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Writer: Balteus
Date Tue Jun 23 09:33:48 2026
Subject The Cream Rises to the Top
A gnome with parchment and quill hurries alongside the battered minotaur.
Balteus! Any thoughts on your debut in the fray?"
NO.
Is it true Maddox body-slammed you through a merchant cart?
Balteus scowls.
BALTEUS WAS WINNING RIGHT UP UNTIL THAT PART!
The gnome nods.
I see.
WITNESS IT YOURSELF NEXT TIME!
They continue down the street.
Witnesses say Zarithax threw you into a fountain.
THAT FOUNTAIN WAS CLEARLY BIASED.
The gnome pauses.
...the fountain?
YOU HEARD BALTEUS!
The gnome scribbles furiously.
One witness claims Aothien asked someone for directions during the duel.
HE WHAT?
He wanted to know where the east gate was.
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIGHT?!
Apparently.
THAT'S DISRESPECTFUL TO THE MACHO MINOTAUR!
The gnome nods thoughtfully.
Fair enough.
What about the mages that defeated you later?
Balteus throws up his hands.
THE PUKESERS?
The mages.
THE PIPSQUEAKS?
The mages.
THEY KEPT STANDIN' TOO FAR AWAY!
The gnome blinks.
That's generally what mages do.
THEN THEY SHOULD FIGHT LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE!
The gnome lowers his notes.
Any final comments?
Balteus points dramatically at the gnome.
BALTEUS WILL BE BACK! THE CREAM AAALWAYS RISES TO
THE TOP, BROTHER!
He resumes stomping away.
Even after All the losses?
Looked back with a flexing pose:
OH YEAH!
Writer: Balteus
Date Wed Jun 24 14:16:01 2026
Subject The Cream Rises to the Top II
Balteus stomps through the city streets, battered and bruised from
another day of fighting.
Trotting alongside him is Mean Gene Gnomerlund, scribbling notes as fast as
his little gnomish legs can carry him.
Balteus! Mean Gene Gnomerlund here. A few questions.
NO!
We heard you lost several bouts today.
PUKESTERS WERE VERY COMMITTED!
Mean Gene checks his notes.
There are reports that you and Khexisth were in the middle of a fight when a
dragon appeared and killed both of you.
Balteus stops.
THAT DRAGON HAD TERRIBLE TIMING.
You were losing.
THE FIGHT WASN'T OVER.
The dragon killed Khexisth first.
EXACTLY.
Mean Gene writes something down.
We also heard Coburn, Kyralus, and Z'szytheis defeated you several times
today.
Balteus points angrily at the gnome.
TOGETHER!
Together.
ALL THREE OF 'EM!
Yes.
LIKE A BUNCH OF PIPSQUEAKS!
Mean Gene checks his notes.
It does appear that way.
Balteus throws his hands in the air.
THANK YOU!
The gnome makes another note.
Everybody's also talking about the fight with Zarithax.
Balteus starts walking again.
Good fight.
The gnome blinks.
You beat him.
I know.
No excuses?
Showed up, fought, didnt whine when the Macho Minotaur claimed his victory.
Mean Gene smiles.
Sounds like you respect him.
Balteus points a finger at the gnome.
DON'T START!
The gnome lowers his notes.
Any final comments?
Balteus turns dramatically.
COBURN. KYRALUS. Z'SZYTHEIS.
He points down the street at nothing.
ONE AT A TIME, PUKESTERS!
A pause.
THE CREAM RISES TO THE TOP!
He resumes stomping away.
Even after All the losses?
Balteus turns around and flexes:
OH YEAH!
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sun Jun 28 16:38:33 2026
Subject Assault on the Great Library
There are places in the world that have endured so long that the passing
of kingdoms has become to them no more than the changing of seasons. Such a
place is the Great Library, hidden in the deepest reaches of the Enchanted
Forest, where the paths are ever uncertain and the trees seem to remember
roads long forgotten by those who walk beneath their boughs. Few find its
doors by intent, and fewer still depart by the same road upon which they
entered.
