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Writer: Agarwood
Date Mon Aug 24 15:19:07 2026
Subject The Red Moon's Quiet
The sight filled him with disgust. Lunite paved the once temperate Arkanian
countryside. Where tall grass once stood, the corrupting decay of black oil
dripped from its blades. Where the ground was once verdant and teeming with
life, the mutating influence of the fallen moonshard's pure magick rent it all
to dust. Motes of magick that might have once inspired wonder flitted in and
out of view of the irradiated vista, like fireflies mourning the destruction
of their home.
The Priest looked out over the vista and saw companies of Drakkara Knights
erecting their tents. Clad in their black armors and supported by a goddess
that believed she owned the world, flagleaders pointed and issued orders to
their acolytes, initiates, and infantry. A flank of infantrymen were locked
in their pikes against errant golems and chimeras, the leavings of a cataclysm
delivered to Algoron by Chaos.
Storm is fortunate that Chaos left something for it to conquer, thought the
Priest to himself with a tinge of acid. Inwardly, the arboren was at a loss
for what to do. In a way, he respected how quickly Storm mobilized in pursuit
of their endeavors. Like vultures, they made an attempt to leave nothing behind.
They laid their claim, picked at bones and the carrion of a celestial body, and
all in the hopes to gain an advantage or appease their Queen.
Even vultures have their place, reflected Agarwood. This devastation lies out
and beyond what is typical for the world to recover from. Magick, not unlike a
campfire, can sooth if tended to responsibly or destroy when left unattended.
The Arkanian continent was pressed against an ember fallen from a great flame,
but surely Sebatis had taken notice. That Kwainin had glanced from his books to
note the devastation.
The arboren pressed his staff into the desolate dirt in an attempt to summon a
tree, yet his magick failed him in a most grim display. The tree bolted a meter,
illuminated by a faint hue of green. Not before long, the tree began to wither
and bow before it slumped into a pile not unlike a coil of limp rope. The green
hue replaced by a sickly red before fading away completely. The earth drank deep
of his magick.
At the moment of his awakening, Agarwood looked up to see the Red Moon All of its
complete glory. It's light washed him, nourished him, and made him feel strong
and safe. Years after his awakening, the arboren stared now at a piece of what he
once considered to be a parent or guardian figure and was saddened by what it
actually seemed. The Young Master was not here. There wasn't any word from above.
Mortals need to figure this out for themselves. Balance must figure this out for
themselves.
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Mon Aug 24 20:17:09 2026
Subject Yummy in the Tummy
There weren't any clunky echoes of heavy armored sabatons coming from
Thas while he strolled down the main hallway of Gareth Keep. He thought his
idea of a training, communicating and small combat drill wasn't too shabby.
The pages and squires would work together on following instructions, talking
and helping each other, and then finally a mock drill of firing rotten fruit
from a trebuchet. It was a great idea, pages and squires could have some
fun, nothing could go wrong, and Thas could use it to fire waffles into
Solivar's mouth while he was flying. He might even show Azadar.
He walked past the requisition room then stopped in his tracks, backed up
slowly and quietly and peeked in. Stanley was cooking. He wasn't baking
hard and thick bricks of the most bland of bland and no joy found whatsoever
in the hard tack, or better known as traveler's bread. Ol' Stanley was
cooking cooking. The smell was amazing and made Thasgerd's mouth water.
There was a soft sizzling clapping in a pan and Stan was checking something
in the oven, then moving to stir something in a pot.
"Whaaaa' ya's doin'? " The question was genuine and Thas saw Stanley tense
up for a moment then relax.
A gruff voice answered matter of fact like, "Making dinner. " Stanley
glanced over his shoulder with a towel flung over it then grabbed the only
plate that Thas had ever seen in the supply room and witnessed the birth of
Stanley's dinner.
A crisp golden brown chicken breast that Thasgerd could only believe was the
happiest and plumpest chicken to peck at the most delicious worms was
wrapped in a lattice of two of the thickest bacon strips the paladin's eyes
had seen. Then a cloud on a wooden spoon rose from the pot, the mashed
potatoes and turnips were placed with gentleness then given a pad of butter
that melted like delicate snow on a hill. Finally, glistening carrots that
could have, must have been harvested from a god, or a really good farmer
that were glazed in honey, from a colony where the colony didn't have just a
queen, but All the bees were royalty.
"'ow ya's know 'ow t' cook li'e tha'? " Surprise and drool were prominent
on Thasgerd's face.
"No one ever asked me. " Stan cut the bacon wrapped chicken in half and
slid a plate to Thasgerd.
Thas died where he stood. He saw heaven and it was filled with bacon
wrapped chicken. He felt at complete ease. Everything was at it should be
at this moment. Then the moment passed and Thas came back to the Keep. His
head was full of an idea. He'd ask Stanley to make a few more dishes and
Thas would present them to the Lord Crown and Lady Shield and the knights.
Something full of goodness, not flavorless despair, something to share, not
something to grind into a fine powder to make mortar. The best part, if
they could get the menu changed, he could share with kids and folks he saw
on the streets of the kingdoms.
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Aug 26 03:41:14 2026
Subject The Churn - Void
She had felt the accursedness of being cast out, of learning that she had
been lied to, and believed lies.
She had experienced the utter despair of hopelessness, of losing All she had
believed in, and bound her life's purpose to.
She had known fury, with a will to either survive by her own measure or burn
it All down with her fall.
She had persisted through the fire of spite and spirit, fueled by the drive
to control her fate.
To any and every length she had gone to see that what needed to be
preserved, be so. Then built on, and empowered.
