last scholar, whose surviving letters to the Tower about the brutality of golem attacks kept me awake at night as a child. Still I attempted to put such thoughts out of my mind, for in other studies I had heard of merchants who had long-standing connections to such remote places. These same merchants, who had grown rich from rare gems exchanged for meager wares and polite conversation, cautioned the opportunistic fools who had been crushed in those mountainside attacks. The golems, in amusement, or perhaps even delight at the wares I had brought, allowed me within their village. Over the course of my interview with their emissary, I relinquished one pot after the other, in exchange for answers to my questions. The golem adorned the objects throughout their person. A pot as a hat, then pots as shoulder pads, the broom as a scepter, the dust pan like a slipper… so on. Until, as you guessed, barely the cart itself remained. As I wandered into the mountains once more, I noted several other golems take form as humanoids and shared in the new items. The emissary relinquished his adornments easily, and these stray objects decorated the mountainside. The behavior made me think of magpies, but with a community of sharing, like how our poorer villagers would pass around food during harsh winters. But here rather, these constructs of magic and ancient craftsmen, found delight in these simply made things that so often we creatures of flesh and blood discard. And, after the slow slog through the mountains and forests without my cooking pot, this creature in particular felt great appreciation at the first inn I was able to find. --Dr. Sergio Vallez, professor of mythical creatures at the Tower of Addall Found in a private letter to the Tower’s Administrator of Study

Become the writing sponge you were always meant to be! Finding writing resources can be a challenge, and there are so many out there that can help with the day to day projects. Whether for reference, for community, or for fun, these are some pocket tools that have come in handy for my projects. All organizational images belong to their respective creators, and are intended for education purposes only.