The Library itself is an ancient house of gray stone, fashioned from blocks
so vast and so cunningly laid that no hand now living could hope to imitate
their work. Time has weathered its walls, yet nowhere has it broken them,
and the building stands among the forest neither proud nor humble, but with
the quiet assurance of something that has no need to prove its place in the
world. Beyond its doors lie halls without number, where black and white
marble stretches into the distance beneath endless rows of simple doors,
each opening upon more shelves, more corridors, and more books than any
mortal mind could hope to reckon.
There the great golems keep their eternal watch. They drift soundlessly
above the marble floors, bearing heavy carts laden with books, pausing only
to restore a volume to its proper shelf or straighten one that has fallen
askew. Their labor never ceases, and to every intruder they give but a
single warning before abandoning their work.
There are places in the world that have endured so long that the passing of
kingdoms has become to them no more than the changing of seasons. Such a
place is the Great Library, hidden in the deepest reaches of the Enchanted
Forest, where the paths are ever uncertain and the trees seem to remember
roads long forgotten by those who walk beneath their boughs. Few find its
doors by intent, and fewer still depart by the same road upon which they
entered.
The Library itself is an ancient house of gray stone, fashioned from blocks
so vast and so cunningly laid that no hand now living could hope to imitate
their work. Time has weathered its walls, yet nowhere has it broken them,
and the building stands among the forest neither proud nor humble, but with
the quiet assurance of something that has no need to prove its place in the
world. Beyond its doors lie halls without number, where black and white
marble stretches into the distance beneath endless rows of simple doors,
each opening upon more shelves, more corridors, and more books than any
mortal mind could hope to reckon.
There the great golems keep their eternal watch. They drift soundlessly
above the marble floors, bearing heavy carts laden with books, pausing only
to restore a volume to its proper shelf or straighten one that has fallen
askew. Their labor never ceases, and to every intruder they give but a
single warning before abandoning their work.
It was upon a night of storm that Vael'Zorath came.
Rain fell in torrents through the forest, and the wind moved restlessly
among the ancient trees while thunder answered thunder from the distant
hills. Then the lightning broke across the heavens, and for the space of a
heartbeat there was seen above the forest a vast shape whose wings outspread
the breadth of many trees. Darkness followed, and then another flash
revealed him lower than before, descending through the rain until at last
his feet found the earth before the doors of the Great Library.
Long had he searched.
The forgotten vaults of dead kingdoms had yielded him nothing. Ruined
temples had surrendered only fragments. Wise men had become old men, and
old men had become dust, leaving behind little more than questions copied
from still older books. Yet All roads of learning, whether spoken in
whispers or preserved in fading ink, had in time led his thoughts toward
this place, where it was said that every age had left some portion of its
memory.
Now it was time for wrath and ruin.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Jun 29 08:18:44 2026
Subject Into the Dreaming (I)
Sorien would later struggle to determine precisely when the waking world
had relinquished its claim upon him. Where did reality yield to the
dreaming.
Sleep, he discovered, possessed no clear frontier within the Dreaming.
There had been no violent descent into unconsciousness, no sensation of
falling through bottomless dark, nor any abrupt severance from the room
where his body rested under Aelidas watch and Sofies anxious care. Instead,
reality had seemed to loosen its grip with the quiet patience of evening
light surrendering to dusk, until, almost without noticing the moment of
transition, he found himself standing beneath unfamiliar stars in a place
that possessed All the coherence of memory and All the uncertainty of
dreams.
The first thing he noticed was the air.
It carried none of the familiar scents of earth, hearth, steel, or forest.
Instead, it possessed the peculiar fragrance of places devoted to memory
rather than habitation: old parchment that had absorbed centuries of careful
study, extinguished candles whose smoke still lingered in forgotten
chambers, polished cedar, lavender pressed between journal pages, and the
faint mineral scent that rises from ancient stone after autumn rain.
