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Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Jul 31 16:27:09 2026
Subject Grit and Grace
Ezrianne had once been able to drink dwarves and men twice her size under
a gaming table, rob them blind after they passed out, and then take the
first morning watch topside -- All without anyone suspecting a thing about
the state of her faculties. It was a useful skill set to have, because it
meant no one looking at her now would know exactly how inebriated she was.
They might notice the looseness in her shoulders, the pause before she
someone supremely numb from All the blood circulating through their liquor
stream. But they would never see her stagger, because Ezrianne Scott did
not stagger. She had learned to adjust for the pitch and roll of a deck,
even when there was no deck beneath her feet.
She had spent too many years as a pirate, drinking foul spirits in fouler
ports, not to know how to be a functional drunk. Now that she owned taverns
and a distillery, the liquor was better, cheaper, and always within reach.
Misery had never tasted so refined.
All told, though there were some things even excellent liquor could not
drown. For those, Ezri preferred something more direct: fighting.
The underground pit had not changed much. It still smelled of sweat, damp
stone, cheap ale, and the kind of poor judgment that usually ended with
someone losing teeth. No magic. No weapons. Just fists until someone
tapped out.
Ezri signed her name, wrapped her knuckles, and stepped into the ring. The
first man split her lip with a spray of blood, before she put him flat on
his back. The second bruised her up in ways she'd feel for a week after,
but he lasted slightly longer. It felt good to hurt. Pain was clean,
uncomplicated, and told no lies.
Then they sent in the Minotaur. He was broad enough to block half the
lantern light, and smug enough to make her dislike him immediately.
He knocked her down with his first proper hit. 'Stay there, ' he advised,
crouching down to her level.
Ezrianne pushed up from the floor shaking, her fists ready to protect her
face.
THAT was, unfortunately, the entire problem: she absolutely did know how to
quit. Once she cared about something, she dug in and held fast long after
persistence had become self-destruction. She gave people time, loyalty,
grace, forgiveness - then ended up wounded when they failed to return any of
it in kind.
Ezrianne believed effort demanded effort. That loyalty created loyalty.
She forgot not everyone possessed a heart as understanding, stubborn and
categorically tenacious as hers -- hot-headed temper aside.
The Minotaur hit her again. This time the floor rose quickly to meet her.
Blood filled her mouth, and breathing became complicated.
She could get up. She always got up.
By the time the referee counted to 9, she understood why some didn't think
such unrivaled grit was a virtue.
At ten, the bell rang. The Minotaur offered her his hand. After a moment,
she took it.
Fine. She had to find some way to fix this, but without becoming harder.
Perhaps it meant learning that letting go, especially when she was banging
her head against a wall over and over, was not the same thing as losing.
The realization did not make her feel better, but even realizations are a
start.
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Aug 1 22:19:27 2026
Subject The Compact: Bellows of Kharvokh (I)
It was a maelstrom. A type of hell beyond the comprehension of the most
learned scholars or theologians. One of no order and no purpose. A
disparate reflection of a million worlds' vices personified. A gullet into
which was poured the sum total of the material universe's desires for
destruction, desolation, and ecstasy. It manifested as a cacophony of bad
dreams given skin, of ideas given motive force, of perverse violence without
contest, and tranquility found in anguish. Darkness that would make the
most ancient of devils weep, and a light that would blind even the most holy
of the seraphim. It was a realm of contradiction, where the laws of the
physical and metaphysical found no purchase, and where the impossible was
made mundane.
A figure slipped through the morass as smoothly as a dagger into flesh. A
knightly traveler whose constant silhouette stood as an anomaly amidst the
whirling pandemonium. It waded through the miasma of entropy with a
careless stride, the dire confidence of one bolstered by millennia spent
subjugating the innumerable challengers of this domain. Its true form
flashed from time to time, a shadow-black transposition of writhing limbs
and thirsting laughter. It repelled the malignant sub-reality that dared
draw its attention, before returning to the mortal form it had chosen to
wear upon this perilous path.
