|
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 10 14:50:50 2026
Subject Lost in The Magical Arts Shelves (II)
The days passed unnoticed within the Shelves of Magical Arts. Ezekyle no
longer measured them by the rising or setting of the sun, for neither
reached those endless halls, but only by the slow dwindling of the
provisions he had gathered before withdrawing once more into the Library.
Bread, dried meats, fruit, and water had become as necessary to his studies
as ink and parchment, for each journey back to the world beyond meant the
undoing of All he had so patiently assembled.
His mound of books had grown into a thing almost architectural. Volumes lay
stacked in careful disorder, forming broad terraces upon which he sat
cross-legged with another tome resting open across his knees. Around him,
books lay where they had fallen, each cast aside only after yielding another
clue, another citation, another forgotten reference leading farther down the
winding history of necromantic thought.
Yet even his own diligence no longer seemed enough.
The arts of illusion had become his constant companion since his days in the
Black Tower, and where once he had practiced them merely to master their
subtlety, he now bent them toward another purpose. With quiet concentration
he divided his likeness, until five silent figures, each bearing his face
and robes, wandered among the towering shelves.
One climbed a rolling ladder to search the highest volumes.
Another sat cross-legged upon the marble floor, turning pages with measured
haste.
A third disappeared between distant shelves where forgotten journals lay.
The others wandered endlessly, opening one book after another, reading only
until another reference revealed itself before laying the volume gently
aside and continuing onward.
Now and again one would return.
Without a word, it would place a newly discovered tome upon the growing
mound before him.
Ezekyle scarcely looked up. The illusion would fade.
Another, somewhere among the shelves, would find its place.
Thus the search quickened.
A forgotten grimoire directed him to the journals of a court necromancer.
Those journals spoke of an older dissertation preserved only in excerpt.
That dissertation named a ritual witnessed centuries before, whose fullest
account rested not among the works of necromancy at all, but within the
histories of magical theory. Each discovery opened not an answer, but
another door, and each door revealed still more corridors stretching into
the distance.
At times Ezekyle would pause, his gaze passing over the five silent versions
of himself wandering beneath the endless shelves.
It occurred to him that they had become much like the golems.
Endlessly searching.
Endlessly returning books.
Endlessly moving through halls that seemed to have no end.
The thought brought the faintest smile to his face.
Then another illusion approached carrying yet another weathered volume, and
without hesitation Ezekyle opened it, eager to follow the next thread
wherever it might lead.
Writer: Vael'Zorath
Date Sat Jul 11 13:33:55 2026
Subject Behind Black Eyes
Long had Vael'Zorath labored among the Shelves of Magical Arts, and
though no sun rose or set within those endless halls, the passing of time
had begun to make itself known to him in other ways. His hand trembled
faintly when he turned the pages, and the letters sometimes swam before his
sight, so that more than once he found himself reading anew a passage
through which his eyes had already passed. His back ached from long
sitting, his stomach complained despite the provisions gathered about him,
and sleep pressed ever more heavily upon the small and stubborn flesh he
wore.
Such frailties displeased him, yet he endured them, for the shape had its
virtues. Hands could turn the frail pages of ancient books without tearing
them; fingers could trace the smallest script, and a body of such little
size might sit for days amid a mountain of tomes without crushing beneath
its weight the very knowledge it sought. Thus he remained upon the great
heap he had gathered, surrounded by open volumes and discarded works, while
five likenesses of himself wandered ceaselessly among the shelves.
Through their eyes also he searched.
One drew forth a forgotten grimoire and opened it. Another sat upon the
marble floor with three books spread before it. Far away among the shelves,
a third found a name, and at once Vael'Zorath knew it; while another cast
aside a useless volume and reached impatiently for the next. Thus his
thought was divided among many paths, yet All were bent toward a single end.
For at last he had found the trail.
It had begun with a few lines in the record of a necromancer long dead, and
those lines had led him to another work, and thence to a journal, and from
the journal to the account of an experiment performed in an age whose
kingdoms had long since passed away. Every book opened another road before
him, and every road divided into others. Yet he did not despair at their
number. Rather his hunger grew, for here there was no idle conjecture to
sift from truth, nor the boast of kings, nor the errors of scholars
repeating tales already corrupted by the passing of years. The Balanx had
watched, and what they had seen they had set down.
And among their records was that word which now drew him onward.
The lips whispered the word as he read it.
His weariness was forgotten.
A book fell from his hand upon the mound beneath him, and another was opened
in its place. Somewhere among the distant shelves one of his likenesses had
found a reference to an older work, and another had already begun to seek
it. His own eyes moved swiftly over the page. A name. A place. A ritual.
Another name.
Another book.
He reached for it.
The flesh demanded sleep, and he denied it. Hunger came, and he ate without
knowing what passed between his teeth, his eyes never leaving the page
before him. When the words blurred, he closed his eyes only until they
became clear again; and when his hand grew slow, he clenched it until the
trembling ceased.
For somewhere in that immeasurable house of memory lay the answer.
Perhaps it was divided among a hundred books. Perhaps a thousand. Perhaps
he must follow the deeds of dead magi through the rise and fall of kingdoms,
gathering one fragment here and another there, until at last the whole
design stood revealed before him. It mattered little. He had endured
centuries. He could endure pages.
So Vael'Zorath remained behind those black and weary eyes, and through them
he read.
Around him his likenesses wandered among the endless shelves, drawing forth
the works of ages and casting aside those whose secrets had been exhausted.
The mound beneath him grew. The provisions dwindled. The hours passed
uncounted.
And still he read.
For somewhere ahead, hidden only by the vastness of All that had ever been
known, there lay a road beyond death; and now that Vael'Zorath had found its
first uncertain tracks, neither weariness nor hunger nor the frailty of
flesh would turn him aside.
Writer: Ryger
Date Sun Jul 12 15:38:19 2026
Subject A prayer in the Garden of the Heart
The marble statue of Taliena embracing Siccara glistened as Ryger knelt
down before it. A carefully selected spot for a confession. The garden was
quiet and beautiful, reminding him of his time serving Zandreya and when he
was called friend by the elves. Siccara, who reminded him of felled gods,
loss and sorrow. Then there was Taliena, she gave Ryger hope that
everlasting and perfect love, would see him through to redemption.