Beneath All of it lay something stranger and more difficult to name, neither
pleasant nor unpleasant, but profoundly familiar, as though somewhere within
the Palace lingered the scent of memory itself.
Only after several slow breaths did Sorien realize there was something
equally peculiar about the silence.
It was not simply that the Palace lacked sound. The stillness around him
had a quality almost deliberate, as though every whisper, every footstep,
every inhalation were first received, considered, and only then permitted to
exist. He found himself unconsciously softening his own breathing, overcome
by the irrational conviction that whatever inhabited this place could hear
not merely the movement of his body, but the thoughts that accompanied it.
The notion bordered upon superstition, yet dreams had never been
particularly respectful of reason.
The Palace Somnorium revealed itself gradually as his eyes adjusted, not all
at once, but piece by piece, almost as though each new column, archway, and
vaulted ceiling had waited for his attention before consenting to exist.
Immense pillars of polished black stone rose into a silver haze overhead,
their surfaces reflecting not Soriens body, but impressions of movement: a
shadow crossing behind him, the suggestion of a robed figure turning a
corner, the blur of someones hand vanishing from sight. Whenever he looked
directly, the reflections settled into empty stone, innocent of having shown
him anything at all.
No waking architect could have conceived such a place.
The halls possessed the impossible logic of dreams, where distance obeyed
intent rather than measurement. A doorway that appeared impossibly far away
might require only a handful of steps to reach, while a staircase close
enough to touch seemed to take several minutes to approach. Corridors bent
without turning. Windows opened onto no landscape Sorien recognized, but
onto fragments of weather, pale moons, sleeping seas, and once, briefly,
what seemed to be a room he had occupied years before and had not thought of
in some time.
He did not yet feel afraid.
That was the strangest part.
The place was unsettling, certainly, but it was also beautiful in the way
dangerous things can be beautiful when one first encounters them from a safe
distance. Its darkness was not crude, nor was its strangeness chaotic.
Everything possessed intention. Even the absurdities seemed arranged with
care.
(Continued)
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Jun 29 08:23:23 2026
Subject Into the Dreaming (II)
As he walked, silver handwriting gathered upon the walls in elegant
columns.
At first he mistook the script for ornament, but then one sentence erased a
single word before replacing it with another. A conclusion hesitated,
reconsidered itself, and yielded to an entirely different argument.
Elsewhere a marginal note appeared beside what looked to be an older
theorem, written in a hand far younger than the text it challenged. Poems
surrendered their final lines to revised endings. Diagrams unfolded,
corrected their own angles, and collapsed into cleaner forms.
Sorien slowed despite himself.
This was not a library.
Libraries preserved finished thoughts.
This place seemed devoted to the endless, patient work of improving them.
Somewhere beyond sight came the sound of a page turning.
It was soft, almost delicate.
Shhhff.
Sorien looked instinctively for the source, but there were no books nearby,
no shelves, no lecterns, no visible reader hidden in the gloom. The script
continued its quiet revision upon the stone. After a moment he continued
onward, though the sound remained with him in memory, oddly intimate, as
though the Palace had advanced to the next passage in a text only it could
read.
The corridor opened into a garden without any visible boundary between
interior and exterior. Black stone surrendered to pale grass. Trees rose
from shallow pools of dark water, their leaves thin as parchment and veined
with tiny lines of moving script. A wind stirred them gently, and several
leaves fell, though before they reached the ground each had become a scrap
of paper bearing a name Sorien almost recognized.
One drifted near his shoulder.
He reached for it.
Before his fingers closed, the name blurred into ink and vanished.
The stream beside the path reflected no ceiling above, no branches, no
stars. Instead it held pieces of memory, though not All of them seemed to
belong to him. He glimpsed a childs hand closing around a broken feather, a
candle burning beside a salt-black pool, a tiny figure bent over parchment
in furious concentration, a flash of red hair damp with fever-sweat, and
then, for the briefest instant, his own face looking down into the water
from many years ago.
Sorien straightened.
The reflection became only water.