The human husk, already preserved well beyond its natural lifespan, was a
tapestry of a thousand scars and home to the eldritch anchor of coiling
sinew and bark that marked its claim, was changing. Mutations flourished
rapidly with exposure to the warped empyrean, and the now dominant soul
welcomed them upon its stolen flesh. Hornlets grew from its scalp, and
every patch of tissue not already entwined by the vile efflorescence of its
manacle twisted and boiled.
The madness crested upon a quivering vale that overlooked a basin of ash,
parted by a sanguine river whose current fluxed with the transmogrified
matter of crystallized rage and liquified malice. Beyond that burning
valley stood the locus of the traveler's intent. A citadel of black stone
wreathed in fire. Its immensity dwarfed the greatest of mortal constructs
and rivaled the tallest peaks of worlds still touched by the gods. Gnarled,
misshapen stacks lurched skyward from its massive bulk, retching gouts of
sentient smoke that clawed at the weeping heavens like the fingers of some
corrupted titan. Deep within the fortress, soulfire screamed through
countless apertures, its prismatic glow casting poison colors across the
darkened rock.
The traveler streaked across the expanse like a blackened thunderbolt, a
shadow crisscrossing the virulent plains before appearing abruptly at the
gates of the smoldering citadel. They were a pair of colossal bronze slabs
veined with shimmering silver, their surfaces wrought with churning images
of strange and unknown prophecies. The figure stood before them, disdain
settling across the corpse like features of its pallid face, its lone eye
fixed upon the gate with contempt.
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Aug 1 22:36:27 2026
Subject The Compact: Bellows of Kharvokh (I) (continued)
He stepped forward, an armored boot falling heavily upon the mordant
earth, then paused as the metallic barrier began to tremble. Its surface
rippled and coalesced into the vague outline of a towering humanoid, which
stepped free from the bronze as if birthed from it. The thing was a
hideous, monolithic construct, a golem of needle like teeth and pupiless
molten iron eyes. It regarded the interloper in silence before passing
judgment, uttering alien syllables that echoed through the warp and
psychically into the traveler's mind.
The rebuke came as a telekinetic storm. The knights single eye became a
furnace, and behind the borrowed skin the shadow of its native form
unfurled. It erupted outward in a violent surge of etheric force, striking
the warp forged automaton with a fury that hurled it into the threshold from
where it had formed. The psycho-kinetic onslaught shattered the construct
into a clutter of metallic detritus, its own mass transformed into a
synaptic siege weapon. It slammed into the bronze gateway with such inertia
that depressions rippled across its surface, like boulders cast into a mire.
At the moment of impact, the traveler seized the shattered remnants with its
psychic will, driving the warp hewn substance into instability. The broken
construct screamed across the immaterium before erupting in a cataclysmic
discharge. The detonation tore through the gateway, obliterating both the
barrier and any trace of its warden. The entire exchange lasted less than
the span of a mortal breath.
The traveler did not hesitate. He crossed the ruined threshold without a
backward glance, watching impassively as the remains of the gateway
disintegrated in his wake.
(to be continued)
Writer: Eanyha
Date Mon Aug 3 12:18:34 2026
Subject A Beginning
Eanyha wound through the brightly lit halls, gloved hand resting idly on the hilt of one of her blades. Not that she expected danger within the halls of the monastery. Certainly, the man whod told her about this place would have warned her of any risk, the same way as he did the golem at the doors. Old habits died hard, however, and when faced with the unknown, Eanyha always erred on the side of extreme caution.
Each step seemed to echo too loudly, and she arched a singular brow in silent question as she twisted toward the two bulky Highland men trailing her - Beau and Theo, guardians whom her husband, the King, insisted she keep with her, now turned friends with time well spent.
Theo lifted his shoulders, his lips pulling into a slight grin. "Wha cin we say? Its noice tae be on solid ground again, MQueen."
She couldnt blame them, she supposed, not after they were forced to take the Droch out on the high seas for much of the morning. Despite Beaus motion sickness, the ever-dutiful guards rallied to join her in her task, following every command as she steered the ship. And after a successful return and docking, Beau promptly lost his breakfast over the side, followed by laughter and chiding which lasted well into the rest of the day.