Tears welled up within Ryger's closed eyes as he dipped his head and done
something he hasn't done in many years no.. He began to pray..
At first his words were choked off, the pain which he caused was now
flooding out of him. But full words eventually came out as Ryger began to
confess.. ''Lady Taliena. Goddess of love and healing. I beg of you to
take me in your embrace as you have others. I'm sorry for what I have done.
I know I'm not worthy of your grace, but if you will consider showing me
compassion, I will serve you the rest of my life. Take this mark of
Malachive from me, I cannot bear it any longer. ''
Ryger lifted his head and wiped away his tears. He stood up in the garden
and waited...
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Mon Jul 13 06:49:34 2026
Subject The Shadowed Path - Shattered Dreams - Part 4 - Duskbinder
Swish. Swish. Swish.
How long had it been since he began cleaning these halls as a novice?
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Years. Years and years at this point. No longer was he a novice, but
the Duskbinder of the Nightwardens. One who is expected to lead the
new initiates, acolytes, and adepts in their path towards becoming
Dark Knights. Today, he was taking a moment to reminisce on how things
had changed around the Keep since he first rejoined the Storm.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Looking up at the once shattered hole in the ceiling he no longer had
to imagine it outfitted with a crystal dome, it was there. Umbral
lightning could be seen arcing across the sky near Drakkara's spire,
and new obsidian obelisks that radiated un-light reflected off of the
polished black marble walls. Once barren walls now held many large
tapestries that depicted the various victories and defeats of the
Storm. It was good to see. The crater that once filled the center of
the room had also been properly filled in and repaired, which he was
sure would be a relief to those who needed tend this room in the future.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Pausing before the amethyst statue of the Queen of Darkness that now
stood near the marble staircase towards the portal he listened to the
faint crackling from below. Looking towards the statue cowled in a
flowing cloak of abyssal night he leaned forward to read the plaque.
"
From the poison of pity, our Dark Lady deliver us
From the gilded lie of mercy, our Dark Lady deliver us
Steady our hands, harden our hearts.
Our arms shall not tremble,
Our blades shall not falter,
For mercy is weakness and pity a sin.
"
Yes. Things had changed over the years. He too, had changed. The Keep,
and Umbrus Caelum, were both of the past, and of the future.
A slow smile traced over his lips. Handing the broom to a nearby Initiate
he began to walk away, murmuring to none in particular.
"A Storm is coming."
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 17 13:44:20 2026
Subject The Defilement of the Great Library: Spira Aversa
Rain drummed steadily against the narrow windows of Ezekyle's chamber
while candles burned low throughout the room. Their light wandered over
scattered parchment, leather journals swollen with years of notes, and
oversized sheets fastened to the stone walls. Every surface had been
claimed. Shelves bowed beneath copied passages from the Great Library. The
desk had vanished beneath open tomes and stacks of loose paper. Even the
floor had disappeared beneath maps and journals whose arrangement only
Ezekyle seemed able to follow.
Months ago he had believed organization was the answer.
His earliest journals had been divided neatly into subjects. History
occupied one shelf. Necromancy another. Enchantment another still.
Religion, philosophy, alchemy, relicseach discipline enjoyed its own careful
order.
The Great Library had quietly dismantled that certainty.
No subject remained where its scholars believed it belonged.
A military dispatch from Arkane led to correspondence between Black Robes
discussing enchantments cast upon siege engines. Those letters cited an
older dissertation concerning magical effects that endured beyond the death
of their creator. That dissertation referenced an obscure catalogue of
relics preserved beneath forgotten temples. The catalogue itself contained
annotations written generations later by priests debating whether lingering
magic possessed intent or merely echoed the will that had shaped it.
Every path crossed another.
Every shelf betrayed the labels carved above it.
Ezekyle stood before the largest wall of his chamber, quill resting
motionless in one hand.
Five great sheets dominated the stone.
Each bore only a title.
The Black Thread
The Concordance of the Soul
The Chain of Preservation
Residual Will
The Silent Interval
Nothing resembling those names existed anywhere within the Great Library.
No philosopher had written them.
No archmage had taught them.
No priest had spoken them.
They belonged to Ezekyle alone.
The first had begun almost by accident.
He had noticed that scholars writing centuries apart often described the
same phenomenon without recognizing one another's work. A king
commissioning enchanted arms. A lich preserving memory beyond death. A
shrine whose blessings lingered after its caretakers vanished. Each account
had been filed beneath a different discipline, separated by language,
culture, and purpose.
Ezekyle no longer believed they were separate.
Thin lines of black ink crossed The Black Thread, connecting names that no
historian would ever place beside one another. Hammurabi appeared there.
So did forgotten enchanters, nameless monks, dragon relics recovered from
ruined keeps, battlefield journals copied by the Balanx, and obscure
treatises that survived only because someone centuries ago had decided they
were worth preserving.
The thread they shared had never been given a name.
So he had named it himself.
The sheet beside it had grown even stranger.
The Concordance of the Soul contained no chronology at all. Priests arguing
over judgment stood beside necromancers studying spirits. Dream journals
rested beside theological debates. Accounts of possession crossed
references to resurrection, memory, identity, and the strange continuity of
consciousness. The page had become so crowded with crossings that it
resembled a spider's web more than a scholarly work.
No conclusion waited there.
Only evidence that every civilization eventually asked the same questions.
Farther along the wall hung The Chain of Preservation.
Madul's discovery of blue diamonds beneath the Sands of Sorrow occupied only
a corner of the page. The jewel itself mattered little. What followed
mattered immensely. Enchanters recorded the unusual affinity of certain
stones for retaining magical properties. Relics fashioned from similar
materials surfaced in entirely different centuries. Ancient vaults
described vessels that held power long after their makers had crumbled into
dust.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Fri Jul 17 13:48:49 2026
Subject The Defilement of the Great Library: asrevA aripS
Residual Will had become his most controversial work, though no one
besides Ezekyle had ever seen it.
