|
Writer: Sorien
Date Wed Jul 1 06:54:06 2026
Subject Into th Dreaming - Interlude
Sofie had never liked how quickly sleep stole the strength from people.
One moment, Sorien had been giving quiet instructions. Aelida had offered calm assurances, one hand resting upon the grounding stone. The next, both lay still beneath the warm glow of candlelight, their breathing slow and even as their spirits wandered roads Sofie could neither see nor follow.
She circled the cottage for what felt like the hundredth time.
Every torch burned. Every prayer bead remained where she had placed it. Holy water waited within easy reach. Outside the broad windows, the night looked back without blinking.
"Not tonight," she muttered toward the darkness.
The labradorite rose from her palm, turned once through the candlelight, then settled back into her hand with a quiet tap. It was a small ritual, but it kept her thoughts from racing too far ahead.
Sorien trusted Aelida to guard him in the dream.
Aelida trusted Sofie to guard them both in the waking world.
It was an uncomfortable sort of honor.
A candle flickered.
Sofie was already standing before it before the flame had steadied, one hand on the hilt of a sword she barely knew how to use, the other clutching the holy symbol at her neck.
Nothing came.
After a long silence, she let out a careful breath and resumed her patrol.
If the night wished to challenge her friends, it would first have to explain itself to a very determined bard who had no intention of letting either of them wake to anything but morning.
Writer: Uruvion
Date Thu Jul 2 02:20:46 2026
Subject Fangs for the Memories
The reflection in the pool showed not a hint that a pair of fangs once
pierced through Uruvion's gums. He leaned back from the edge of the pool
and laid back against the side of his gryffon. He raised his right arm, the
glove that covered the hand was next to him on the grass and he looked at
the porcelain skin that covered the tips of his fingers down to the elbow.
The fingers flexed a couple times then he brought his arm down and squeezed
it with the other hand. It was still ice cold to the touch, like a frozen
corpse. It still ached, and the aching and frozen cadaver skin was a
constant reminder of what lurks in the shadows that wants to see the Vallens
burn.
Vampires were still a thing, and a thing Uruvion despised. The Dungeon had
some new ones he hadn't seen til recently. He remembered one or two in
Storm Keep. What really caught his interest was the presence of dark elves.
He pulled out a couple pears from his pack and lifted one up and the gryffon
took it and loudly snapped her beak before swallowing the fruit. He took a
bite and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. The tip of his tongue ran
across the gums, making sure there wasn't any sign of what happened to him
long ago. He knew there wasn't but he knew the exact spots of where the
fangs grew, and he'd never forget it. He also never forgot the oath he took
of the Arlathil. He thought about his old friends, and the new elves he
met, and the honor of meeting Terri.
He offered the core of the pear to the gryffon and it gently took the fruit
and ate it down easily. Uruvion stretched and titlted his hat down over his
eyes and drifted off to a somewhat easy sleep but not before reminding
himself there was work to do.
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Thu Jul 2 23:59:38 2026
Subject New Thalos Pilgrimage
Pyrsas continued to support the Pilgrimage, both in person and from a
distance. Participating in their movements and discussions amongst the
pilgrims and travelers, along with Sorien, Geirhart, and others. At times,
he was sending teams of knights along with squires and pages along to learn
and also guard the pilgrims.
Though he didn't enjoy the Thaxanos area much, he was delighted to depart it
and head towards the Desert Jewel. He'd spent time there before coming to
Gareth, and loved the people there. The sultan had been very gracious in
his dealings as well, so a welcome destination was a nice change of pace.
The work was steady, but rewarding. Different troubles that had plagued the
keep were a distant memory, as he worked to aid travelers, pilgrims, and
even inhabitants within the cities where they were welcomed. Sorien, as
General of the Lance, took charge of most of the patrols and other
preparations to keep the pilgrims safe. Which left Pyrsas with more time to
heal those in need and lend his assistance more directly.
Within New Thalos, they found themselves welcomed and not really out of
place within the bustle of such a large kingdom. Because of this though,
they found their work much busier than other locations. Knights were
instructed to take regular breaks to cool off, many were used to it, but
many of the younger pages and squires were happy to relax in the shade when
prompted.
The Thalosian guards were welcoming, often giving directions and assistance
when it didn't interfere with their duties. Satisfied with how things were
progressing, Pyrsas led a group of knights back to Gareth after many hours
in New Thalos, wanting to swap them out for a fresh and well rested group to
take their place.
Writer: Kitara
Date Sat Jul 4 18:05:17 2026
Subject Tribal Traditions
"Do I really have to wear this, mother? It looks ridiculous."
Kavara formed a small smile of amusement as she arranged the last of the
traditional tribal garments atop Kitara's diminutive form. The phoenix
outfit, made from fallen peacock and macaw feathers, was an important symbol
in this pride's mythology, representing the death of the old year and the
rebirth of the new year. It also had the unfortunate side effect of making
whoever wore it look like a giant yellow overstuffed chicken. Adding insult
to injury, it was much too large for the 13 year-old Kitara, much to the
amusement of the local pride's other youth standing nearby and snickering at
the sight. Kitara shot them a glare before Kavara gently turned the cub's
head around to look into her eyes, kneeling before her while affixing the
last of the outfit.
"Now, now, Kitara. We have talked about this. This may not be as fun as
the water-dancing traditions of the Cliffwalker pride we partook in last
moon, or the Dancing of the Fireflies ceremony from the dry season a few
moons ago. But it is important to the elders, and thus it is important to
the whole pride. And as guests, we do what we are asked, yes?"
Kitara mumbled something under her breath and shot the group of local cubs
off to the side another sharp glare, several of whom were beginning to strut
about flapping their arms and making 'cluck, cluck' sounds- but she
relented, helping to secure the giant headdress atop her head. Her only
solace seemed to be that All of the other adults in the pride were dressed
in similarly outlandish costumes. In fact, some of them were even more
bizarre than her own- she was wasn't sure what the shuffling heap of gray
tassles worn by one of the village Wemics was supposed to represent, but it
looked just like a giant mound of elephant dung to her. Her mother lucked
out, wearing a rather stylish set of leathers and a pair of curving horns
atop her own headdress, the outfit of a gazelle, while her father laughed
and drank with some of the other local chieftains- his seemed to be a lion,
and thus required very little aside from a large, shaggy fake mane over his
rather sparse one.