Somewhere beneath the garden, stone shifted with a deep and deliberate
groan. It was not the sound of weakness, nor the complaint of an aging
foundation. It suggested movement, vast and patient, as though something
far below the Palace had turned over in sleep and the whole structure had
adjusted itself around that motion.
Then, again, from nowhere he could name:
Shhhff.
Another page turned.
The Palace was not merely showing him things.
It was receiving him.
The thought settled coldly, but not unpleasantly, along the back of his
mind. He had entered this place prepared to meet Blinx, the Dream Thief,
the gaunt, the scholar, the monster. Yet before encountering the master of
the house, Sorien had already begun to understand something of him. Whoever
had made this realm had not imagined power as a throne alone, nor terror as
the crude presentation of teeth and blood. This was the work of a mind that
studied, arranged, revised, and preserved. It was hungry, yes, but its
hunger was not merely for flesh or fear. It wanted meaning. It wanted
patterns. It wanted to listen to the orchestral sound of the universal
truths.
A warm fragrance drifted into the garden and slowly overtook the damp smell
of water and parchment leaves.
Black tea. Orange peel. Clove. A trace of smoked honey.
(Continued)
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Jun 29 08:38:25 2026
Subject Into the Dreaming (III)
He scent was so ordinary, so carefully domestic, that it seemed more
impossible than the changing constellations. It belonged to firelit rooms,
late conversations, and measured hospitality. Sorien followed it, and as he
did, the garden folded itself gently back into architecture. The trees
thinned into columns. The water narrowed into polished stone. The leaves
became silver script along the walls once more.
The Palace guided him without ever appearing to command.
Eventually he entered a circular study whose vastness managed, impossibly,
to feel intimate. A hearth burned with low amber flame. Shelves curved
along the walls, though the books upon them shifted their titles whenever he
tried to read them too directly. A polished obsidian table stood near the
fire, set with a silver kettle and two porcelain cups already breathing
steam into the quiet. The scent of tea was stronger here, rich and spiced,
and for the first time since entering the Dreaming, Sorien felt something
close to ordinary warmth.
A high-backed chair faced the fire.
Its occupant did not turn at once.
Sorien saw only the outline of a small figure in dark robes, one delicate
hand resting upon the arm of the chair, fingers tapping once against the
polished wood as though keeping time with a thought not yet spoken aloud.
"I had hoped," Blinx said, "that you would take your time."
The chair turned slowly.
The Dream Thief regarded him with the composed satisfaction of a host whose
guest had arrived by exactly the path intended. He wore no monstrous
aspect, no exaggerated display of the gift, no theatrical cruelty. He
appeared small, almost fragile, with sharp features, red hair, and ruby eyes
bright with intelligence. Whatever else he was, he did not look like the
nightmare Sorien had perhaps expected.
Sorien remained standing for a long moment, studying the diminutive figure
before him. Nothing about Blinx resembled the nightmare so often described
by rumor. There were no bared fangs, no theatrical display of hunger, no
predatory smile intended to unsettle. Instead, the Dream Thief appeared
almost scholarly, seated comfortably beside the fire as though preparing for
an evening of thoughtful discourse rather than a meeting between ideological
adversaries.
"You allowed the Somnorium to introduce you first."
A faint smile touched Blinx's lips. "It would have been rude to interrupt."
Sorien let his gaze drift once more toward the walls, where silver script
quietly reconsidered itself. "Is it alive?
"That depends upon how generously one defines life."
"And how do you define it?"
Blinx considered the question before answering. He wheezed, in a strained
forced voice now familiar to Sorien "As anything capable of memory,
imagination, and creation."
"Then it thinks?"
"It thinks. It dreams. It creates." Blinx's ember eyes wandered briefly
across the living walls. "Occasionally, it even disagrees with me."
The Dreamthief gestured toward the empty chair opposite him. It screeched
against the floor as it moved to accept Sorien.
"Please."