Some enchantments behaved with unsettling purpose after their creators had
perished. Ancient wards adjusted themselves. Defensive magics altered
their responses. Constructs completed tasks centuries after receiving their
final command. Scholars explained each occurrence independently.
Ezekyle refused to.
Whatever endured beyond its creator belonged here.
Whether anyone else recognized the pattern ceased to matter.
The final sheet remained the sparsest.
The Silent Interval.
Beneath its title rested only a handful of names.
Gunnar Draugrbane.
Accounts surrounding the Great Rift.
Fragments copied from funerary rites older than recorded kingdoms.
Scattered observations concerning ghosts that retained memories impossible
for the living to verify.
The page held more empty space than ink.
It also demanded more of his attention than any other.
He suspected the answer waited somewhere beyond the shelves he had already
explored.
His newest work rested upon the desk behind him.
A blank sheet.
Across its top he had written only three words.
The First Vessel
Nothing appeared beneath them.
Not yet.
He believed every path eventually converged there.
Every relic.
Every soul.
Every enchantment that endured.
Every account of immortality.
Each thread seemed to disappear into some forgotten beginning whose name had
either been lost or never recorded at all.
He could not prove it existed.
He could only see its shadow stretching backward through history.
Ezekyle lowered his quill onto the parchment and drew another line between
two names already written upon The Black Thread. The new connection
immediately suggested three more. One line became four. Four became seven.
Soon fresh annotations crowded the margins, each citation leading toward
another volume waiting somewhere within the endless halls of the Great
Library.
He stepped back and studied the wall.
The maps no longer resembled research.
They resembled anatomy.
Anatomy of reality itself.
The Balanx had spent ages preserving every fragment they could find. Kings,
priests, dragons, philosophers, soldiers, and madmen All found equal shelter
upon their shelves. They guarded history with perfect diligence and asked
nothing of it beyond remembrance.
Ezekyle asked something else.
He wanted the shape hidden beneath it.
Somewhere beyond the shelves already marked upon his maps, another forgotten
author waited. Somewhere, another passing observation rested unnoticed in
the margin of a brittle manuscript, waiting to complete a pattern its writer
had never seen.
One day, if the pattern proved true, these names upon the wall would cease
to be Ezekyle's alone.
They would belong to the other.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Jul 18 17:51:40 2026
Subject Spira Aversa I: The Concordance of the Soul
The maps covered most of the stone between the shelves.
Several broad sheets of parchment lay side by side, held flat beneath open
books and smooth pieces of rock gathered from the tunnels below. The
largest bore a single title.
The Concordance of the Soul.
Four others rested nearby, little more than headings waiting for their turn.
Ezekyle stood among them with ink on his fingers and a quill tucked behind
one ear. Books surrounded the maps in uneven piles. Some had been left
open where he had found a passage worth copying. Others were marked with
scraps of parchment or loose feathers wedged between their pages. He
drifted from one book to another, reading a page here, a paragraph there,
before returning to the maps to add another line of ink.
Five mirror images wandered the neighboring aisles.
Each searched a different section of the shelves. One gathered histories of
dragons. Another returned with temple records copied by forgotten
priesthoods. A third disappeared among works on necromancy while the
remaining two collected memoirs, bestiaries, funeral rites, and anything
else that spoke, however briefly, of death or the soul.
They came and went without a word, laying fresh books beside the maps before
vanishing back into the endless rows.
One account described the death of the Great Red Wyrm Qevarris. The
chronicler had meant to praise Sir Gwaine and the page Vander, yet Ezekyle
found himself reading the final paragraphs over and over. Qevarris did not
simply die. The dragon's last convulsions shook the very vale in which he
fell. The chronicler thought it colorful detail. Ezekyle wondered whether
it had anything to do with the soul itself.
Another volume concerned Gunnar Draugrbane. It praised his sacrifice,
telling how his heart had sealed the Great Rift after his death. The
priests called it divine favor. Ezekyle copied the event, but not the
explanation. If the account was true, why had Gunnar's heart succeeded
where another man's would not?
A thinner volume, copied from the teachings of Suuhol, denied the gods
altogether. Its arguments were of little interest, yet it treated the soul
as something that could be observed rather than worshipped. Ezekyle placed
it beside the others instead of returning it to the pile.
He knelt beside the largest map and added another cluster of notes.
Qevarris Death accompanied by violent bodily activity beyond expectation.
Compare with other recorded dragon deaths.
Gunnar Draugrbane Heart described as singular in purpose. Determine whether
distinction belongs to the man, the soul, or later embellishment.
Suuhol Soul examined without dependence upon divine doctrine. Seek
corroboration.
He frowned, then drew a line through the final sentence.
Beneath it he wrote: Compare with writings from hostile priesthoods.
He reached for another book.
This one described the funeral rites of an order of Raije. It spoke
confidently of the war god receiving worthy souls, but offered almost
nothing about what occurred between the final breath and that divine
judgment. Ezekyle made no attempt to dispute the account. He simply noted
what the priests had neglected to observe.
Another note found its way onto the map.
Dragon deaths.
Separate firsthand accounts from sermons.
Compare duration between death and observed changes in the body.
One of the mirror images returned carrying six heavy volumes against its
chest. As it stepped across the edge of the maps, its outline shimmered and
dissolved into pale light. The books struck the stone one after another.
Ezekyle gathered them without looking up.
The first was a bestiary.
The second, a royal chronicle.
The third had no title on its spine.
He had only just opened the book when he heard the footsteps behind him.
The book fell from his hand as he turned suddenly.
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Jul 18 21:23:12 2026
Subject The Compact: Divinations
"The divided soul yields only to fear or desire. I care little which.
Both lead where I require."
-Ihsan Madaur
The memories were not mine. They surfaced as fragments, persistent and
belonging to this flesh I now wore. They came without invitation. A face,
a voice, a moment torn loose from whatever tether once held them. I could
sift them if I wished, trace their edges, consume them... But they held no
meaning beyond their utility.