"You should see this as an honor. It means you are an adult now, and you
can join in with the other adults, while they have to sit and watch. Now
come, it will be fun, I promise."
Soon the fires would be stoked and the sound of song and dancing filled the
grove- the delicious smell of roasted meats and berry wine filled the air.
After the festivities, the three would catalogue their experiences- writing
down the traditions for those who came after, and travelling to the next
pride to learn their own traditions.
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sun Jul 5 15:46:02 2026
Subject Assault on the Great Library (II)
The first assault upon the Great Library had come to little, for though
Vael'Zorath had broken its ancient gates, shattered its tireless guardians,
and left many halls strewn with fallen stone and scattered books, the
Library remembered none of it. Whenever he returned, whether after the
passing of days or of months, he found its broken doors once more standing
upon their hinges, its shelves restored, its guardians quietly tending their
endless charge, as though no hand had ever been raised against them. No
mark of battle remained, nor any trace of his wrath, and only the dragon
himself carried memory of the ruin he had wrought.
Yet though the Library healed All wounds dealt against it, it did not yield
its heart. The halls beyond still denied him victory, for the corridors
wandered without reason, returning upon themselves when they should have led
onward, and doors once passed were found again where no memory recalled
them. Thus the dragon, whose strength had seldom failed him in any contest
of the world, departed at last not by victory, but by necessity, carrying
with him only the certainty that the heart of the Library still lay hidden
beyond his reach.
Long did that failure remain with him, and he spoke of it to few. Yet a
clever thought and plot brought him to Piknim, Witch-Queen of Verminasia,
and she named unto him one whose skill was not measured by strength of arms,
but by the reading of wilderness and trail. Thus Cedarscum, an Arboren
ranger and champion of the Kingdom of Verminasia, came into the dragon's
service, though little was told to him save that a hidden place must be
found within a house where no path remained faithful for long.
It was upon another night of storm that they entered the Enchanted Forest.
Rain fell heavily among the ancient trees, and the wind sighed through their
boughs, while from afar the thunder answered itself among the hills. At
length they came before the broken entrance that still bore the scars of
Vael'Zorath's former wrath, and without word the dragon passed beneath it,
Cedarscum following close behind.
Within, nothing had changed.
The long halls stretched away beneath vaulted ceilings of gray stone, their
floors of black and white marble unmarred by the ruin that had befallen the
outer chambers. Great golems drifted silently between towering shelves,
each guiding before it a laden cart of books or pausing only to restore some
wandering volume to its appointed place. Yet scarcely had the intruders
crossed the threshold when the labor of those ancient keepers ceased. One
after another they turned, and from every quarter of the Library there arose
the same terrible cry.
You must go. You will disturb them!
Then began a battle unlike the first. The golems came not singly, but in
unending succession, as though the Library itself had called every guardian
to its defense. Vael'Zorath met them with All the fury that had long been
denied an object worthy of it. Stone broke beneath his claws, ancient
masonry burst asunder beneath the sweep of his tail, and the breath of
bitter acid ran across the marble floors, leaving only ruin where steadfast
guardians had stood. Shelves toppled, carts were splintered, and countless
books lay strewn across the halls, while still the constructs advanced
without fear or hesitation.
But Cedarscum took little part in that contest of strength, for another
labor had fallen to him. While the dragon held the endless guardians at
bay, the ranger gave his mind to quieter things. Here upon the stone
lingered the faint passage of those who moved with purpose. There the scent
of dust had been disturbed by traffic too subtle for ordinary senses.
Elsewhere a wheel had worn a deeper course into the marble than All the
others beside it. Such signs, small in themselves and easily overlooked,
became beneath his patient eye a single trail, winding where no road could
be seen.
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sun Jul 5 15:55:19 2026
Subject Assault on the Great Library (III)
So it was that, after much wandering and no little bloodshed, Cedarscum
stayed his steps and pointed toward a pair of immense doors set apart from
all that had come before. No sign marked them, nor did any passage continue
beyond. Before those doors the guardians assembled in greater number than
ever, and there the struggle reached its fiercest measure. Long they
withstood the dragon's assault, yet stone, however ancient, cannot forever
contend with unyielding wrath. One by one the great constructs fell, until
the last lay broken among the fragments of marble and shattered shelves, and
silence returned at last to those halls.
For a time neither dragon nor ranger spoke.
Then Vael'Zorath reached with one great talon beneath the edge of his own
scales and drew forth a broad, dark molt, heavy and gleaming despite the
ruin that surrounded them. He laid it before Cedarscum without ceremony.
You have ssssserved us well, said the dragon. Take thissss, and speak of
what you have seen to none.
The ranger accepted the gift with a silent bow, asking neither payment nor
explanation, and turned back by the road they had opened through battle.
Vael'Zorath watched until Cedarscum had passed from sight. Then, alone amid
the broken guardians and the scattered wisdom of ages, he turned toward the
great doors of the Inner Sanctum, and crossing their threshold, vanished
into the silence beyond.
===========================================================================
Beyond the great doors there was no host assembled, nor any mighty keeper
waiting to contest the dragon's passage. The tumult of battle faded behind
him with every ponderous step, until at last there remained only the soft
whisper of turning pages and the faint scratching of a quill upon parchment.
The chamber into which he came was broad and high-vaulted, yet even so it
seemed fashioned for lesser folk. Vael'Zorath entered slowly, folding his
vast wings close against his flanks lest they strike the stone. The marble
groaned beneath his weight, and the sound of his passing wandered among the
arches overhead. At the chamber's center stood a modest wooden desk, and
behind it sat a lone woman surrounded by ledgers and neatly ordered papers.
Her head remained bowed over her work, and though the shadow of the dragon
passed across her desk, she neither started nor looked up.
Long did Vael'Zorath regard her.