To feel as wryly disappointed and hollow as she did now felt cruel in the
most capricious of ways.
Her fingers grazed slowly over the smooth glass of the silvered mirror, her
eyes following the stress lines on her own features. The steel gray,
unmoved, tempered beyond mortal measure. Void.
Her fingers clenched slowly and as wrath coiled through her, cracks wove
through the glass. The pitch they made was violently grating, satisfying,
and with a snap - the whole mirror shattered. As it crashed to the floor at
her feet, its pieces continued to shatter until nothing but glittering
grains remained.
The dream had been within. The mirror of the soul, trapped on the other
side. Lost to the void.
The purposes of the Dark Goddess, as they were bound to Algoron, embraced by
a High Priestess less preferred than a High Priest, remained steady and
certain at least.
The shroud of malevolent umbra thickened around her as she stepped out of
the secluded cottage, leaving the glimmering shards behind, and set her flat
gaze on the forest out back. The umbra continued to gather, swirling around
her, and as it did so, the clouds thickened above.
Her pride had been trampled, dreams dashed. She considered this as she
lifted her face to the first cold drops of rain that fell from above. The
gray was growing darker as the storm congealed, as the umbra empowered it.
She could feel Levinox where it stood, even so far away, feeding into her
draw.
She had been challenged. Did she care?
As the clouds began to spin, lightning snapped through them and thunder
cracked like a cane across flesh.
No. Not really.
There would be a price to pay though.
Writer: Rundelhous
Date Wed Aug 26 07:34:20 2026
Subject The Pilgrimage : Cold Knights and Warm Hearts
Rundelhous stood outside of the temple of Nadrik on Icewall, sipping on
some hot mixture of cardamom tea and coffee. The sun had begun to fall
behind the mountains and the crisp air began to chill in earnest. He made a
mental note to pack on warmer clothing for this leg of the pilgrimage and
took another drink. A few of the pilgrims milled about outside, talking
about the weather, the speech from the candle lighting, the steps ahead, and
the path from behind.
He pulled out a few wrapped fried katayef's from his pouch and walked over
to the group, smiling as he offered them out, then pulling out small copper
cups and pouring the hot drink out for those in the small circle.
'These are gifts of the Copper Kettle in New Thalos. Do we have any
Thalosian's here? '
One by one they looked around and shook their heads. Chuckling, Rundelhous
was about to say something when a dark eyed woman spoke up, a balaclava
wrapped around her head. 'I believe All the Thalosian's are inside staying
where it is warm. '
Rundelhous chuckled again and nodded, 'Aye. I believe they are, indeed. I
would be joining them soon, I think. But first, to enjoy this beautiful
night that we have been given. It is oft said that the night is the
Darknesses domain. That they can, and will, do what they want within it,
that there is no light in the night. '
He looked up at the clear sky and shook his head, 'No, no. You see. Even
in the night sky there are uncountable stars. There is no purity of a
voidless sky. Just as the we lit our candles and felt the Light and warmth,
the Hope passed around. So too can you find it in the stars. Each one
shining as bright as they can against the Darkness. Each one keeping the
dark at bay. '
He looked back down at those around him and smiled widely. 'So too, like
the candles and suns and stars, do we radiate that warmth and hope.
Galvanized by the Love of the Light Mother, we can stand ready against the
Darkness trusting in the others beside us. '
'Love is underrated when it comes to the Darkness and is seen as a weakness.
That is our strength. Our Love for each other and our willingness to do
what needs to be done to protect our neighbors, our friends, and our
families. So hold fast to that feeling you felt during the candle lighting.
Steel your hearts against the Darkness, not with hate, but with Love. '
He stayed with the group, chatting and sharing stories as the White Moon
rose above the skyline, full and shining. Soon enough the crowd left for
the warmer environment of the temple, but Rundelhous stayed outside and
watched the coming and goings of the road. Not out of fear for an attack,
but out of the love he had for those inside.
Love, not fear.
Smiling he took out another fried katayef and began chewing on it. Warmth
radiating through his chest.
Writer: Agarwood
Date Wed Aug 26 12:21:56 2026
Subject Moonshard's Impact: The Wavering of Wards
Students of the Hidden Academy of Magick filed their way down the branching
wings, filling the sandstone corridors of the structure with the footsteps of
people eager to learn and be on time. At the top of sunrise every day, the
daybreak above casts down a warm amber light that illuminates the foyer. The
students enjoyed congregating in the foyer beneath the watch of Sebatis's
statue. They would jape and carry on in their games, trade ideas and thoughts
about classes they were excused from, and share stories about their families
and their upbringings. The temple attracted people of All ages and persuasions
associated with the balance. Adults and young children mingled in their studies.
The adults shared their wealth of experience, while the young brought their
unobfuscated perspective and fresh mind to challenge established thought.
In this exchange of the new and old, established and burgeoning, the academy
sought the open flow of learning and ideas. And it was received.
"Mana consciousness theorhetics begins in five minutes," a gnome's voice echoed
throughout the foyer. Professor Barth, the students called him. The gnome didn't
appreciate people's attempts at pronouncing the full length of his name, so he
begrudgingly accepted the nickname since it caused him less annoyance. He was a
short gnome man with tan skin and the faintest lick of a Thalosian accent. He
was dressed a firm and professionally tailored grey tweed suit with the faintest
hint of a hound's tooth micropattern. Slicked back brown hair exposed his pointy
ears and his middle-aged gnomish face still bore some youthful pluck. The gnome
found himself this position while on holiday from Gahboom. While less machine
inclined than typical Gahboomfolk, he was a learned mage with an appreciation for
magick as an observed phenomenon. Plus, the regional food was wonderful.