Returning the sentiment with a crooked grin of her own, she whispered, "A wee bi lightah o foot, aye? Ifn there were dangah, they could hear us comin from miles awae."
"Dinnae feel there bae anae more danger aside from the golem, loike th man said," Beau replied.
Eanyha thinned her lips, huffing amusedly before muttering beneath her breath as she turned toward the hallway again. "Noice ta bea sae certain o yeself an All things, aye?"
After they passed several doors, Theo whispered her name, "Eanyha..." She turned toward them both with an arched brow, and he continued. "Wae meant nothin by it. Loight o step well bae, mae Queen."
She answered with a pinched corner of her lips, silver eyes brightening as they continued up a set of stairs. Then another. And one more.
Finally, she pushed open a heavy wooden door that creaked with age and protest. An ancient librarian peered over at her dully. Then, seeming to recognize her with little reason for why or how, he fumbled his quill and stood, dipping his head in respect.
"I was told you would come," he said.
While her guards regarded him quizzically, Eanyha asked, "By who?"
The elderly man simply shook his head, then bowed again in respect.
Offering him the same, and pushing back the anxious feeling of being known without knowing, she and her guards entered the stacks. For hours she perused the weathered spines of the ancient room, until her eyes squinted from the strain.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hoping to force them into submission. A glimmer shimmered to her left, even with her eyes shut. She immediately peered to the left just as a book fell off the topmost shelf and hit the floor with a loud thud that echoed throughout the musty room.
Both guards put their hands to the hilts of their weapons, but Eanyha stilled them with a raised palm as she neared the fallen book.
A slow, crooked grin spread on her lips as she bent to lift the heavy tome, and the title became clear.
As the trio left the monastery behind, she whispered a quiet word of thanks to her God. "Thank yea, Cliath."
"Tha wos odd th book fallin loike tha," Theo ventured.
Beau nodded, "Aye, agreed."
Eanyha knew it was odd, but she said nothing until the city came into view, familiar Highland guards patrolling the well-worn paths. "Whos readea for anothah trip on th Droch?" she asked.
Beau paled, and she and Theo dissolved into amused laughter.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Tue Aug 4 19:54:06 2026
Subject The Weight of a Question
The storm had finally begun to fade.
Only a gentle rain remained, tapping softly against the woven roof of
Andreyna's small hut. A single lantern flickered beside her as she sat
alone, her damp cloak hanging near the doorway to dry.
The jungle was quiet again.
Almost as though nothing had happened.
The former queen slowly unbuckled the leather pouch she had taken from the
cultiest before returning him to the sea. She had not looked inside before.
She had not wanted to.
One by one she emptied its contents upon a small wooden table.
A worn waterskin. A piece of stale bread. A smooth river stone. And a
folded piece of parchment.
She frowned.
The paper was stained from the rain, its edges torn and weathered.
Carefully, she unfolded it.
There were only a few words.
Can Zandreya restore one Chaos has marked?
Andreyna stared. The room grew impossibly still. For a long while she
neither breathed nor moved.
Her fingers tightened around the fragile parchment. He had been looking for
Her. The shrine. Not the village. Not her. A shrine.
Her heart sank.
A hundred thoughts crashed together. Had he grown weary of the Warp? Had
he seen what she herself had witnessed? Had he finally looked upon Chaos
and found only emptiness?
Could he have sought forgiveness? Could Zandreya have restored him?
The Abbess closed her eyes. She wanted to believe the answer was yes. She
had spent her entire life believe no soul was beyond hope.
Her thumb traced the words upon the page. Then thunder rolled in the
distance. Not above the village. Far away. Toward Arkania. Toward the
Fort. Toward the place where Chaos still gathered. Where Raije was cursed
and the Red Moon wounded.
Her mind drifted beyond the little hut. She remembered Shalonesti, its
forests blackened by corruption. The rivers poisoned.
She remembered the reliqua, filled with imprisoned souls of priests who
cried out in anguish and despair.