Then he lowered his great head until one amber eye rested upon the little
desk, and when he spoke his voice rolled through the chamber like distant
thunder among the mountains.
I have broken your gates.
The quill moved steadily across the page.
I have cast down your guardians.
Still she wrote.
There is no chamber within these halls that shall remain closed to me.
The woman paused only long enough to dip her quill into the ink before
continuing her careful hand.
For the first time since entering the Library, Vael'Zorath found no answer
before him to overcome. His wrath had shattered stone. His strength had
laid low guardians that had endured through uncounted years. Yet neither
strength nor wrath could compel so much as a glance from the one seated
before him.
As he drew back, the slow movement of his head stirred the papers upon the
desk. One parchment slipped free from the others and turned upon the
polished wood until it lay exposed before his eye.
Only a single word on the page mattered to that eye.
Balanx.
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sun Jul 5 15:58:19 2026
Subject Assault on the Great Library (IV)
Long had he believed the Great Library to be the greatest treasury of
knowledge ever gathered by mortal hands. Yet that solitary word swept such
thoughts aside. This was no collection assembled by kings, nor by sages,
nor by the patient labors of generations.
The watchers.
The keepers of All memory.
It was said of them that they neither judged nor intervened, but only
observed, setting down faithfully All that came to pass beneath the heavens.
Kingdoms might embellish their victories. Priests might alter their
scriptures. Scholars might dispute the deeds of ancient heroes until truth
became little more than opinion. Yet here such frailties held no dominion.
Here, every triumph and every failure, every whispered oath and every fallen
crown, had been preserved exactly as they had occurred, untouched by pride,
fear, or the passing of years.
Leaving the desk and the lady behind him, Vael'Zorath passed slowly into the
deeper halls of the Great Library. There the corridors stretched onward
without measure, lined by uncounted doors of plain wood, each no different
from the last. Yet above every doorway hung a single name, and beneath each
name rested the labor of ages.
He came first unto the Shelves of History.
There the sign of Kwainin watched over rows beyond counting, and every wall
was hidden beneath books. Kingdoms long since swallowed by time stood
beside those still remembered, while the lives of kings occupied no greater
place than those of shepherds, merchants, or forgotten children. There were
no empty spaces upon the shelves, no volumes left unfinished, and nowhere
did dust gather upon their bindings. Vael'Zorath drew forth a single tome
with All the care that so vast a creature could command, balancing the
little book between two great talons as though it were some fragile relic.
He read only a handful of pages before returning it to its place.
For he understood then that to linger was to become lost.
So he wandered on.
Beyond the histories lay the works of creation, where bridges, poems,
cities, temples, ships, and every craft wrought by mortal hands had found
remembrance. Beyond them came the shelves of weather, wherein every storm,
every drought, every flood, and every gentle rain since the beginning of the
world had been faithfully recorded. Thereafter followed the annals of war,
where battles won and battles forgotten stood alike in quiet order, each
stripped of boasting and sorrow alike.
At length he came beneath the sign of Sebatis.
The Shelves of Magical Arts rose before him in ranks so long that they
vanished into the gray distance. Spellbooks rested beside journals,
treatises beside failed experiments, and humble notes lay bound alongside
the greatest works ever penned upon the arcane. Here were gathered not only
the triumphs of magi, but their errors also, each faithfully preserved lest
knowledge itself should suffer loss.
Long stood Vael'Zorath without moving.
The storm beyond the Library had long since passed from his thoughts. The
shattered guardians, the broken halls, even Cedarscum's departure seemed
already the memory of another age. Before him lay more than books. Here
rested the accumulated understanding of the world, untouched by pride,
untouched by rumor, untouched even by time.
Slowly the dragon lowered himself to the marble floor. Folding his vast
wings close against his sides, he drew the nearest volume toward him and
bent his great neck over its pages.
There, amid the endless shelves of the Great Library, Vael'Zorath began to
read. Hungrily.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sun Jul 5 16:08:34 2026
Subject The Storm Beyond the Trees
The storm had settled over the western forests before dusk, and by
nightfall its thunder wandered across the horizon without ceasing. From a
narrow window high within the Black Tower, Ezekyle watched the lightning
rise and fade above the dark line of trees, saying nothing as the rain swept
across lands too distant for any ordinary eye to discern.
Behind him the halls remained much as they had since the day of his arrival.
Doors stood closed.
Torchlight flickered against ancient stone.
Books rested undisturbed upon their shelves, awaiting hands more diligent
than curious. Now and again another Black Robe passed through those silent
corridors, offering neither greeting nor interruption before disappearing
once more into the quiet of the Tower. The loneliness of the place no
longer troubled him as it once had. It had become familiar, almost welcome.
His studies had continued without master or apprentice's cord. What
instruction the Tower had not seen fit to grant, he sought among forgotten
volumes and patient hours, trusting that every page turned brought him one
step nearer to understanding. The work was slow, and often unrewarding, yet
tonight his thoughts lingered not upon the books before him, but upon the
storm beyond the window.
Another flash lit the forest.
Ezekyle smiled.
Not with satisfaction, nor with triumph, but with the quiet certainty of one
who knows that somewhere beneath those distant clouds, a long-sought door
had at last been opened.
The thunder rolled across the night.
He listened until it passed.
Then, without another glance toward the storm, he returned to his reading.
Writer: Tamello
Date Mon Jul 6 10:08:35 2026
Subject Sowing the Seeds of the Future : Religion Change
Tamello stood up and wiped his brow and looked at the field he'd been
tending. Before him were the neat and tidy rows of vegetables he'd
painstakenly tilled and planted. Each row had a tiny placard at the start
of it with a painted picture depicting what was planted there. It was a
good beginning, though he had more to do. His homestead would be the first
to reclaim Markon and soon others would follow. The ground was eager for
the crop, but just needed to be taken care of first.
The small den that he had created for himself nearby would do for now, he
thought. It had room for a little nest of blankets and pillows for a bed
and was even big enough for Beary to climb into to sleep, though just
barely. Beyond the city being home for him, he'd been ready to find a place
to plant his tail somewhere and start a burrow.