"Five minutes, stud-", Barth began to shout, but was interrupted. A tremor and a
distant, faint explosion rattled the temple underneath his feet. The foyer went
quiet and All in attendance stared up at the sky that peeked through the canyon
overhead. Dribbles of fine sandstone and dust rained down against the rattling.
The Professor looked up at the sky and stared in disbelief as the illusory ward
that blended the academy into the canyon behind the vista of the Indigo Plunge
became visible. First, it became an oil sheen curtain held suspended in the air.
It then turned a faint red as the sheen began to waver and race as if influenced
by the desert wind. With a near silent hum, the veil fell as if it were a bubble
that popped. Motes of magick floated from above and beyond the falls until the
bonds and arcane command that held them in this world faded away. With the veil
gone, a spray from the Indigo Plunge began to waft into the foyer room. The spray
soaked everyone in the foyer, causing a ruckus and making everyone retreat deeper
into the corridors and classrooms.
What the devil just happened, thought Barth to himself.
"Professor! The wards were dispelled! Something has forced them to shift out of
phase!" barked an advanced mage from the entrance to the foyer. He was soaked to
the bone.
How. "Those wards took MONTHS to synthesize and erect! Blast it all. What the
hell is happening out there?!" Barth shouted in open annoyance.
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Aug 28 15:34:09 2026
Subject The Churn - Riptide
The map of Algoron spread out before her, filled with markers indicating
the placement of strategic troops or places of import. Towns, kingdoms,
keeps, the moonfall, the fissure, the rip, the aurora, each of the divine
landmarks.
Provinces were delineated by lines and indications of plains, mountains,
forests, deserts, or coastlines. Even the seas were marked - the tower that
had risen off the coast of Icewall, the orbs that had taken root at the base
of the Red Tower, ports and shipping lanes were made apparent, and anywhere
the threat of Chaos was thought to linger took precedence.
Above, on the wall, stretched the broken Tapestry.
She took it All in with a measured... Nothing. A steely gray gaze lay flat
among unmoved features.
Where once she had seen something here, now - little more than void existed.
Under normal circumstances it wouldn't have phased her, but nothing felt
normal.
There were no wings to cast the shadow she had foreseen and the darkmoon's
shroud fell over petrifaction. The umbra slipped between her fingers like
mud, to fall on nothing because nothing was there. It was All white.
She didn't need to move, her will lashed out and with a viciousness that
could barely be contained beneath the mask, the map cracked and the pieces
once spread across its surface were flung through the room. Many shattering
as they impacted walls.
None of it mattered. There was no way to assure any of what she had sought
to build.
The muscles along her jaw clenched, her pale features otherwise registering
none of the emotion that was slipping through. There wasn't any reason to
reign it in here but her training compelled her to hold fast. She wondered,
idly, how long the frustration would kindle before it ran dry and the same
amount of nothing took the place of her fire.
She was in the riptide and there was no controlling it. It would do what it
willed and any caught in its current would be subject to its unpredictable
drag. She wasn't sure she cared either. She was a stopgap at best. Her
future fixed, an empty destiny before her.
She shook her head and turned to gaze out on the umbral atmosphere
encompassing the temple.
She did not have that luxury. Every choice she made, or didn't make, had
consequences she would have to reap alone.
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 16:50:14 2026
Subject KRAP: "A Modest Proposal"
It began, as most problems do, with good intentions.
The Gogothath enclave was Piknim Cracklespark's initial answer to a question
nobody had bothered to ask - what does Verminasia do with its kender? The
answer, historically, had been simple and unkind. King Isadore, who had
looked at a young would-be witch, with her bright eyes and big smile, and
decided to ban their kind outright. He had once referred to her as a
cockroach, she recalled bitterly. King Marcaus had instructed the
peacekeepers to attack kender on sight, which the peacekeepers had done with
characteristic Markonian enthusiasm. The policy across most of Verminasia's
history had been, in essence, extermination by inconvenience - make the city
hostile enough and the kender will wander elsewhere.
Piknim had built something different. Gogothath, the principal county of
her Archduchy, had been cultivated deliberately into a place where kender
could belong - not as pests to be managed but as potential resources
siphoned from other kingdoms. A racial enclave. A haven with purpose. The
logic was sound and the results had been, by most measures, positive. Teven
Wifflenut of the Verminasian Queensguard was proof enough of that.
The problem, she now recognized with the particular clarity of someone who
had made a very specific kind of mistake, was that kender wander.
They had wandered into Gogothath as intended, trickling in from All corners
of Arkania. They had also wandered out of it, escaping her notice, seeping
into the city proper, the back-alleys and bridge underpasses and parks, and
into several establishments that had lodged formal complaints. They had
brought their bright eyes and their big smiles and their tendency to eye
everything within reach into a city that had spent centuries cultivating an
atmosphere of elegance, decadence, and dark menace - and they were ruining
it.
Piknim stood upon the palace balcony, her gaze tracking an occasional streak
of color that clearly did not belong, and thought about Isadore. She
thought about Marcaus. She thought about the word cockroach and how she had
carried it like a stone for years and what it had cost her to become
something that word could not stick to.
Then she went back to the throne room, where a throng of counselors were
waiting, and drafted the Kender Relocation and Accountability Plan.
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 17:13:31 2026
Subject KRAP: "We'll call them Fun Camps"
The fundamental challenge of kender management, Piknim had concluded
after considerable reflection, was found in the middle. Very young kender
did not yet wander - they lacked the maturity and survival skills to do so.