Some memories proved more poignant than others, while some remained
occluded. My host had been a clever soul. He had veiled portions of his
own recollections by intentionally scarring his subconscious, a peculiar
artifice. Whether that talent had been seized through his own endeavors or
bestowed by the wretched powers of this world mattered little. It did not
surprise me. There existed no corner of his existence hidden from my sight,
no memory that I had not witnessed when it first came to pass.
There was, however, an irony in that I possessed one memory of this mortal
that he himself could never reclaim. It was a moment which first drew our
attention to him. Just before the one called Crelius Atennim took his first
breath, before he became a vessel worthy of my presence, he announced
himself through an act that was not of his making. It was neither his
tenacity, nor the hollow deity to whom he would one day offer his devotion,
that earned my notice. It was the instant of his birth. As his mother
labored in her final agony, his father, the savage king thrust his spear
through her heart. Repaying a betrayal, the discovery of her draconic
nature, with a cruelty so perfect that its echo rippled through the aether.
It was at that moment that the world of Algoron first whispered his name to
us.
And it was the realm called Algoron that stirred those remnants. When this
form crossed into that plane, the phantom of him pressed forward, insistent
and agitated. The world seemed to provoke what lingered beneath my will, as
if it recognized what had been riven from it.
His disordered memories moved beneath me like a second current. They
flashed and faded like dying embers, minute in comparison to the river of
visions that rose and fell within my perception. Waking dreams of realities
long dead, and of worlds yet to be damned, were the resting melody of my
mind at ease.
The voices were never still, ravenous as they were. They jeered with envy
at my success. Beyond the seas of chaos unto what All who dwelled there
desired most... Possibility. Among them, every now and again, something
familiar surfaced.
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Jul 18 21:30:04 2026
Subject The Compact: Divinations (continued)
'I defy you. ' It rose in hollowed intervals, stripped of strength. Not
truly a challenge, only a repetition of something that once may have
mattered. An artifact and nothing more. The diminished vestige of a soul
named Crelus. Now contained, and in time, to be erased.
There were moments when I indulged in it, the minuscule stirrings that
lingered within this ossuary I dwelled in. What remained of his emotions
would surface at times. Thin but still discernible against the endless
noise that filled the void within. Once a potent anger, now reduced to the
faintest of impressions.
I observed them when they rose. Held them long enough to understand their
structure. Each had an origin, and that origin could be found again. In
time I would return to those places and people, those cracked points of
genesis. Not out of curiosity or sentimentality. There was a particular
satisfaction in bringing their ruin, in watching what little remained of him
strain and splinter further. The response was always the same. And with
each instance, what was once named Crelus receded further into irrelevance.
In the fleeting span of contemplation I allowed myself, I had nearly
forgotten the trivial spectacle unfolding around me. The reminder came in
the form of a sound. The wet report of a devotee drawing a blade across its
jugular. Its cry carried a pleasing complexity. Exultation, agony,
terror... All mingled together in an expression that lapped against my
awareness as its soul began the process of separation.
I saw the blood spill across the black stone. Watched the light depart its
clouded eyes. Then its essence emerged. Not as the mystics of this world
might imagine, but as a misplaced shadow shrugging itself free of a dying
form. For an instant it seemed confused, suspended between states. Then
realization found it and its energy twisted, its elation vanished.
The path awaiting it beyond death had been intercepted. What remained of
the mortal was drawn away, and not toward whatever lies its faith may have
once promised, but into service. An offering cast into the maw of something
greater than itself.
Seven others followed. Each had been gathered from the citadel erected in
reverence to the warped empyrean that was my dominion. A useful place. One
anchor among many that would be required before this world could be brought
fully beneath our influence.
I watched as the ritual fulfilled its appointed purpose, the price of my
presence upon this material plane. So far removed was I from the source of
my power that I was forced to harvest the warp through lesser means. Their
sacrifice was not in blood alone. Their souls, freely surrendered, were
seized and transfigured through my instruction. Each essence was broken
apart, its final lament smothered as it was reduced into syllables of
primordial potency. Through my augury those remnants found one another,
assembling until they became one. A true name, Kharvokh.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Thu Jul 23 21:46:49 2026
Subject Puresilver
Puresilver. One word. It was a miraculous thing, something wrought by
the hands of the Gods, a gift to Mortalkind. It was proof of the Love of
the Makers, something precious that once stored the massed hopes of an
entire race, of every Light-touched soul who cried together for succour
against the darkness of an encroaching Night.
The Light had answered, a grand gesture that had scattered the Shadow and
restored the flame of Hope to a beleagured world. For a shining moment, all
had come together in shared desire, and the puresilver mirrors had worked
that wondrous, impossible miracle.
Then they had vanished, and the attempts to recreate them had been stymied.
The power of the Arcane had been denied to the Empire, the raw potential of
Kantilles' favored refused. The Emperor's wroth had been hot, but shackled
carefully, directed into a narrow focus that had carried him from the Throne
Room to disappear for a long while. He would take the matter into his own
hands.
This was not unusual. The Emperor's whims and absences had long been spoken
of in the courts. He was not wont to allow others to do what he himself
would not or could not. They would carry on, as they always had. There
were other leaders they could turn to. He would return, in time.
And so he did, with merely pure silver.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Thu Jul 23 21:47:42 2026
Subject Pure Silver
Two words. Pure silver. A mundane metal, but one worked with deliberate
intention. Transmuted by the wiles of hedge-magicians vetted by the Emperor
himself. Twenty one had failed to perform to his expectations. The twenty
second had produced fourteen pounds of magically-purified silver. This, he
had vanished with, venturing out into the world to whatever inscrutable end
drove him to his perigrinations.
Trials by dragonfire and by faith, stories untold beyond the intimations
that he gave when pressed by his closest advisors. The great annihilator, a
dragon's breath, had scoured six pounds of the silver away, the impossibly
pure metal rendered even brighter by the devastation golden radiance. The
great beast had stoked the flames with wingbeats, gold giving way to purest
white as the crucible threatened to crack and spill its precious payload,
ruining the entire process. It was a miracle in itself that it did not, the
reduced mass gleaming with a new inner light with its purity.