A loud grunt, that sounded more of an avalanche, came from behind him as
Earthika, his favorite elemental, pulled loose the boulder that was claiming
field two. Tam smiled as he watched the large elemental shamble over
towards a growing pile of rocks and boulders, and added another to the pile.
The stone was prime for building, but he'd wait till he had enough to begin
using it. In his mind's eye he saw a town built around a trading post. All
those who had agreed to follow the Queen Darkfinder would be welcome to
barter and trade their goods. The lands around were ripe for the hearty
veggies and wheats and would even sustain a number of cows and horses.
An excited grunt, this one sounding like two boulders smashing together,
came from Earthika as the elemental had returned to the spot where the
boulder was pulled out. They pointed and stamped their foot twice, letting
Tamello know that something had been found. Something beyond the norm. Tam
hopped over and stood at the edge of the small pit, looking down with
excitement. There, below him, was a large geode of Maroknian gneiss, its
banded, colorful, striations ready to be polished. Tam tapped his foot as
he tried to guestimate the actual size of it, but shrugged as he just
thought it'd be bigger than what Earthika could pull out as is.
"Earthika! Start digging around it. Be careful. I want this to be the
center piece of the homestead. This here is the oldest type of rock in
Markon, and maybe in All of Verminasian lands. I want it intact, please. "
Tam beamed a smile at Earthika, who, if they recognized it, didn't show it,
but did their masters bidding and began to shovel the dirt from around the
ginormous geode.
Tam bounded back to his burrow set his farmers kit down. He'd need a master
sculpter and, just for now, Markon didn't have one. Waving at both Beary,
who was sleeping beneath a tree, and Earthika, who noticed or not, Tam
hopped off for Verminasia to find someone who could sculpt such a rock into
a tribute fitting the Dark Queen, Drakkara.
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Jul 7 00:03:31 2026
Subject By Sapphire's Gleam (1 of 2)
The Witch's Sanctum smelled, as it always did, of dried lavender and
something that might have been ambition occasionally tempered by the rigid
discipline of purpose and rendered into vapor.
Piknim Cracklespark moved through it with the particular energy of someone
who knew exactly where everything was despite All evidence to the contrary -
sidestepping a basket of pulsing crystals, ducking under a bundle of hanging
herbs that shed a fine dust of something faintly luminescent onto her
topknot, arriving at the worktable with her arms full of reagents and her
expression full of purpose.
Sir Aothien of Storm Keep would shortly be joining an expedition to the
ruins of Dae'Tok. Aoko, of All people, had come to the Witch-Queen begging
a boon - a good luck charm for Aothien to carry with him on his perilous
journey. As it turned out, both Aoko and Piknim shared a vested interest in
the Inquisitor's success. Thus, Piknim sent the plucky priestess to fetch a
number of rare reagents, and fetch them she did. All that was left now was
the doing.
The afore-mentioned reagents were arranged with due care. A vial of
moonbeams, stoppered in blown glass, casting faint silver light across the
tabletop. A medallion of the sun, warm to the touch even now. A black
sapphire, deep and still as a held breath. A blue snapdragon, pressed and
dried, its color miraculously preserved.
She needed the grimoire.
Nil was on the grimoire.
The black cat occupied it with the boneless, deliberate density of a
creature who had been there since before the grimoire existed and intended
to remain there long after it was forgotten. One eye opened as Piknim
approached. It conveyed, in the manner of felines, a comprehensive judgment
of the situation and everyone in it. Then it closed.
Piknim worked around him.
The moonbeams came first.
She held the vial up to the window - the narrow one, the one that looked out
over the forest toward Balifore's distant ruins - and let the silver light
catch. For a moment her eyes lingered on the ruins, on the smudge of broken
stone at the edge of the treeline, before she turned back to the work.
The warpstone crystal lens was small, no bigger than her palm, faceted to
draw light in and bend it into something richer. She held it steady between
thumb and forefinger while she uncorked the vial with her teeth, tilted it
carefully, and let the moonbeams fall through the crystal in a slow,
luminous stream.
The light that emerged on the other side was different. Denser. It carried
the quality of All three moons simultaneously - the tenebrous shades of
Drakkara's Black, the warm tones of Kantilles' White, the deep crimson hues
of Sebatis' Red - refracted into something that belonged to none of them and
all of them at once.
She caught it on the surface of the medallion.
The silver changed. Slowly, and then All at once, the way understanding
sometimes does. The warmth of it shifted beneath her fingers. Moonsilver,
properly made, felt like holding something that had been waiting to be
exactly this for a very long time.
She set it aside to cool.
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Jul 7 00:17:53 2026
Subject By Sapphire's Gleam (2 of 2)
The cauldron was next, and this was the part she liked best.
A rabbit's foot went in first, dropped from a great height with ceremony.
The four-leaf clover followed, pinched between two fingers and released with
a small flourish. The horseshoe, appropriated from a racehorse that beat
the odds, she had to use both hands, and the clang it made against the
cauldron's inner wall was enormously satisfying.
Last, she dug into her pocket and produced a coin, worn smooth from years of
residence there, the kind of coin that had survived enough to have opinions
about luck. She turned it once between her fingers and flipped it into the
brew with a wet plunk.
The cauldron considered this. Then the embers in the dragon's maw hearth
pulsed, the surface of the brew shivered, and with a sound like a very small
thunderclap a wisp of smoke curled upward - a whorl of light in every color
of the rainbow, spinning lazily in the sanctum's warm air.
Piknim's hand shot out and closed around it.
It wriggled. She held firm. After a moment of negotiation it settled into
her palm, and she pressed it firmly against the facets of the black sapphire
until the gem seemed to swallow it whole, the deep color flickering once
with something interior and alive before going still.
She examined it in the light. The sapphire looked exactly as it had before,
except for the way it didn't.
The snapdragon she placed inside the locket herself, and this she did
quietly.
No ceremony. No announcement. Just her nimble Finder's fingers, delicately
settling the dried blossom against the moonsilver interior with the
particular attention one gives to something that matters.
She closed the locket with a soft click.