Elderly kender, their wanderlust spent, had settled into something
approaching stillness. It was the middle - the bright-eyed, light-fingered,
perpetually curious middle - that caused problems. KRAP would therefore
focus its attentions precisely there.
Article I: Age Brackets. Kender below the age of wanderlust onset and above
the age of wanderlust conclusion were to be left in peace. They were not
the problem. They were, in fact, the solution - more on this presently.
Article II: The Sorting. Kender of wanderlust age arriving in Verminasia
proper were to be assessed and sorted into one of three categories.
Category A: The Afflicted. Kender displaying signs of moroseness, unusual
introspection, darkness of temperament, or what the common folk might call
being a little bit wrong were to be identified immediately and redirected to
Kendermoor Keep for further evaluation. These were Drakkara's business.
These were the Darkfinder's business. These were, in All likelihood, the
ones who had been waiting without knowing what they were waiting for.
Category B: The Compliant. A small, carefully curated number of kender
demonstrating above-average discipline, usefulness, or an unusual
willingness to do what they were told without immediately asking seventeen
questions about why - these could be retained as Camp Counselors and support
staff. There would not be many of them. This was fine.
Category C: The Remainder. One might accurately refer to them as normal
kender.
Article III: Disposition of the Remainder. Fledglings of the Moonlily
Circle were working overtime on a solution.
The cauldron had a tendency to produce magic of the most volatile sort,
whether a witch wanted it or not, that could polymorph people into frogs.
Some of the more complicated spell recipes were All but guaranteed to
produce a prodigious cloud of pink smoke that could polymorph several people
at once. This was, in controlled quantities, a useful property.
The Remainder would be processed in small batches through designated
chambers - cheerfully appointed, the Witch-Queen had insisted, with adequate
ventilation and light refreshments - and released thereafter into the
marshlands that dominated Gogothath, where the climate was agreeable and the
insect population robust. The transformation was temporary. Probably.
Hopefully not.
Article IV: The Resulting Culture. Gogothath would, under the auspice of
KRAP, develop a demographic profile unlike any other settlement on Algoron -
very young kender in the care of very old kender, with a sparse, curated
population of the Afflicted and the Compliant occupying the middle years.
It was, Piknim acknowledged, unusual. It was also functional, intentional,
and considerably tidier than the alternative.
She had not invented this problem. She had, however, caused it, and causing
it had put her in the uncomfortable position of implementing a solution that
Isadore and Marcaus would have recognized immediately and approved of
wholeheartedly, which was a thought she chose not to dwell on for longer
than was strictly necessary.
The kender in the streets were not cockroaches.
They were, however, somebody else's problem now.
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 17:18:12 2026
Subject KRAP: "My First Day at Camp"
The kender girl had gotten All dressed up for it.
That was the thing Piknim noticed first - the pink ribbon, the cleaned
boots, the little jacket with the brass buttons done up to the collar
despite the warmth of the afternoon. Someone had told her this was an
occasion. She had believed them and prepared accordingly, and now she stood
third in a row of six kender children recently arrived from the Great Forest
road, her smile beautifully bright and hopeful and pointed directly at the
Darkfinder moving slowly down the line.
Piknim moved the way she always moved in these moments - unhurried, affable,
a grandmother inspecting her grandchildren with fond and slightly terrifying
attention. She called them her little tadpoles. She pressed a small
trinket or tasty treat into their little hands. She straightened a collar
here. Tucked a topknot there. Inquired of a name and immediately forgot
it. The first two children passed muster for Category B - reasonably
compliant, useful-looking, already trying to pick her pocket which showed
initiative at least.
The girl was next.
Piknim looked at her. The pink ribbon. The bright eyes. The brass
buttons. The beautifully bright smile that had not wavered once since she'd
arrived.
She was perfect. She was exactly what a kender should be at this age. She
was comprehensively useless for a Darkfinder's purposes. Category C for
sure.
Piknim moved past her.
The boy at the end of the line was staring at the ground. Not in the way of
a shy child - in the way of a child who had found something off in the
distance worth looking at that nobody else could see. His topknot listed
slightly sideways. His delicately pointed ears twitched. When he looked up
and met Piknim's eyes there was something there that she recognized the way
you recognize your own reflection in a dark window.
She smiled. It was her widest smile, which was also her most unsettling
one.
She reached out and booped his nose with a single sharpened fingernail.
"Found you."
A cloak of raven feathers was brought forward and draped around his narrow
shoulders. He looked down at it with the expression of someone who did not
yet understand what was happening but suspected it was going to be
interesting.
His parents were compensated. The others were thanked and redirected toward
the appropriate processing facilities - cheerfully appointed, adequate
ventilation - and the afternoon's business was concluded.
The kender girl with the pink ribbon lingered at the back of the line for a
long moment, watching the gates of Kendermoor Keep close behind the boy with
the odd stare and the raven-feather cloak.
She was still smiling. But it was a smaller smile than it had been before.
She wondered what was in there.
Writer: Carrionmaw
Date Sat Aug 29 20:19:01 2026
Subject The Drawing of the Umbratide
The vast plane beyond the Rip stretched on without end, and the wyrm was
drawn onward through the pull of the Umbratide.
There was no wind here, nor current in any sense the living world would have
understood. The darkness moved beneath him and around him, bearing him
forward through a vastness that seemed to have neither direction nor end.
His wings beat against it out of instinct, but the effort was meaningless.
The Umbratide had already taken him.
And somewhere beyond it, something waited.