Eight pounds. Eight Virtues. Eight portions poured carefully and put
before eight priests, each reciting the litanies of the Virtues of
Knighthood.
Honesty. Compassion. Valour. Justice. Sacrifice. Honour. Spirituality.
Humility. Eightfold prayers, eightfold praises, orisons that rose and fell
in the heart of an ancient temple within the Valley. One bar, wrapped in a
blue ribbon, flared All too brightly as the priestess murmured the mantras
of Spirituality, and half of it was consumed. In turn, the other seven did
the same, until the ring flared with its own dazzling radiance.
The Emperor did not look away, even as the afterimages of the eight bars
seared a broken circle into his vision. Instead, as the glow died away, he
commanded the surviving four pounds be smelted with greatest care back into
a single whole. A single bar. Pure silver. Two words. It would have to
be enough.
He returned to the Throne Room, waving away the courtiers who had waited
ever so patiently to dive upon him like predators to ambush him with the
affairs of state. Instead, he raised his own summons. Goldsmiths and
hammerers, superlative trademen. Four pounds of silver. Enough for a
single attempt. A single try at creating a lantern capable of containing
the Hope of a world once more.
Where the Pilgrimage tread, he would follow, gathering the embers to shine a
path forward at road's end. Collect the sparks to relight a flame, and tie
once more the Aurora to Algoron.
Writer: Lohla
Date Fri Jul 24 18:46:59 2026
Subject The Bite That Failed
For most of her life, she was what every Lagodae was expected to be,
quick of foot, protective of her kin, and possessed of the quiet decency for
which the rabbitfolk are known. She wandered the world with the easy
conscience of one who had never needed to question whether mercy was the
right answer.
That certainty ended beneath the earth.
While traveling through the ruins of an abandoned burrow, she crossed paths
with a creature that should have slain her outright, a vampire wearing the
face of a long dead noblewoman. The thing moved with impossible speed, and
before she could flee, its fangs found her throat.
The bite should have been the beginning of undeath.
It was not.
Something in her blood rejected the demons claim. Whether it was the
stubborn vitality of the Lagodae, a quirk of fate, or the intervention of
powers no priest has yet identified, the transformation failed. Her heart
never stopped. Her breath never ceased. The corpse the demon sought to
make was denied to it.
Yet the venom remained.
The vampire fled, wounded by the same strange resistance that had spared her
life, but the poison it left behind did not leave with it. It settled into
her veins like liquid shadow. At first it was only fever and nightmares.
Then came the whispers, resentments that had once passed in moments now
lingered for days, insults seemed sharper, and the suffering of enemies
became easier to tolerate.
She discovered that sunlight still warmed her skin, that food still
satisfied her hunger, and that she cast a reflection like any living
creature. No supernatural strength came with the corruption. She gained
none of the gifts of the undead, and none of their curses. She aged, bled,
slept, and feared death exactly as she always had.
But the venom was patient.
It did not command her like a puppet, it inclined her. Each act of cruelty
became slightly easier than the last. Each selfish choice felt a little
more reasonable. Compassion grew heavy, while ambition felt light. The
poison did not make her a monster overnight, it simply nudged her, again and
again, toward the path that All true vampires walk willingly.
The greatest horror is that she remains fully aware of what is happening.
She remembers the person she was. She knows the venom has not taken her
soul, because she still possesses one. And perhaps that is why the
corruption hurts so deeply, every evil deed is not the act of a demon
wearing her body, but a choice made by her own living hands, while dark
blood whispers approval beneath her skin.
Now, when others look upon her, they see a healthy Lagodae with a steady
heartbeat and warm flesh. Only she knows that beneath that ordinary
exterior, a failed vampires venom still courses through her veins, urging
her ever closer to the darkness that could not claim her by force.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Fri Jul 24 22:55:26 2026
Subject To Kindle a Flame
The last of the petitioners filed out of the Throne Room, midnight's oil
long burnt up. The Emperor sat alone upon the Lucent Throne, daughter at
his right hand. The audiences had been interminable, an inevitable
consequence of his absences. There were some matters that only the Throne's
occupant could resolve, and the petitioners so adamant as to that fact were
not to be dissuaded. He had treated with them as patiently as he was able,
which was not very difficult. The Emperor was almost timeless, it felt, and
could stoically sit through the meanderings of any seeker of his succour in
almost any circumstance.
This day, however, he was impatient. Word had at last come from the High
Tower. His request had been fulfilled to the best of the artificer's
ability, using the materials he had been given. A detailing of the losses
had been difficult to digest, but nothing was insurmountable in the name of
hope.
Of the silver, a vessel had been fashioned. It was thin in many places,
perhaps more than could be considered wise in conventional wisdom. Hope,
like its vessel was ever so fragile, carried aloft by daring deeds and
skilled gambits, making every small effort to preserve what was in order to
foster what would be.
The glass, tempered by dragonfire and white moonsand, had been less
fortunate. Sixty four bulbs of various shape had been blown at the
Emperor's behest (and, in truth, with his assistance) in order to fix the
lantern's center. All but one had cracked simply in the attempt to fix them
to their allotted place, if not deemed unsuitable simply for being unable to
fit within the confines of the delicate body that surrounded them. The
final, the thinnest margin remaining, had taken, nestled behind a thin
silver cover to hide its light when it was at last filled.
The lantern had been completed, the work to be delivered in the late hours
as not to alert the spies that undoubtedly lurked in the gloomy woods
surrounding the Lucent Empire's capital city, if not within the poorer wards
of the city itself. There was work yet to be done in those quarters, mused
the Imperial Daughter, and she knew well her father's opinions of the same.
There were many directions that needed time, effort, and material. There
was simply not enough to go around, but none were forgotten.