She remembered Turpa. Gentle Turpa. The Mother's only Daughter. Gone
forever.
She remembered Raije. The Mother's Son. Betrayed by his own faithful. Now
broken and cursed, carried to the Red Moon by his grieving Mother.
She remembered Zandreya Herself. The Goddess forced from Her own lands
while the curse consumed the forests She loved. A Mother who lost Her only
Daughter, now caring for Her wounded Son. Their home on the Red Moon
shattered, pieces literally falling to the lands below.
Andreyna slowly folded the parchment once more and held it against her
heart. 'I hope', she whispered into the silence, 'that you truly sought
Her. ' A tear escaped despite herself. 'But hope cannot undo what Chaos
has done. '
The priestess rose and walked to the doorway. The rain had nearly stopped.
Beyond the trees, the lightning still flashed upon the distant horizon where
the Warp's fortress stood hidden within the jungle.
The storm had not ended, it had only moved on elsewhere.
Andreyna slipped the folded note into her robes. Not as a trophy, nor
justification. It would be a reminder. Every life taken carried weight.
Every choice demanded rememberance.
She would not know whether the man had come seeking redemption or whether
the note had been another deception woven by Chaos.
She would carry that uncertainty for the rest of her days. However, she
knew one truth with absolute certainty.
Continued..
Writer: Andreyna
Date Tue Aug 4 20:03:10 2026
Subject The Weight of a Question: End
Chaos had stolen too much.
Too many lives. Too many futures. Too many chances. The Balance would not
be restored, Raije would not be healed, the Red Moon would not be saved,
Zandreya would not forgive, by simple forgetting.
It would be restored by ensuring no more innocent lives were claimed. That
the Warp would never harm another soul again.
Andreyna stepped into the cool night air. The jungle breathed around her.
Somewhere, an owl began to hunt. Somewhere, new blossoms opened after the
rain. The same forest held them both and, at least, she understood.
The Balance had room for mercy, but it also had room for vigilance.
She would never stop hoping that a lost soul might find its way home, but
she would never again allow Chaos to reach those under her protection.
The healer had not died.
She had simply learned to stand beside the huntress.
Writer: Paklop
Date Tue Aug 4 21:34:22 2026
Subject Return from the Void, Part 1.
Baron Randorf Del'nichi was standing over me. I had just lost my match
with the Shadowknight Jurann.
Randorf spoke to me in a harsh voice, "You have lost. The choice of your
life begins and ends with Jurann. Do you understand?"
I nodded to the dwarf. I looked over at Jurann, my lance on the floor, my
horse seemingly tearful at my loss. Jurann looked over at me and rather
scornfully stated, "Do you wish to die?"
I did not need to hesitate. "I will die for my God, and my crusade. The
Light will prosper after my time, nothing you say will stop it."
Jurann offered me the chance to convert to Storm Keep. I refused. I was
awaiting my fate, Jurann's sword was raised, and the next thing I knew, I
woke up in a dark room.
I looked about, but was in complete darkness. My head was still attached,
and besides some soreness in my arms and legs, I was still completely
healthy. I did not know where I was. I could not find a door. I could see
a small hole of Light near the corner of the room. It looked to be a quite
large room.
I muttered to myself, not quite screaming, but shouting, "Where am I? Am I
dead?"
Time did not pass by. One day to the next, time would run its course, but I
felt nothing. I did not have to eat, or drink, which was strange to me. I
must be in some kind of void, or time, or someplace that such things did not
exist. I prayed to my Lord Austinian, but he also did not reply. Was this
my fate for All of eternity?
To be continued...
Writer: Paklop
Date Tue Aug 4 21:35:53 2026
Subject Return from the Void, Part 2
I could not notice if it was day or night. The room was dark. In fact,
I was not sure if I could stand and walk. It had been some time since I had
moved from my uncomfortable position on the floor. Today I made a decision,
to move towards the small hole with the light at the end of the room.
I partially stood up, and proceeded to hit my head against some sort of
metal on the ceiling. Clearly, the ceiling was not as high as I envisioned.