At first it was little more than a disturbance in the dark. A point of
pallid light, impossibly distant, appearing and vanishing as the tides of
shadow folded over one another. Too far apart to be one thing, yet too
closely bound to be two. He could not name it. Not yet, or it would slip
away again and the drawing would have to begin anew.
The wyrm angled toward the lights, but they withdrew into the distance,
remaining always beyond the reach of his sight. Each time he gained upon
them, the darkness seemed to lengthen between them. Each time he thought
them lost, they returned fainter than before, but somehow more certain.
He had known the Umbratide as a thing that consumed, and he had witnessed it
swallow armies, erase roads, strip flesh from bone and the very memory of
the dead. It had carried the remnants of the fallen into depths from which
nothing returned.
But this was different. The darkness ahead was not empty.
Around him, the currents twisted into impossible formations. Black waves
rose without breaking, folding upon themselves like great sheets of night.
Fragments of crystalline arcana drifted past, catching the distant light
before disappearing once more into the gloom. Each flash revealed something
for an instant: a ridge of unfamiliar stone, a shape moving far below, the
remnants of some ancient structure that seemed to have existed before there
had been anyone to remember building it.
Then darkness rushed past again like a riptide, and behind him, the path was
gone and there would be no returning by the way he had come.
The thought did not trouble him. The old world had already passed beneath
the tide. What remained of it was scattered behind him in broken armor,
abandoned weapons, ashes, names, and the fading cries of those who believed
themselves strong enough to withstand the Umbra's promise. Even the
threshold had become distant now, little more than a memory pressed into the
darkness.
Whatever awaited beyond the expanse could not be reached by returning to
what had been. And even if it could, why would he choose to? He followed
the flame, even though it remained impossibly far away. And though he could
not reach it, there were still distances beyond distance between his wings
and where he witnessed its becoming.
It was a thing so subtle that the wyrm almost mistook it for another
movement of the tide, a thread of pale illumination spanning the distance
between the dyad.
Writer: Symantha
Date Sat Aug 29 22:39:33 2026
Subject The Churn - Brutal Truths
The yearning for... Something had brought her here. Into the deeps of
Umbrus Caelum.
She had felt the pull of the Umbrastone and almost greater yet, the
moonwell. The living dusk rippled within its circular fissure, never at
rest, and as she stood at its edge its dark currents shimmered outward to
encompass her robed form.
...consume...
She was prepared, as ever, for the ravenous presence of the Umbrastone. It
skirted the periphery of her mind, ever seeking, and in the center of her
right palm where it had branded her she felt its pulse like an abyssal
heartbeat.
They were bound. At least, until it chose another.
Something stirred within the bleak nothing, but only enough to recognize
pain. The pain she had been striving for. There was purpose in it, even if
it was only to recognize that she was a source of energy for it. It would
consume her if she let it - the memory of the stone burning through body and
soul, blood pouring from her flesh, of dying, had never faded in intensity.
She had believed in her own destiny then though. There had been reasons to
let vengeance and unbending determination empower her will to survive.
Gritting her teeth, she reached out for the stone and embraced the glorious
heat of its agony as it bit into her palm again, as it fit to the burn scar
as surely as if it were a part of her.
Sharp spikes of pain shot through her arm, to strike at her heart in time
with its own pulses, and its furious hunger filled her - filling that empty
place where destiny had once sat.
She 'saw' then, and it was utterly ruthless.
There had never been a crown. Not for her.
She saw herself as the speck she was among so many other specks. Only as
useful as she made herself. Promised nothing.
The path forward had never been a path. She had wandered in the dark until
she had become the last. The volunteer tomato.
A chosen vessel, to serve the means of Goddess and Stone, but merely a
vessel. Time mattered not at All to things like the Umbrastone or Gods and
mortal lives snuffed as fast as they rose.
Destiny was for Gods, not specks.
When her vision cleared, she was still holding the stone, her pulse in tune
with it. There was harsh, bitter, wry amusement. Was it better or worse
that for the first several years after she had picked up the stone, she had
firmly believed she had been rejected? It made her choices simpler,
perhaps, and her empty gaze settled on the moonwell. It swirled, shimmered,
and a violently unsettled tidalscape of the Umbra came into view.
She still was what and who she had become, even if the fantasy had been torn
away and the barren truth instilled. A High Priestess, perhaps the last of
her ilk, blessed - or cursed - with umbral sight, and she had one absolute
job of which she had been reminded and berated for in the same breath.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Tue Sep 1 16:52:00 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: Cold Winds, Cold Hearts, the End Nears
'Out of the way human. ' snorted a large red furred Minotaur
as he walked northwards to the Keep of Ganth.
Other minotaurs filed north and south rocking the old man too and fro. Some
did not even look in his direction as they went about their business. Then
a wagon passed nearly running him over as he fell into a muddy puddle on the
side of the road.
He was tired, cold, and while the Empress had welcomed them into the
kingdom, the Minotaurs looked upon the other races with little interest. As
he laid in the muck for a moment, a large furry hand came into view offering
him help to stand again.
'Let me help you up, elder. You seem to have fallen. The streets
are not friendly to those smaller than our younglings. ' offered the black
furred minotaur.
'Most kind of you, sir. I am Geirhart of Althainia making my way
to the Chapel of Nadrik to the north. Might you help me on my way? I
believe I won't be jostled so much in your company. ' smiled the old man.
They walked a bit in silence, the large form of the Minotaur kept the others
at bay so that he had a hole in the crowd he could move through. Soon they
came upon the High Temple of Ganth.
'This is where I must leave you, Elder. May Nadrik and the monks
within see to your needs. There are some of us that welcome the pilgrims
and wish them to learn about our people. '
With that, the unnamed minotaur walked out into the sea of other Ganthians.