The guards opened the great doors of the Throne Room, admitting the
Artificer. They were unflinching, even in the unremitting majesty of the
Imperial Heart. The raised dais did not daunt him, nor the imperious figure
seated upon the Lucent Throne. The parsel was small, no more than a hand
lantern beneath the crude paper wrap and twine that veiled it. Payment was
remitted, surpassingly generous payment from the Emperor's personal
fortunes, and the package was handed to one of the wing-helmed guards that
manned the lowest level of the dais.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Fri Jul 24 22:57:39 2026
Subject To Shine Forth Hope
The guard ascended the dais, and the Emperor gazed levelly at the armored
man as he knelt, raising the package to his liege. He gestured, and it was
Izha who stepped forward, silently and reverently accepting the parsel and
producing a slender knife to cut the twine. The paper fell away, allowing
the Emperor to gaze at what so much time had wrought.
It was a crude thing, thin in All of the places that could possibly allow,
and dented and unvarnished All over. It was almost beaten in appearance,
the need for thrift in the materials and the artificer's hammer making the
once pristine silver pocked and weathered through no fault of the smith's
own. It was even smaller than expected, a lamp that ordinarily could light
but one traveler's way forward, with a delicate glass heart that had already
endured the worst that the mortal world could inflict- dragonfire.
The Emperor considered it for a long while, minutes sliding away beneath his
scrutiny as his daughter patiently awaited the effort's judgment. It was
some time before the Throne's warden sat back upon the ruling seat, and gave
a single solemn nod, 'Greatly I would have been concerned if a perfect
vessel had been forged. This is the product of a journey, of time and
dedication, of hope and trevail and sacrifice. These things wear upon the
body, upon the vessel. The heart, too, struggles to survive the ordeal, to
fit within the ordained place it has been given. Many break, but those who
endure should be treasured above All else. So has the heart of this
creation, and I love it All the more for its lack of beauty, for it has
endured past All expectaton. '
Izha smiled and bowed her head. Her father's poetic moods were few, and
spoke much. He never showed love for any singular thing, with the possible
exception of herself. Agapitos. Agape. The impersonal, generalized love
of the Gods for All the world. It did not focus upon a single thing, but
these words always spoke of his sincerity. There was no room for falsehood
in the Lucent Emperor, only the occasional vaguary demanded by political
necessity. He did not give praise lightly, and never on the individual
level. What she carried, beaten and fragile, weighed immensely heavy upon
the heart of the Emperor, for it carried meaning beyond a humble vessel. It
was designed to bear Hope itself, to light a torch to guide the wayward
home. To reignite the flame that
sputtered in the eastern reaches of the world, and to guide All those who
wandered back to the bosom of the infinite Love and Mercy of the Gods.
The Emperor spoke again, 'Protect it, my daughter, for you are of a like to
it. My hopes in this world. Bear it with you until the appointed time,
that it would not slip away from the world unfulfilled. The hour
approaches, but the Pilgrims have not reached the end of their long road. I
cannot join them, nor lead them, nor force them to bear this burden of Hope,
but I can give them the means to realize these wishes. That is my place,
and I praise you in All ways for being with me in that role. '
He rose, then, and beckoned his daughter with him. The long days of
audience and waiting had finally run their course, and the need for rest
tugged at him like leaden weights. Izha stayed at his right hand, ever
dutiful, ever assured, ever destined for greater things than his care. He
could not keep her in this place forever. Her life's flame was too bright
for any lantern to capture. He could only do what he was able to prevent it
from flaming out as it had before.
He shook his head, banishing the grim thought. The future beckoned, but was
not here. The lamp's light was not shining the way, to whatever joy or
sorrow awaited in the mists of uncertainty. The present, the now, still
held him, still held Izha. That would have to be enough.
Cradling a lantern of Hope in her arms, Izha accompanied her father through
the Throne Room's double doors, and they swung shut behind, leaving the
Throne Room empty. Empty, but not vacant. Hope, too, burned there.
Writer: Lohla
Date Sat Jul 25 21:21:14 2026
Subject The Blood That Was Denied
A month had passed since the bite.
The wounds upon her neck had long since healed, leaving only two faint scars
hidden beneath her fur. Her heart still beat. She still breathed. The
By every measure, she remained alive.
Yet something inside her had undeniably changed.
The venom never left.
It lingered within her blood, quiet but ever present. The fever had faded,
replaced by subtler changes. Compassion no longer came as easily as it once
had. Small slights lingered in her thoughts. Anger was easier to embrace
than forgiveness, and every passing day the darkness within her seemed just
a little more familiar.
She still knew the difference between right and wrong.
She simply found herself drawn toward the latter.
The realization unsettled her more than the bite itself.
She sought answers wherever she could. Priests offered prayers. Healers
searched for lingering poison. Scholars argued over curses and corrupted
blood. None could explain why the venom remained, nor could any of them
remove it.
In time, her path brought her to the followers of the Infinite Night.
Surely, she thought, those who had embraced darkness would understand the
burden she now carried.
They did not.
Most scarcely gave her more than a passing glance. Those who did hear her
story dismissed it without thought or interest. There was no curiosity, no
compassion, and no desire to understand the changes taking place within her.
To them, it was simply another tale from another wanderer.
They spoke of purpose, ambition, and the coming darkness, but none seemed
interested in the darkness that had already taken root within another soul.
She left more disheartened than when she had arrived.
As she reflected upon the encounter, she began to understand why.
Many among the Infinite Night had been born into lives already steeped in
cruelty, ambition, or malice. Others had willingly turned from the light,
embracing evil through conviction and choice. Whatever road had led them
there, it had been their own.
None of them understood what it was to awaken one morning and find the
darkness already waiting within.
None of them knew what it was to feel yourself changing despite every effort
to remain the person you had once been.
None of them knew what it was like to believe you had been touched, perhaps
even chosen by something you had never sought.
To them, evil was a destination.
To her, it was becoming an unavoidable journey.
She no longer expected anyone to understand.
The priests wished to cleanse her.
The healers wished to cure her.
The followers of the Infinite Night dismissed her without a second thought.
In the end, she was left with only the quiet rhythm of her own heartbeat...
And the venom that echoed with every pulse.
Whatever she was becoming, she would have to discover it alone.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Jul 27 15:53:30 2026
Subject Spira Aversa II: The Silent Interval - Selection
The Library had offered Ezekyle no agreement on the precise instant of
death.