I got back onto my knees, and began to crawl slowly towards the hole. I did
not rush, I did not see what would be in front of me. I was closer to the
hole, when suddenly, the light disappeared.
I said to myself, "What? Is someone making fun of me? Is this some joke?
Would my God even respond to my pleas? Was I captured by some enemy?
I did not wish to go backwards. Who knows what sort of traps, or
unpleasantries remained. I had made enough progress for one day. I thought
to myself, "how much time has passed? Was my death yesterday? Had it been
years? Who would remember me."
I was so lost in thought, that I fell over, landing on my back, and
suddenly, I lost All semblance of where I was, again.
When next I awoke, it was some time later. My back ached from a fall I
vaguely remembered. I still had no idea where I was, and how much time has
progressed. I still did not understand why I did not need to eat or drink.
In frustration, I yelled, "My God, are you here??? I want some answers, I
have prayed for a long time, and you give me silence."
More time passed. The light in the hole had returned. I would not be
fooled this time. I sat where i was, recuperating my wounds. How i was
able to heal myself, I do not know. I did not feel as if my God still
granted my ability to heal, but at least I was not injured heavily. After
some time of rest, I happened to look forward, and the light grew a little
larger, almost covering the entire hole this time, and I thought to myself,
"not again..."
To be continued...
Writer: Geirhart
Date Wed Aug 5 13:42:45 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: White Sands and Crimson Fields
Wreckage
The wreckage of the red moon spread out west of Ironclad. The Pilgrimage
had just arrived after crossing the seas from New Thalos. Within the Desert
Jewel, the Pilgrimage had been welcomed and even given places to stay within
their Gardens. Many pilgrims had enjoyed themselves even with the looming
threat of the Rip above them. The Thalosian people were truly survivors.
Even with the rip looming above and a celestial river running below, they
continued on with their lives.
Geirhart was not sure of the welcome he would get from the Marauders however
General KilCannon had worked hard to secure them a reception with the
Highlord. With his help, the Pilgrimage had been welcomed into Ironclad and
the Emperor had also restored relations to a neutrality allowing the
soldiers of the Fort a chance at redemption.
As the pilgrimage had trekked east from the port, Geirhart had spied the
Church of Light off to the south. The Church of Light was an interesting
part of the Light's history. An organization that was created out of the
reorganization of the Austinians into the Gray Church. Rather than contiue
to support it they created a separate set of temples. The Gray yet remained
and the Church of Light in Althainia was the only temple still visited. Had
the Light just supported the Gray as they had the Austinians, might things
have been different? Would we seem more welcoming rather than segregating
ourselves?
Dark Walls
The walls of Ironclad loomed behind the priest, his tent had been setup to
help block some of the wind that now blew through the desolate fields around
Ironclad. The Tempest, the Wreckage of the Moon, All of it began to
transform the landscape of southern Arkania. Large forests were now
littered as stumps, their shade replaced by the dull red dust and arid air.
"I wonder if Zandreya realized that in Her fury for Vengeance, she would
destroy and mar the Nature she professes to protect? ' thought the old man.
The Balance of the realm was broken and those factures and divisions ran
deep. The Pilgrimage was here to listen as to why these chasms were
created. Gathering up his staff and wandering into the Fort, it was time to
do just that.
'Greetings soldiers, how may I help today? '
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Aug 5 17:50:05 2026
Subject The Churn - Furioso
Ever had she admired the elegance of the piano.
The way fingers moved with guided precision, caressing each ivory key as if
drifting over a lover's skin, applying just the right pressure to elevate
the musical note of their voices.
The tension of the strings would sing within the body of the grand and
stretch to the timed touch of the pedal beneath, or cut out entirely -
completely at the beck of the pianist who sat the throne of its bench.
The opposite, however, also stood true.
If the piano could encapsulate elegance, it could also engender crudeness.
Like any mortal on Algoron, she was possessed of great soaring highs and
fantastically dark lows. She had put this on display when cast before
Devion's tribunal.