Geirhart turned and began wiping some of the mud and snow from his robes.
He passed by a small group of elvish pilgrims that nodded to him as they
went about their business. He walked down the hallway towards the Chapel of
Nadrik and its custodian the White Cleric.
Writer: Crelius
Date Wed Sep 2 19:42:24 2026
Subject Of Blood and Purpose - Stormheart
Atop a cliff on the outskirts of the Vallenwood, overlooking the perilous
northern seas, rose a solitary pillar. An obelisk hewn from the vengeful
breath of a goddess scorned. It was a place of power, sacred to the
ministers of the wood, whose faith had evolved from protective isolation
into something altogether more retributive. Like the deity they worshipped,
their stewardship of the natural order had been galvanized by the stormborn
wrath of a newly awakened domain.
A congregation had commenced beneath the obelisk, led by a druid-priestess,
an elven Stormseer whose exhortations tempered the uncertain hearts of the
gathered worshippers. Her sharp, aquiline features were cut in stern piety
beneath a weathered hood. Her words seemed to mingle with the wet, biting
wind that savaged the seaward cliff, carrying across those assembled before
her.
Those who had come were hardened souls of no singular creed or race, a
departure from the purist doctrine so often observed by the clergy of
Zandreya. It was a sparse gathering of humans, elves, and the wayward
bloodlines between. But a common thread bound them. Through each ran the
cold salt of the seafarer. They had come seeking the goddess's blessing and
safe passage across the tenebrous seas in these perilous times.
The tenor of the procession was broken by the rising sound of a thousand
voices crying out in torment. The source of that terrible lament drew the
immediate attention of the holy cadre before the pillar.
The air itself began to tear and rend apart, as if reality were being flayed
alive. A thin vertical line formed, extending from both ends like a scalpel
slicing through sinew. Their edges crackled with the coruscating false
light of the warp, the fabric of the material world fraying and distorting
around it. The line splayed open, widening into a gaping, circular gateway.
The portal resembled a profane vanity, roiling with raw, entropic force.
Its circumference pulsating and mutating, manifesting eight aberrant points
from the billowing non-matter.
A being emerged, cloaked in shadow and ruin. An armored boot planted upon
the sodden earth, its touch a pox upon the ground, seeding a decrepit
blackness as if the very realm rejected the figures intrusion. Its form
materialized further through the wailing portal, armor figured and wreathed
in an aura of tangible malignancy. Tendrils of fleshy roots invaded blue
dragonscale plates, interwoven like oily ropes and fused into a horrific and
symbiotic raiment. The growth began at his throat and crept upward,
gripping the pallid flesh of his face like an inverted crown. His single
baleful eye glared across those gathered, fixed upon the minister as he
advanced.
The gathered worshippers looked on in horror and parted before him, while
the priestess behind the pulpit raised a hand in defiance, clutching a crude
holy symbol of the storm goddess in her fist. The hood of her cloak was
thrown back by the rising gale as her gaze met the interloper. She wasted
no breath on admonishment or condemnation. Instead, she called upon the
tumultuous heavens, and they answered with the ire of a vengeful god.
Argent bolts of cerulean lightning tore down upon the advancing warrior,
engulfing him in a blinding concussion of thunder.
Writer: Crelius
Date Wed Sep 2 19:52:34 2026
Subject Of Blood and Purpose - Stormheart (continued)
Dismay wracked the druidess countenance as she watched the summoned
lightning ground itself harmlessly against the remnants of his blue-scaled
armor. As he reached the obelisk, a figure broke suddenly from the crowd.
Cloaked and otherwise unremarkable, the flash of metal and a blur of
startling alacrity swiftly dispelled that fallacy.
The stranger struck with adder like speed, twin blades dancing with
unnatural grace as they plunged into the knights back in rapid succession.
Blackened fluid spurted from the wounds, spattering the rocky ground, where
it hissed and smoldered like spilled acid.
As the assailant swept in for another strike, something unexpected occurred.
The diseased fronds entwined about the warriors armor writhed suddenly to
life. Through some profane amalgamation, flesh and armor transmogrified
together, twisting into the semblance of a grotesque aegis wrought from
fused metal, sinew, and corrupted flesh. The knight wheeled and brought the
flesh forged shield crashing against his attacker. The impact shattered one
of the strangers blades and carried through with brutal force, striking the
cloaked warrior hard enough to hurl them sprawling into the mud, senseless.
A rictus grin crept across the knights deathmask features as he uttered a
single word, rising from his throat like tar bubbling from a pit, "Kyorl.
"
After the briefest moment of satisfaction, he returned his gaze to the
obelisk where the priestess had stood. In that same instant, she crossed
the distance between them with feline stealth, driving a dagger deep into
the mans abdomen. Before she could withdraw, a metallic fist clamped around
her wrist. The knight wrenched her close and brought the hammer of his
gauntlet down against her temple. She crumpled to the earth beside her
would be protector, bereft of consciousness.
The storm raged overhead as the Knight of Ruin gripped both elves by their
scalps and dragged their still forms across the rocks and mud. Trails of
red and black blood followed in his wake, mingling with the rainwater
pooling beneath his feet. Lightning flashed, throwing his pale features
into stark relief. The mutilated hollow of his missing eye stood plainly
revealed to those who remained. The flesh carved into an eight-pointed star
where the eye had once resided.
He hauled his captives into the wailing portal, paying little heed to those
who still dared remain. Then the warp rift folded shut behind him, and he
was gone, leaving only bloody tracks in his passing.