Then she held it in both hands, the chain pooling between her fingers, and
spoke the magic words.
By moonbeam gathered, silver-spun,
By captured warmth of morning sun,
By sapphire's gleam and dragon's name,
By dark of night and umbral flame,
This blossom kept, and bond held fast,
Let secrets lost be found at last.
The sanctum was quiet when she finished. The crystals pulsed. The luminous
moss glowed in its clay pots. On the sofa, Nil remained on the grimoire,
unmoved and unimpressed. All was said and done.
From the workbench she produced the last thing - not a reagent, not quite.
A small envelope, unsealed, containing a lock of sable hair streaked with
silver. Aoko's, surrendered at Piknim's specific and explicitly worded
request, for the charm ritual.
She had used none of it in the charm ritual.
She tucked it into the interior pocket of her robes with a smile that had
nothing to do with luck and everything to do with having a very good memory
and a very long view.
From his shoulder perch nearby, the raven watched this development with
bright-eyed attention. Understanding arrived. Approval followed
immediately.
The cackle started small.
By the time it had fully developed - two voices, escalating, filling the
Witch's Sanctum with the strident sound of mischief finding its shape - Nil
had opened both eyes. He looked at Piknim. He looked at the raven. He
formed his judgment. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep on the
grimoire, which was, as far as Nil was concerned, the only sane response to
such shenanigans.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Tue Jul 7 16:26:20 2026
Subject Lost in The Magical Arts Shelves
The shelves devoted to the Magical Arts soon became those most familiar
to Ezekyle. Though countless subjects lay within the Great Library, it was
here that his wandering most often came to rest, for nowhere else did the
accumulated study of the arcane stretch so far beyond the reckoning of any
single life.
In those endless aisles he became a patient collector. A volume taken from
one shelf would lead him to another, and that to a third, until books
surrounded him in ever-growing number. Some he read from beginning to end.
Others surrendered but a single passage worthy of remembrance before being
laid gently aside. The pile at his feet grew steadily with each passing
hour, then each passing day, until at length he found himself seated
comfortably atop a broad mound of open tomes and scattered manuscripts,
reaching for yet another volume without ever troubling to descend.
His search had long since narrowed to a single subject.
Necromancy.
Not the raising of corpses, nor the binding of wandering spirits, for such
matters occupied but the earliest chapters of those ancient works. He
sought older knowledge, spoken of only briefly and often with careful
hesitation. Here and there, hidden among accounts of forgotten liches and
magi whose names had long since passed from memory, another word appeared.
Phylacteries.
The first mention was little more than a paragraph in the life of a
forgotten necromancer, wherein the author directed the reader to another
volume concerning the later years of that same mage. There Ezekyle found
but a page devoted to the vessel itself, accompanied by careful references
to two earlier works describing its first conception. Those volumes in turn
spoke only of discoveries made by still older practitioners, each faithfully
directing him onward to another shelf, another chamber, another book.
Soon he no longer wandered the Library at leisure.
He hunted.
One book yielded another. A single footnote led to an obscure journal.
That journal named three spellbooks, whose margins referred to a forgotten
treatise buried among the histories of magical theory. Ezekyle followed
each trail with growing impatience, scarcely pausing to return a finished
volume before another had been pulled from its shelf. Books accumulated
around him in ever greater number, until those no longer needed were tossed
carelessly behind him, sliding down the growing mound upon which he sat.
More than once he found himself reaching across the pile without looking,
his hand falling instinctively upon another waiting volume as though the
books themselves had begun arranging their order around his purpose.
At times his eye wandered over the little hill of tomes that had gathered
beneath him, and he found a quiet satisfaction in seeing them there. Yet he
knew the comfort would not endure. Sooner or later he must leave the Great
Library, whether for the Conclave, for Verminasia, or for duties yet
unknown, and when next he returned there would be no trace that he had ever
studied there. Every book would once more stand upon its appointed shelf.
Every page would rest precisely where the Balanx intended it, and the labor
of many days would have vanished as though no hand had disturbed it.
The thought lingered with him only a moment.
Then another reference caught his eye.
Ezekyle cast the finished volume upon the heap behind him and reached
eagerly for the next.
Writer: Ryger
Date Fri Jul 10 09:48:54 2026
Subject The Chaos Gardens
Tending to the gardens was one of the only places Ryger felt any
connection to his former self. A promise made to Aoko, almost as if she'd
known that the gardens of Chaos would help ground Ryger, he would tend to
them on her behalf. Magnificent ethereal lillies, lush ground covers that
varied from delicate greens to stunning purples, and rippled reflections
from a beautiful pool that reflected off the marble walls. Ryger leaned in
and gazed into the pool.
It was then that Ryger began to hear a whisper of a life before twisted
truths pulled him away. The seed was planted long ago with the Slayers that
would grow into something far more deranged than he could have ever
imagined. Growing up as a young man, he was full of ambition, hope and
charm. As Ryger looked into his reflection, he saw none of those things,
just a man corrupted by something he could not touch or see. A cause, which
on the surface seemed to come from the heart, but only brought terror upon
the world. Ryger would become conflicted in the gardens.
Aoko would call out to Ryger from time to time as they both shared a passion
for nature. Ryger would try to persuade her return to the Warp, but her
resolve would always annoy him. Annoyance would eventually turn to
confusion and ultimately to admiration as he grew intrigued by her
resistance. However this day was different, her voice was accompanied by
something different. Her prayer struck a chord deep within the Ariel, and
when she prayed to the Mother on his behalf, Ryger would sob at the sound of
her name. He knew in an instant that his betrayal to Zandreya was his
depraved act that bound him to the Warp. Committing such a mortal sin
against his god is what drove him deeper into denial and facing his sin was
unbearable.
There was also the matter of Sorien, the noble Knight who would befriend
Ryger. It always bothered Ryger to some degree that a Knight would choose
to spend his time talking with him, as he had some admiration their
commitment to their own cause, and Ryger understood it was a Knights sworn
duty to destroy the Warp and anyone within. However, his grace and
compassion is what eventually helped the weary Ariel the most. There were
those within Algoron that would rather see Cultists redeemed rather than
slain.