The Dark Dyad had stood across from each other and raked themselves with all
the hate and merciless punishment the Dark could contain - and then she had
driven a blade into the heart of her beloved.
From passion to rage, the line could be thin - it was important to embrace
both, to express both, but to control them, to wield them. Never to the
detriment of what mattered most.
So as her fingers moved with a force of their own over the ivories, as the
sound of her furioso deafened and crashed through the room to the wild rush
of umbral powers, resonating through the Black Citadel, she threw the depth
of her wrath into a crudeness of sound that scoured and scored.
There was calm after, as her fingers stilled on the keys and the rushing of
her blood slowed, but the storm was hardly over.
Lifetimes of experience and a mortal will that had proven itself to a
Goddess stood gazing back at her in the mirror, where two Firstborn soared
and entwined in the swirling background.
She had always had this choice: to reach out, to grasp to this firmly, or to
cast it to the wind and become something lesser, baser.
You took everything from me.
There was no question as to the choice and with practiced ease and
precision, she resettled the mask that contained and shrouded a world of
dark urges.
I wonder what makes you think I won't cut your throat one evening just to
hear you gurgle.
When she turned to depart, it was the High Priestess of Drakkara who stepped
away carrying All that she had accepted and All that had been given and
taken.
I will find a way!
Writer: Paklop
Date Thu Aug 6 13:57:29 2026
Subject Return from the Void, Part 3.
The light was larger, and I thought to myself, "What now? I was fooled
last time, yet..." I considered it, and moved closer to the light at the
end of the room, careful to not hit my head this time on the ceiling.
I approached the hole, and when I reached it, I placed my hand into the
hole, and surprisingly, I could feel empty space through the hole.
I then heard a voice, gently speaking, "Step back, paladin." I did not
recognize the voice, yet I felt compelled to respect their wishes, so I
retreated from the light and the hole.
Suddenly, the light expanded into the room, and I could see the ceiling, and
the rest of the room as well, finally noticing a bed in the corner, and a
table with a chair. At the far corner of the room, I found a sword and
shield, and in the distance, I could hear the voice speak audibly....
Paklop. Your journey is just beginning. I have granted you vision, do not
waste it.
I wondered to myself, who is this? How do they know my name? I replied,
"who are you?? How do you know my name?"
There was silence. Bereft of an answer, I went to the corner, picked up the
sword, and the shield and attempted to use them. The sword was heavy in my
hand, and the shield felt uncomfortable and strange to me, yet, somewhere in
my mind, I knew of them.
The exercise done in attempting to use the sword and the shield, I laid into
the now obvious bed, and closed my eyes. I wondered to myself, "For what
purpose am I here? Who was the man's voice? Why are my surroundings like
this?"
To be continued...
Writer: Paklop
Date Thu Aug 6 14:00:39 2026
Subject Return from the Void, Part 4.
I woke up, perhaps the next day, for time was unknown in this room, or
reality. I went to sit in the chair, as I had laid in bed too long, and
there happened to be a piece of paper, and a pen. Scribbled next to the
paper was a short note that only said, "write."
I wondered to myself what I was supposed to write about. Do I talk about
what happened to me? What my favorite color is? What happened to my
ex-wife? What is this sword?
I did not have a choice. The voice was in control of my situation, so I
began to write. What appeared on the paper was strange, yet somehow I
wrote, and wrote, and did not stop writing for some time.
As I put my pen down, the voice returned, and I could hear his voice
propagate through the room, "Do you know who I am?"
I did not speak, merely shaking my head, as the voice said again, "Go into
the other room, with the Light."
I looked around and there was a a new doorway. So I obeyed, and walked on
over to the room, and happened across a simple white table, with a chair in
the middle of the room, and I felt compelled to sit in the chair. I took a
look of my surroundings, and there seemed to be a shadow of a person in the
corner, seemingly hidden from me.
"Do you know who I am?"
I shook my head, and whispered softly, "no, Sir, or Ma'am, I do not."
The figure approached me out of the shadows, finally speaking, "Does this
help? Look at me, Sir Purnett."