Writer: Justian
Date Thu Sep 3 23:38:07 2026
Subject The Tree Made of Horn: The First Blood I
The fountains low whisper carried through the quiet hall. Nearby, the
tree made of horn stood beneath Malachives golden image. Light scarred its
bloody bark. The pale wounds crossed the horn where blood had long seeped
from within, and the stone bowl at its roots waited to receive each slow
drop.
Waaaghs declaration said the tree had begun to grow again. Blood of any
kind might feed it, though blood carrying potent energies was to be sought
above All others.
Justian came before the tree alone.
He did not immediately draw his athame. His attention remained upon the
injuries left by Light and the blood that continued to ooze around them.
The light-colored scars across the tree briefly darkened, as though the horn
beneath them were healing. Justian watched the marks closely. He had seen
them change before, but whether the wounded horn was truly mending he could
not say.
A faint warmth radiated from the tree, then vanished before he could be
certain it had been there.
He remained where he was, pondering the feeling. One hand rose slightly
before settling again at his side. For a while he did nothing.
Eventually, his thoughts returned to Waaaghs declaration and the blood he
had come to give. Before calling others to the work, he would measure his
own part in it against the Verities.
"First: Suffering exists."
Light had passed across the horn and left injury behind. The brief
darkening of the scars did not erase the blood still seeping from the bark.
Justian drew his veined hornwood-arcanium athameand placed its edge against
his palm.
"No one who calls another to bleed should place himself beyond the wound."
The blade crossed his flesh.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Thu Sep 3 23:42:18 2026
Subject The Tree Made of Horn: The First Blood II
Blood welled from the cut and ran between his fingers. Justian pressed
his opened palm against the bloody bark. Fresh blood spread beneath his
hand and mingled with what already flowed down the horn.
"Second: Suffering has a cause. The false gods and the order they have
made." Justian kept his hand against the tree.
"Their order calls submission peace. Whatever refuses its place must be
corrected, cleansed, or destroyed."
His gaze followed the injuries across the horn.
"Light touched you and left this behind. Here is the truth beneath their
promise of order."
To Justian, feeding the tree made of horn was a way to sustain what their
order had sought to destroy. He could not yet know what would come. He
knew why he wished to help it continue.
"Third: The End is their death."
Blood continued to gather beneath his palm.
"The shedding of blood is not the End. Neither is your growth. The
strength gathered here must be turned against those who bound this world
beneath them."
Justian withdrew his hand. His blood remained upon the tree, slowly joining
what already flowed down the horned bark.
The creatures dwelling around the Red Moons impact would be his first
quarry. Waaagh had called for blood bearing potent energies. Justian would
seek it among the things that inhabited that ruin. He would hunt them,
gather their blood, and return it to the tree made of horn.
Others within Chaos would be called to join the work. He would explain
where he intended to hunt and why he believed the offerings would further
their purpose. Each would choose whether to take up this hunt or their own.
"Fourth: The Path is Chaos."
"The Path begins when truth demands action. Today, I give what is mine.
Soon, we shall bring the wound of the Red Moon."
Justian tightly gripped his slashed palm and stepped back. His gaze
returned to the light-colored scars. Their brief darkening and the
uncertain warmth remained in his thoughts, but he claimed neither as an
answer to the offering he had made afterward.
The stone bowl received the mingled blood at its roots.
The tree bled first.
Justian answered.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Fri Sep 4 12:41:14 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: Cold Winds, Cold Hearts, the End Nears ( 2 )
'Have some tea, Abbott. It looks like you had quite the time in the
streets of the Empire. ' offered the White Cleric as Geirhart entered the
spartan office of the minotaur.
'Thank you, Elder. Your hospitality is very kind. ' smiled the old priest.
Geirhart takes a seat in a chair built for a minotaur and holds the tea with
both hands. Sitting in silence, the White Cleric begins to speak.
'Icewall has not been without loss while the other continents continued
their wars. After the War of the Black Moon, many mourned the loss of
Mencius while also rejoicing at the return of Nadrik. Was there any other
kingdom or clan that could claim such a division of faith?
When Nadrik ascended the stair, I was hopeful. Yet a third of our trinity
remained dead. Where was the hope for the Mencians? Their Rage had no
place to go. Then, recently when Raije was hurt, the faith of our people
was wounded once more. It has been a battle and a loss that no Minotaur
knows how to deal with. '
The old man listens, his grey eyes warm and compassionate as he blows softly
on his drink allowing the White Cleric to speak more.
'We are a warrior people, we face our problems with steel and grit. We yell
our war cries to our enemies to make them fear us. Yet who do we yell at to
heal a god? Who do we battle to let him know we are here? The Empire has
no reaction to being impotent. It has no method with which to react. So
our people grow closed, hardened, and I have seen in their eyes the very
shadow of defeat. With the ascent of our Empress, I am hopeful that a woman
of faith can find that way forward. '
Geirhart nods slightly taking a sip he responds, 'The Light has been much
the same. We grasp at ideas to help us move forward unsure if this is the
right way. We know we should be doing more but we walk in circles. I think
we have more in common perhaps than we think. '
The White Cleric grasps a cub and lifts it in his large hand, 'To shared
loss and shared confusion then, Abbott. '
Geirhart lifts his mug of tea in response and then, both sipping, they sit
in the warmth of the room silent and thoughtful.
Writer: Qinrathaz
Date Sun Sep 6 11:37:46 2026
Subject An Entirely Unreasonable Turtle 1 of 2
There were, Qinrathaz had decided, two ways to learn where a magical
portal went. The First was to ask somebody. The second was considerably
more interesting. Where
At the time, Qin had not yet acquired the map that would eventually make the
guesswork significantly easier. What he possessed instead was a small
crystal dragon's natural curiosity, and the absolute certainty that
mysterious portals had obviously been placed in the Dragon Vale so that
someone would go through them. Otherwise they would simply have been walls.