With the prayer of Aoko and the friendship of Sorien, Ryger knew what had to
be done. His time with the Warp was over. He knew it would be a long road
out, and that he'd done nothing with his life over the last few years but
destroy friendships, turn from Zandreya, and ultimately serve a cause that
was trying to destroy the entire world. Ryger broke his gaze from the pool
and looked to the foliage of the garden and wondered who may take care of it
next. Ryger filled the watering pale and tended the to the gardens one last
time.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 10 14:50:50 2026
Subject Lost in The Magical Arts Shelves (II)
The days passed unnoticed within the Shelves of Magical Arts. Ezekyle no
longer measured them by the rising or setting of the sun, for neither
reached those endless halls, but only by the slow dwindling of the
provisions he had gathered before withdrawing once more into the Library.
Bread, dried meats, fruit, and water had become as necessary to his studies
as ink and parchment, for each journey back to the world beyond meant the
undoing of All he had so patiently assembled.
His mound of books had grown into a thing almost architectural. Volumes lay
stacked in careful disorder, forming broad terraces upon which he sat
cross-legged with another tome resting open across his knees. Around him,
books lay where they had fallen, each cast aside only after yielding another
clue, another citation, another forgotten reference leading farther down the
winding history of necromantic thought.
Yet even his own diligence no longer seemed enough.
The arts of illusion had become his constant companion since his days in the
Black Tower, and where once he had practiced them merely to master their
subtlety, he now bent them toward another purpose. With quiet concentration
he divided his likeness, until five silent figures, each bearing his face
and robes, wandered among the towering shelves.
One climbed a rolling ladder to search the highest volumes.
Another sat cross-legged upon the marble floor, turning pages with measured
haste.
A third disappeared between distant shelves where forgotten journals lay.
The others wandered endlessly, opening one book after another, reading only
until another reference revealed itself before laying the volume gently
aside and continuing onward.
Now and again one would return.
Without a word, it would place a newly discovered tome upon the growing
mound before him.
Ezekyle scarcely looked up. The illusion would fade.
Another, somewhere among the shelves, would find its place.
Thus the search quickened.
A forgotten grimoire directed him to the journals of a court necromancer.
Those journals spoke of an older dissertation preserved only in excerpt.
That dissertation named a ritual witnessed centuries before, whose fullest
account rested not among the works of necromancy at all, but within the
histories of magical theory. Each discovery opened not an answer, but
another door, and each door revealed still more corridors stretching into
the distance.
At times Ezekyle would pause, his gaze passing over the five silent versions
of himself wandering beneath the endless shelves.
It occurred to him that they had become much like the golems.
Endlessly searching.
Endlessly returning books.
Endlessly moving through halls that seemed to have no end.
The thought brought the faintest smile to his face.
Then another illusion approached carrying yet another weathered volume, and
without hesitation Ezekyle opened it, eager to follow the next thread
wherever it might lead.
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sat Jul 11 13:33:55 2026
Subject Behind Black Eyes
Long had Vael'Zorath labored among the Shelves of Magical Arts, and
though no sun rose or set within those endless halls, the passing of time
had begun to make itself known to him in other ways. His hand trembled
faintly when he turned the pages, and the letters sometimes swam before his
sight, so that more than once he found himself reading anew a passage
through which his eyes had already passed. His back ached from long
sitting, his stomach complained despite the provisions gathered about him,
and sleep pressed ever more heavily upon the small and stubborn flesh he
wore.
Such frailties displeased him, yet he endured them, for the shape had its
virtues. Hands could turn the frail pages of ancient books without tearing
them; fingers could trace the smallest script, and a body of such little
size might sit for days amid a mountain of tomes without crushing beneath
its weight the very knowledge it sought. Thus he remained upon the great
heap he had gathered, surrounded by open volumes and discarded works, while
five likenesses of himself wandered ceaselessly among the shelves.
Through their eyes also he searched.
One drew forth a forgotten grimoire and opened it. Another sat upon the
marble floor with three books spread before it. Far away among the shelves,
a third found a name, and at once Vael'Zorath knew it; while another cast
aside a useless volume and reached impatiently for the next. Thus his
thought was divided among many paths, yet All were bent toward a single end.
For at last he had found the trail.
It had begun with a few lines in the record of a necromancer long dead, and
those lines had led him to another work, and thence to a journal, and from
the journal to the account of an experiment performed in an age whose
kingdoms had long since passed away. Every book opened another road before
him, and every road divided into others. Yet he did not despair at their
number. Rather his hunger grew, for here there was no idle conjecture to
sift from truth, nor the boast of kings, nor the errors of scholars
repeating tales already corrupted by the passing of years. The Balanx had
watched, and what they had seen they had set down.
And among their records was that word which now drew him onward.
The lips whispered the word as he read it.
His weariness was forgotten.
A book fell from his hand upon the mound beneath him, and another was opened
in its place. Somewhere among the distant shelves one of his likenesses had
found a reference to an older work, and another had already begun to seek
it. His own eyes moved swiftly over the page. A name. A place. A ritual.
Another name.
Another book.
He reached for it.
The flesh demanded sleep, and he denied it. Hunger came, and he ate without
knowing what passed between his teeth, his eyes never leaving the page
before him. When the words blurred, he closed his eyes only until they
became clear again; and when his hand grew slow, he clenched it until the
trembling ceased.
For somewhere in that immeasurable house of memory lay the answer.
Perhaps it was divided among a hundred books. Perhaps a thousand. Perhaps
he must follow the deeds of dead magi through the rise and fall of kingdoms,
gathering one fragment here and another there, until at last the whole
design stood revealed before him. It mattered little. He had endured
centuries. He could endure pages.
So Vael'Zorath remained behind those black and weary eyes, and through them
he read.
Around him his likenesses wandered among the endless shelves, drawing forth
the works of ages and casting aside those whose secrets had been exhausted.
The mound beneath him grew. The provisions dwindled. The hours passed
uncounted.
And still he read.