Some physicians declared it the final breath. Others wrote that the soul
lingered while warmth yet remained in the flesh. Priests claimed departure
came only after the heart's final labor. An executioner from an empire long
forgotten insisted a man was truly dead only when his name could no longer
be recalled by those standing nearby. The latter Ezekyle dismissed
immediately. It was poetry masquerading as observation.
Yet beneath the contradictions he found something curious.
Those who had witnessed peaceful deaths described an almost imperceptible
fading, as though something withdrew of its own accord. Accounts of violent
executions suggested something altogether different. Decapitations,
impalements, and crushing blows produced descriptions of sudden absence.
The body remained, but whatever had inhabited it was said to depart with
startling haste. Even among the superstitious there existed an unspoken
distinction between a life extinguished and a life exhausted.
The writings never named it, so Ezekyle decided on his own name for it.
The Silent Interval
The distance between dying and death.
If such an interval existed, then every manner of dying would possess its
own measure. A sword might leave only an instant. Poison perhaps several
moments longer. Fever, starvation, drowning... Each promised its own
peculiar path toward the same destination.
His findings in the library could offer no certainty thus far.
Books had carried him this far, the remainder would require men.
________________________________________________________________________
The first subjects died too quickly.
A condemned murderer lost his head before Ezekyle could perceive anything of
value beyond the abrupt stillness that followed. A soldier with a punctured
lung spent nearly an hour struggling for breath, though the final passage
appeared no clearer for its length. A woman consumed by plague drifted
between sleep and delirium until she ceased responding altogether. Her
decline was measured in days rather than minutes, leaving the boundary
impossible to identify.
Each death erased one possibility while revealing another.
He abandoned executions that shattered the body too suddenly. They produced
endings without transitions. Disease proved no better, obscuring the mind
long before life surrendered it. If the soul departed by discernible
stages, the body itself could not be allowed to fail unpredictably.
His next subject would, Ezekyle believed, be the purest experiment yet.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Jul 27 15:58:19 2026
Subject Spira Aversa II: The Silent Interval - Subject
I've answered every question you've put to me. Whatever crime you think
I've committed, I'd rather face the gallows than another week in this place.
A condemned man is at least given a meal.
Ezekyle looked up from his notes.
You are mistaken on two counts.
The prisoner frowned.
You are not condemned. You have committed no crime that interests me.
... Then why am I here?
To answer a question.
The prisoner gave a tired laugh.
Then answer mine. When do I eat?
Ezekyle closed the notebook.
You won't.
The prisoner smiled despite himself, waiting for the explanation that never
came.
Enough of that.
Ezekyle remained silent.
The smile slowly disappeared.
... You're serious.
Yes.
The prisoner's eyes searched his face for anger, mockery, anything that
might suggest cruelty for its own sake.
There was nothing. Only patience.
You're going to let me starve.
I believe it is the most reliable method.
The prisoner took an involuntary step backward.
Method?
Steel is too sudden. Disease is too erratic. Hunger is slower. Easier to
observe.
Youre... Watching me.. Die?
Ezekyle closed his notes and stood up. Ill return in another two days.
Youll have progressed considerably then.
That night was the first night the rattling of the cell could be heard
faintly beneath the Black Tower.
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:03:48 2026
Subject The Queen's Justice I
By the time the bells of Verminasia had finished their summons,
Guillotine Square had become a city unto itself. Citizens crowded beneath
the long porticoes and along the broad granite avenues that fed into the
octagonal heart of the capital, speaking in hushed voices that rarely
carried beyond the shoulders of those nearest them. The great statue of
Drakkara watched over them All from its jet-black dais, while below it the
restored guillotine stood upon its dreadwood platform with the patient
stillness of an old instrument returned to faithful service. Time had
stripped it of neither its purpose nor its reputation. If anything, the
years had sharpened both.
The Royal Army had transformed the square long before the first spectator
arrived. Files of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder around the platform,
their discipline creating a safe perimeter around the platform and todays
showing. Archers watched from balconies overlooking the square, mounted
patrols drifted along the outer roads without urgency, and every entrance
into the square narrowed beneath the quiet scrutiny of mailed eyes. The
arrangement possessed none of the nervous haste of a kingdom expecting
violence. It was measured, deliberate, almost practiced, as though every
shield, every spear, and every pair of boots occupied precisely the place
they had been intended to occupy since dawn.
Lord Joat Tenneal alone commanded the platform.
The Death Skald leaned lightly upon his elegant cane as though he had
wandered there by chance, his bent frame and weathered appearance disguising
the certainty with which he occupied the center of every eye. Beside him
knelt the day's condemned: a lone pilgrim taken from the roads of Arkania,
his wrists bound, his travel cloak stained by dust gathered over many
leagues. Whatever words he had offered in his own defense had long since
been swallowed by Verminasian law. Whether he had come as missionary, fool,
or wanderer no longer mattered. Today he served a different purpose.
General Zhul had left the platform to Lord Tenneal.
The General stood beyond the ring of soldiers with an unobstructed view of
the square, where the faces of the crowd stretched together into a shifting
mosaic of curiosity, unease, resentment, and fear. He had walked those same
streets before dawn with his captains, placing each company himself,
assigning every rooftop, every alley, every avenue of approach. The
scaffold had never been the center of his plans. It was the bait.
The crowd had come believing they would witness an execution. Zhul had
assembled them in the hope that they would reveal something else.
Above him, the wind stirred Verminasia's banners until they cracked sharply
against their poles, and the murmurs throughout the square gradually faded
beneath the commanding cadence of Joat's voice. The Death Skald stepped
forward with the measured confidence of a man who was used to swaying whole
crowds at once. His cane found the dreadwood platform with a quiet tap as
he surveyed the hundreds gathered before him, allowing the silence to deepen
until even the restless shifting of the crowd gave way to expectation.
Joat let the silence linger a heartbeat longer before opening his arms to
the assembled city.
My people, he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across Guillotine
Square, today is not a day of vengeance.
He turned slowly toward the bound pilgrim.
It is a day of remembrance. A reminder that Verminasia has always endured
because she has never mistaken mercy for wisdom...