Qin studied it from one side. He leaned his narrow head left. Then right.
Blue-white facets caught the Vale's strange light as he peered into magic
that provided no helpful hints. He stepped through. The world changed at
once.
The cool, sacred quiet of the Vale gave way to salt, water, stone, and the
distant restless sounds of the sea. The air tasted different. The sounds
were different. Even the winds had new and interesting smells. Qinrathaz
loved it immediately. He proceeded with All the caution appropriate to an
expedition into wholly unknown territory. Which was to say, very little.
There was too much to inspect.
Strange passages invited investigation. Living things moved in and around
the water, and every one of them represented something Qin had not seen
before. A sensible explorer might have begun by scanning the area for
predators. Qin began by wandering aimlessly. This was his first mistake.
His second involved a turtle.
Later, when telling the story, Qin would identify the creature only by
species. This was unfair to turtles generally but entirely fair to this one
specifically. It looked, at first, uncomplicated. A shell. Four legs. A
head. A tail an No wings. Nothing about this arrangement suggested a
serious threat to dragonkind.
Qin approached and the turtle objected.
There are many dignified accounts in the histories of Algoron concerning
battles between dragons and their enemies. They speak of fire crossing the
heavens, claws splitting armor, terrible magic, wings blotting out the sun,
and heroes standing against creatures older than kingdoms.
This was not one of those accounts.
Writer: Qinrathaz
Date Sun Sep 6 11:45:23 2026
Subject An Entirely Unreasonable Turtle 2 of 2
The turtle lunged. Qin sprang backward with a startled hiss, wings
flaring. Again it came at him. The little crystal dragon stared at it.
The turtle stared back with the serene confidence of a creature that had
apparently awakened that morning prepared to fight a dragon. Qin considered
this extremely presumptuous. He circled and it turned. He darted left and
right, its head followed. He tried as many tactics as he could in his
panic. The turtle remained committed to hostilities. For a creature
burdened with an entire house upon its back, it proved distressingly
effective at keeping the dangerous end pointed toward him.
Qinrathaz was a dragon. A young dragon, certainly. A small dragon,
temporarily. Still a dragon. This alone should have settled matters. It
did not. A third exchange convinced Qin that continuing to prove his
superiority to an animal incapable of appreciating the distinction was a
poor use of his afternoon. Qinrathaz retreated. The turtle, having
successfully defended whatever principle turtles defended, did not
apologize.
He looked behind him. Nothing pursued. He looked around. Then he
discovered the more serious problem. He had been so interested in
everything else that the route back was no longer immediately obvious. That
quiet realization did what the turtle had failed to do. It made him stop
moving.
The Sea Castle was suddenly less a collection of fascinating new things and
more a collection of fascinating new things in which he might become
inconveniently lost or gods forbid attacked again. It was time to leave.
Once back within the Vale, he turned around and regarded the portal for a
long moment. He had learned several things. The first was that portals
went to interesting places. The second was that interesting places
contained things that objected to dragons.
Much later, Solivar listened as Qin told the story of his travels into the
wrong portal, and his misadventure with a turtle.
"Vicious thing," Qin finished.
Solivar bobbed his head.
"The Sea Castle, yes."
There was something deeply unsatisfying about the ease with which the older
brass dragon said this. Then Solivar offered him a map given by a Gold,
showing where the Vale's pathways led. Qinrathaz hopped. Actually hopped.
"Thank you!" Qinrathaz chirped.
Solivar explained that even he had spent much of his dragonhood uncertain
where several portals went. Qin considered the map, considered the Sea
Castle, and considered one particular resident of the Sea Castle whose
viciousness had not been adequately documented. This did not mean Qin
intended to stop exploring.
Qintathaz glanced back at the portal one last time before walking away.
Somewhere beyond, an entirely unreasonable turtle remained undefeated.
Qinrathaz considered the matter unresolved.
Writer: Aothien
Date Mon Sep 7 13:19:11 2026
Subject The passing of flyers ( Pilgrimage )
Aothien sat in his chair, rocking back and forth. His heavy dragonscale
helmet sat in front of him, the umbral lenses staring into his pupilless
white eyes. If All was going according to plan, everything should be
happening right now, he thought. This plan was not as flashy as the last,
and probably not as impactful, but the seeds of fear and doubt must continue
to grow. A cold smirk slowly formed on Aothiens face as he brought his
hands together.
On the continent of Icewall, things were bustling. The Pilgrims had
gathered about as Ganth prepared to receive them. Four half elves, dressed
in ragged clothing spread out, each holding a rather large stack of papers.
They jumped up and down, speaking with fiery passion as they tried to hand
the papers to any and All that would talk and receive them. They moved like
flashfire through the crowds, darting in and out of various groups,
attaching the papers to poles, buildings, anything they could. And within
minutes, perhaps 5.. At most 15, they were gone. Flyers seen everywhere,
from the trash on the ground to the peoples hands and plastered on wells.
Aothien opened his eyes after picturing what had happened, and picked up his
own copy of the flyer.
"Tired of spending days and nights in the cold? Eating gruel while the
priests, knights and lords eat hot beef and drink hot wine? Are you done
suffering being a tool for the gains of others while you struggle to stay
warm?"
"This is not Love, this is not Honor or Goodness. This is just
exploitation, as it's always been. Do not listen to the lies."
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