For somewhere ahead, hidden only by the vastness of All that had ever been
known, there lay a road beyond death; and now that Vael'Zorath had found its
first uncertain tracks, neither weariness nor hunger nor the frailty of
flesh would turn him aside.
Writer: Ryger
Date Sun Jul 12 15:38:19 2026
Subject A prayer in the Garden of the Heart
The marble statue of Taliena embracing Siccara glistened as Ryger knelt
down before it. A carefully selected spot for a confession. The garden was
quiet and beautiful, reminding him of his time serving Zandreya and when he
was called friend by the elves. Siccara, who reminded him of felled gods,
loss and sorrow. Then there was Taliena, she gave Ryger hope that
everlasting and perfect love, would see him through to redemption.
Tears welled up within Ryger's closed eyes as he dipped his head and done
something he hasn't done in many years no.. He began to pray..
At first his words were choked off, the pain which he caused was now
flooding out of him. But full words eventually came out as Ryger began to
confess.. ''Lady Taliena. Goddess of love and healing. I beg of you to
take me in your embrace as you have others. I'm sorry for what I have done.
I know I'm not worthy of your grace, but if you will consider showing me
compassion, I will serve you the rest of my life. Take this mark of
Malachive from me, I cannot bear it any longer. ''
Ryger lifted his head and wiped away his tears. He stood up in the garden
and waited...
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Mon Jul 13 06:49:34 2026
Subject The Shadowed Path - Shattered Dreams - Part 4 - Duskbinder
Swish. Swish. Swish.
How long had it been since he began cleaning these halls as a novice?
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Years. Years and years at this point. No longer was he a novice, but
the Duskbinder of the Nightwardens. One who is expected to lead the
new initiates, acolytes, and adepts in their path towards becoming
Dark Knights. Today, he was taking a moment to reminisce on how things
had changed around the Keep since he first rejoined the Storm.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Looking up at the once shattered hole in the ceiling he no longer had
to imagine it outfitted with a crystal dome, it was there. Umbral
lightning could be seen arcing across the sky near Drakkara's spire,
and new obsidian obelisks that radiated un-light reflected off of the
polished black marble walls. Once barren walls now held many large
tapestries that depicted the various victories and defeats of the
Storm. It was good to see. The crater that once filled the center of
the room had also been properly filled in and repaired, which he was
sure would be a relief to those who needed tend this room in the future.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Pausing before the amethyst statue of the Queen of Darkness that now
stood near the marble staircase towards the portal he listened to the
faint crackling from below. Looking towards the statue cowled in a
flowing cloak of abyssal night he leaned forward to read the plaque.
"
From the poison of pity, our Dark Lady deliver us
From the gilded lie of mercy, our Dark Lady deliver us
Steady our hands, harden our hearts.
Our arms shall not tremble,
Our blades shall not falter,
For mercy is weakness and pity a sin.
"
Yes. Things had changed over the years. He too, had changed. The Keep,
and Umbrus Caelum, were both of the past, and of the future.
A slow smile traced over his lips. Handing the broom to a nearby Initiate
he began to walk away, murmuring to none in particular.
"A Storm is coming."
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 17 13:44:20 2026
Subject The Defilement of the Great Library: Spira Aversa
Rain drummed steadily against the narrow windows of Ezekyle's chamber
while candles burned low throughout the room. Their light wandered over
scattered parchment, leather journals swollen with years of notes, and
oversized sheets fastened to the stone walls. Every surface had been
claimed. Shelves bowed beneath copied passages from the Great Library. The
desk had vanished beneath open tomes and stacks of loose paper. Even the
floor had disappeared beneath maps and journals whose arrangement only
Ezekyle seemed able to follow.
Months ago he had believed organization was the answer.
His earliest journals had been divided neatly into subjects. History
occupied one shelf. Necromancy another. Enchantment another still.
Religion, philosophy, alchemy, relicseach discipline enjoyed its own careful
order.
The Great Library had quietly dismantled that certainty.
No subject remained where its scholars believed it belonged.
A military dispatch from Arkane led to correspondence between Black Robes
discussing enchantments cast upon siege engines. Those letters cited an
older dissertation concerning magical effects that endured beyond the death
of their creator. That dissertation referenced an obscure catalogue of
relics preserved beneath forgotten temples. The catalogue itself contained
annotations written generations later by priests debating whether lingering
magic possessed intent or merely echoed the will that had shaped it.
Every path crossed another.
Every shelf betrayed the labels carved above it.
Ezekyle stood before the largest wall of his chamber, quill resting
motionless in one hand.
Five great sheets dominated the stone.
Each bore only a title.
The Black Thread
The Concordance of the Soul
The Chain of Preservation
Residual Will
The Silent Interval
Nothing resembling those names existed anywhere within the Great Library.
No philosopher had written them.
No archmage had taught them.
No priest had spoken them.
They belonged to Ezekyle alone.
The first had begun almost by accident.
He had noticed that scholars writing centuries apart often described the
same phenomenon without recognizing one another's work. A king
commissioning enchanted arms. A lich preserving memory beyond death. A
shrine whose blessings lingered after its caretakers vanished. Each account
had been filed beneath a different discipline, separated by language,
culture, and purpose.
Ezekyle no longer believed they were separate.
Thin lines of black ink crossed The Black Thread, connecting names that no
historian would ever place beside one another. Hammurabi appeared there.
So did forgotten enchanters, nameless monks, dragon relics recovered from
ruined keeps, battlefield journals copied by the Balanx, and obscure
treatises that survived only because someone centuries ago had decided they
were worth preserving.
The thread they shared had never been given a name.
So he had named it himself.
The sheet beside it had grown even stranger.
The Concordance of the Soul contained no chronology at all. Priests arguing
over judgment stood beside necromancers studying spirits. Dream journals
rested beside theological debates. Accounts of possession crossed
references to resurrection, memory, identity, and the strange continuity of
consciousness. The page had become so crowded with crossings that it
resembled a spider's web more than a scholarly work.
No conclusion waited there.
Only evidence that every civilization eventually asked the same questions.
Farther along the wall hung The Chain of Preservation.