Sorien accepted after only the briefest hesitation. The chair received him
with curious precision, neither soft nor rigid, but perfectly suited to him,
as though it had anticipated his arrival long before he had. Blinx poured
the tea with almost ceremonial care. Dark amber liquid filled each
porcelain cup, carrying with it the fragrance of black tea, orange peel,
clove, and smoked honey. Neither man immediately drank. For several long
moments they regarded one another across the table while the hearth
whispered and the Palace listened.
"I understand," Blinx said at last, "that you wished to ask me about the Gift.
(Continued)
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Jun 29 10:15:39 2026
Subject Into the Dreaming (IV)
"I wished to ask what remains.
The answer seemed to please him. Not because it surprised him. Because it
was the proper place to begin.
"What remains," Blinx repeated quietly, "I suspect you mean the soul?."
"Yes, The soul."
"The host's soul is eviscerated."
"Can it be restored?"
Blinx lowered his eyes to the tea. The steam curled upward between them
like incense rising from an unseen altar.
"I have watched the Dreadlord's servants harvest a soul until scarcely
anything recognizable remained, just the vessel. The demon placed inside
does not merely occupy the host. It is conquest.
"And yet," Sorien replied, "One must wonder if a noble soul can be restored
into its home.'
'
You speak not just of exorism, you speak of ressurection..'
"I think I speak of hope and redemption."
A thoughtful silence settled between them.
Blinx inhaled the fragrant steam before speaking again, as though scent
itself were worthy of contemplation.
"May I ask you something?"
Sorien inclined his head.
"When a penitent kneels before you and bares his soul, where does his sin
go?"
"To the Father of Love, Light, and Mercy."
"Always?" Blinx inquired genuinely.
"When it is sincerely confessed."
Sorien paused, and said "I hear it."
"You receive it." Blinx replied
"I bear witness."
"You take it into your self. You hold around your soul and heart."
"Only long enough to surrender it."
A faint smile returned to Blinx's face and said, "A curious distinction."
He slowly turned the teacup between his fingers.
"You are a sin-eater." "I am not." The confessor defended.
Blinx's voice remained gentle, almost conversational.
"A man comes before you burdened by guilt. He empties himself before you.
No, you syphon it. You beckon it unto yourself. You receive what he can no
longer bear. You examine it. You name it. You hold it, if only for a
moment, before entrusting it to your God.'
His ruby eyes met Sorien's.
"If that is not eating another's sin, it is at least tasting it."
"A Confessor does not consume sin. With the love and mercy of Lord
Austinian, we offer it for absolution, forgiveness.'
Blinx did not press further. Instead, he watched the steam rising lazily
from the tea.
"I often wonder," he said quietly, "whether every Confessor tells himself
precisely that.' The palace seemed to draw closer.
Far beneath them, ancient stone shifted.
Shhhff.
A page turned
"The Gifted feed upon life," Blinx continued. "We do so because we must.
Our hunger is plain for All to see, and decent folk rightly recoil from it.'
His expression softened with something almost resembling sympathy.
"Your hunger is quieter."
Blinx leaned forward only slightly. "You seek out the grieving. The
ashamed. The broken. The guilty. They come to heavy with burdens they
can no longer carry.'
"They leave lighter."
'You call it mercy. But is not unlike the feeding of the Gifted.'
Blinx's gaunt, almost skeletal fingers rested lightly upon the rim of the
teacup.
'I simply wonder whether, after enough years, the soul develops an appetite
for the very burdens it was meant only to bear.'
Sorien's expression hardened.
"You mistake my ministry of compassion for hunger."
Blinx nodded thoughtfully. He folded his hands upon the table.
"I do not accuse you of wickedness, Sorien. I accuse you of hunger."
The unfamiliar word settled strangely between them.
"Every living thing is shaped by what sustains it. The stag fashions grass
into muscle. The wolf fashions flesh into strength. The Gifted fashion
life into power."
His gaze remained steady.
'So tell me. What becomes of the man who spends a lifetime receiving the
sins, griefs, and despair of others? What fashions the Confessor?'
(Continuing in Into the Nightmare)
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.
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