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:06:58 2026
Subject The Queen's Justice II
... Because she has never mistaken mercy for wisdom.
Lord Tenneal allowed the silence to linger after the final words, neither
hurried nor theatrical, but with the confidence of a man who knew that
anticipation could command an audience as surely as any speech. His gaze
passed once more over the assembled citizens before settling upon the
pilgrim kneeling at his side. The man had walked the roads of Arkania
carrying the banners of another cause, believing that peaceful intent would
be enough to shield him from every kingdom through which he passed.
Verminasia had never recognized such distinctions, and today, before the
eyes of the city, neither would anyone else.
Let every traveler who treads the roads of Arkania hear these words, Lord
Tenneal declared, his voice carrying effortlessly from one end of Guillotine
Square to the other. The Aurora stands beneath the influence of the
Witch-Queen Piknim Cracklespark and the laws of Verminasia. Those who
wander its paths without our leave, whether calling themselves pilgrims,
prophets, or humble servants of weak, pitiful gods, shall be judged no
differently than the man who kneels before you now. Carry this lesson with
you. Carry it to every campfire and every roadside shrine. TELL THOSE WHO
STILL MARCH THAT THE ROAD TO THE AURORA ENDS HERE, BENEATH THE QUEEN'S
JUSTICE!
With those words spoken, he reached for the heavy execution rope and drew it
firmly toward himself. The restored mechanism answered at once, releasing
the great blade from its catch, and the sharp report of steel striking home
rolled through the square before rebounding from the surrounding stone. For
a heartbeat the city seemed to hold its breath, the only movement the slow
stirring of Verminasia's banners overhead and the uneasy shifting of those
who had come expecting to witness only a single sentence carried out.
It was in that silence that General Zhul finally saw what he had been
waiting for.
His attention never drifted toward the scaffold. Instead, his eyes remained
fixed upon the crowd, where grief proved more difficult to conceal than
guilt. A hand reached instinctively toward the platform before its owner
thought better of it. A hooded traveler lowered his head into whispered
prayer. Near the eastern portico another voice, too quiet for most to hear,
condemned the execution beneath its breath. They were small things when
taken alone, the sort of gestures easily overlooked amidst so many gathered
souls, but Zhul had spent the better part of the morning arranging his
soldiers precisely so that none of them would be overlooked.
The first arrests began almost quietly. Soldiers stepped from the crowd
instead of into it, laying firm hands upon shoulders and wrists before the
accused had time to understand why they had been singled out. Confusion
spread more quickly than panic as one prisoner protested his innocence,
another demanded to know the charge against him, and a third struggled hard
enough to draw the attention of everyone nearby. Only then did the wider
gathering begin to realize that the execution they had assembled to witness
had never been the only purpose of the day, and that General Zhul had been
watching them far more closely than any of them had been watching Lord
Tenneal.
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:21:23 2026
Subject The Queen's Justice III
The prisoners were led from the crowd beneath a ring of steel, their
wrists bound behind their backs as Verminasian soldiers marched them toward
the scaffold without haste or ceremony. Whatever protests had filled the
square only moments before grew quieter with every step, disappearing
altogether as rough sacks were drawn over their heads and nooses lowered
around their necks. Fresh barrels were rolled into place beneath their feet
while soldiers moved from one prisoner to the next, testing knots,
tightening ropes, and exchanging few words beyond those required to complete
their work. The execution that had summoned Verminasia that morning had
quietly multiplied, and before long a line of hooded figures stood waiting
upon the platform where only a single pilgrim had knelt moments earlier.
Lord Joat Tenneal regarded the scene with unmistakable satisfaction. His
weathered face brightened into an easy smile as he paced before the
condemned, leaning lightly upon his cane. A warm laugh escaped him before
he turned once more toward the gathered citizens, spreading his hands with
theatrical delight. Well now, he called, his voice carrying easily across
Guillotine Square. It would seem our guest has inspired company. I had
prepared justice for one soul today, yet Verminasia has been blessed with so
many eager volunteers. It would be terribly rude of us to disappoint such
enthusiasm.
General Zhul mounted the scaffold without so much as a glance toward the
prisoners or the crowd below. His attention belonged entirely to the
soldiers carrying out his orders, pausing only long enough to ensure each
knot had been tied correctly, each guard stood where he had been assigned,
and every rope hung as it should. Nothing escaped his notice. Only after
the preparations had been completed did his eyes settle upon the severed
head of the pilgrim beside the guillotine's frame. He struck it from the
platform with the side of his boot, and a soldier immediately dragged it
away without waiting to be told.
A strange quiet settled across Guillotine Square. Those who had watched the
General studying the crowd before the first execution understood at last
what had occupied his attention. Conversations ceased as citizens found
themselves avoiding one another's eyes, each wondering which whispered word,
passing gesture, or misplaced expression had condemned the men now standing
with ropes around their necks. The scaffold no longer seemed distant from
the crowd gathered below it.
How curious, Lord Tenneal mused, pacing slowly before the hooded prisoners
with a pleased smile. A single execution was announced this morning, yet
somewhere between sunrise and noon, our humble gathering became so much more
productive than I'd dared hope.
He paused before the first barrel, rapping it gently with his cane to test
it before turning back to the crowd.
It has often been said that the company one keeps speaks louder than any
oath upon their lips. I have always found wisdom in that saying. A
sympathizer is seldom content to remain silent forever. Given enough
time... Enough opportunity... They will always reveal themselves.
His eyes drifted over the assembled crowd before returning to the waiting
prisoners.
The Queen need not hunt every enemy beyond her borders. Sooner or later...
They gather themselves beneath her gaze.
He smiled to himself, almost contentedly.
And when they do... It would be discourteous not to receive them properly.
He smiled with quiet satisfaction before giving the waiting soldiers the
smallest nod.
The guards drove the barrels away in unison.
General Zhul did not turn toward the struggling figures behind him. His
yellow eyes swept slowly across the square, measuring the crowd with the
same patient attention they had given it before the arrests began. This
time, no one mistook the reason for his scrutiny. The execution had ended,
but his search had not.
|