Madul's discovery of blue diamonds beneath the Sands of Sorrow occupied only
a corner of the page. The jewel itself mattered little. What followed
mattered immensely. Enchanters recorded the unusual affinity of certain
stones for retaining magical properties. Relics fashioned from similar
materials surfaced in entirely different centuries. Ancient vaults
described vessels that held power long after their makers had crumbled into
dust.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 17 13:48:49 2026
Subject The Defilement of the Great Library: asrevA aripS
Residual Will had become his most controversial work, though no one
besides Ezekyle had ever seen it.
Some enchantments behaved with unsettling purpose after their creators had
perished. Ancient wards adjusted themselves. Defensive magics altered
their responses. Constructs completed tasks centuries after receiving their
final command. Scholars explained each occurrence independently.
Ezekyle refused to.
Whatever endured beyond its creator belonged here.
Whether anyone else recognized the pattern ceased to matter.
The final sheet remained the sparsest.
The Silent Interval.
Beneath its title rested only a handful of names.
Gunnar Draugrbane.
Accounts surrounding the Great Rift.
Fragments copied from funerary rites older than recorded kingdoms.
Scattered observations concerning ghosts that retained memories impossible
for the living to verify.
The page held more empty space than ink.
It also demanded more of his attention than any other.
He suspected the answer waited somewhere beyond the shelves he had already
explored.
His newest work rested upon the desk behind him.
A blank sheet.
Across its top he had written only three words.
The First Vessel
Nothing appeared beneath them.
Not yet.
He believed every path eventually converged there.
Every relic.
Every soul.
Every enchantment that endured.
Every account of immortality.
Each thread seemed to disappear into some forgotten beginning whose name had
either been lost or never recorded at all.
He could not prove it existed.
He could only see its shadow stretching backward through history.
Ezekyle lowered his quill onto the parchment and drew another line between
two names already written upon The Black Thread. The new connection
immediately suggested three more. One line became four. Four became seven.
Soon fresh annotations crowded the margins, each citation leading toward
another volume waiting somewhere within the endless halls of the Great
Library.
He stepped back and studied the wall.
The maps no longer resembled research.
They resembled anatomy.
Anatomy of reality itself.
The Balanx had spent ages preserving every fragment they could find. Kings,
priests, dragons, philosophers, soldiers, and madmen All found equal shelter
upon their shelves. They guarded history with perfect diligence and asked
nothing of it beyond remembrance.
Ezekyle asked something else.
He wanted the shape hidden beneath it.
Somewhere beyond the shelves already marked upon his maps, another forgotten
author waited. Somewhere, another passing observation rested unnoticed in
the margin of a brittle manuscript, waiting to complete a pattern its writer
had never seen.
One day, if the pattern proved true, these names upon the wall would cease
to be Ezekyle's alone.
They would belong to the other.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Jul 18 17:51:40 2026
Subject Spira Aversa I: The Concordance of the Soul
The maps covered most of the stone between the shelves.
Several broad sheets of parchment lay side by side, held flat beneath open
books and smooth pieces of rock gathered from the tunnels below. The
largest bore a single title.
The Concordance of the Soul.
Four others rested nearby, little more than headings waiting for their turn.
Ezekyle stood among them with ink on his fingers and a quill tucked behind
one ear. Books surrounded the maps in uneven piles. Some had been left
open where he had found a passage worth copying. Others were marked with
scraps of parchment or loose feathers wedged between their pages. He
drifted from one book to another, reading a page here, a paragraph there,
before returning to the maps to add another line of ink.
Five mirror images wandered the neighboring aisles.
Each searched a different section of the shelves. One gathered histories of
dragons. Another returned with temple records copied by forgotten
priesthoods. A third disappeared among works on necromancy while the
remaining two collected memoirs, bestiaries, funeral rites, and anything
else that spoke, however briefly, of death or the soul.
They came and went without a word, laying fresh books beside the maps before
vanishing back into the endless rows.
One account described the death of the Great Red Wyrm Qevarris. The
chronicler had meant to praise Sir Gwaine and the page Vander, yet Ezekyle
found himself reading the final paragraphs over and over. Qevarris did not
simply die. The dragon's last convulsions shook the very vale in which he
fell. The chronicler thought it colorful detail. Ezekyle wondered whether
it had anything to do with the soul itself.
Another volume concerned Gunnar Draugrbane. It praised his sacrifice,
telling how his heart had sealed the Great Rift after his death. The
priests called it divine favor. Ezekyle copied the event, but not the
explanation. If the account was true, why had Gunnar's heart succeeded
where another man's would not?
A thinner volume, copied from the teachings of Suuhol, denied the gods
altogether. Its arguments were of little interest, yet it treated the soul
as something that could be observed rather than worshipped. Ezekyle placed
it beside the others instead of returning it to the pile.
He knelt beside the largest map and added another cluster of notes.
Qevarris Death accompanied by violent bodily activity beyond expectation.
Compare with other recorded dragon deaths.
Gunnar Draugrbane Heart described as singular in purpose. Determine whether
distinction belongs to the man, the soul, or later embellishment.
Suuhol Soul examined without dependence upon divine doctrine. Seek
corroboration.
He frowned, then drew a line through the final sentence.
Beneath it he wrote: Compare with writings from hostile priesthoods.
He reached for another book.
This one described the funeral rites of an order of Raije. It spoke
confidently of the war god receiving worthy souls, but offered almost
nothing about what occurred between the final breath and that divine
judgment. Ezekyle made no attempt to dispute the account. He simply noted
what the priests had neglected to observe.
Another note found its way onto the map.
Dragon deaths.
Separate firsthand accounts from sermons.
Compare duration between death and observed changes in the body.
One of the mirror images returned carrying six heavy volumes against its
chest. As it stepped across the edge of the maps, its outline shimmered and
dissolved into pale light. The books struck the stone one after another.
Ezekyle gathered them without looking up.
The first was a bestiary.
The second, a royal chronicle.
The third had no title on its spine.
He had only just opened the book when he heard the footsteps behind him.
The book fell from his hand as he turned suddenly.
|