I looked at the figure in front of me. Did I recognize him? My memory was
unsure. After a few brief moments, a thought of lucidity came across as I
looked upon the man.
I noticed the man was middle aged, though how much time really passes in
this place I am at. His eyes had a somewhat starry look to them. I raised
my eyebrows in response, finally understanding who he was.
My Lord? Is that you??? The voice did not speak for a moment, and the long
silence was deafening. I wished for him to speak, had I found my God??
To be continued...
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Fri Aug 7 03:14:43 2026
Subject A Simple Question
He looked up at the statue while taking an unneeded breath and chuckled
softly to himself. Aliera did do a stellar job with it. He always said he
didn't want a statue of himself. It was a personal thing for him. Memories
fade, new faces take the places of old ones, deeds remembered and then
forgotten through the years. His duty as it always was to protect, and he
was here to do that. He was honored though, truly.
Standing next to him was a squire that the paladin remembered being a small
page, mucking stalls and at times going with him on a light patrol. The
sprouting teen grinned while looking up at the statue then at Thasgerd.
Thas side-eyed the boy.
"Dinna thin' i', dinna saey i'. " His own little wry grin stretched across
his face. "Dinna ya's go's du'ies? " He asked, half serious, half giving
the squire a hard time. The squire nodded, saluted, Thas saluted back, and
the squire turned to leave the hall, snickering under his breath. "I 'eard
tha'! " In the stables Buttercup whinnied. Thas knew she was snickering
too.
He roamed the halls of the Keep as he often did when the pages, squires, and
knights were bunked down for the night. He walked lightly in his leather
boots, his armors were hung up at home. He did a lot of thinking while
walking, and his little tour that he had taken countless times ended at the
top of the tower that overlooked Althainia, the beacon piercing the night.
He scanned over the lands and sneered slightly while his head turned
southwards. He brought his attention back towards the city, remembering
what Geirhart asked, "What do you want to do? "
A thumb ran across his lip while he thought of the question over and over.
He knew the answer. He stood at the tower and watched the sun rise.
Writer: Paklop
Date Fri Aug 7 21:12:13 2026
Subject Return from the Void, Part 5.
I woke up, surprisingly in the bed again, wondering to myself, was that
man my God, Austinian? Did I imagine this encounter? Perhaps my
imagination willed this encounter to happen in my mind.
I went to where I had placed my sword and shield, and picked them up, and
began to swing my sword, and use my shield in a prescribed defensive
position. Memories began to go through my mind. They were not complete,
but I felt some inkling of myself using them in battle.
After a short amount of time, I went to sit down at the table, intending to
write about my thoughts, but there were words on the piece of paper again.
'Sir Purnett, the other room, go. '
I thought to myself, whispering softly, "Is this another ploy? I don't
know, but I should follow these instructions, indeed."
I ducked my head, being careful not to hit my head on the ceiling, as I
entered the room again, the chair underneath the table still situated there.
I unfolded the chair, and sat in it, closing my eyes, wondering what would
happen in this room.
The light was not dimmed this time, and a man suddenly appeared again. I
was able to glance upon him in more detail this time. He held a staff, and
he had long, grey hair, his face one of kindness. When I looked closer, his
staff had a cube on it, and the faces seemed to represent something.
'Sir Purnett, arise. '
I stood up, unsure if I should listen to this man, but I felt compelled to
answer him, for something seemed familiar about him. 'Do you know who I am?
Surely you have given some thought. '
I thought about it, my eyes opening widely, as I kneeled down, whispering
softly, "My Lord, hail."
'Stand up. You do not need to genuflect to me. Sit in the chair, we will
speak. '
I sat back down in the chair, listening to the man's words. "Where am I, my
Lord?" 'You are somewhere, but nowhere at the same time. Do you know what
caused you to be here? '
'Yes, Sir. I fell in combat, and my head was removed, and I perished in
battle. '
"Then why are you alive, in front of me, if this is the case. I taught you
well, think upon this and tell me. '
I thought about his words, taking my time, as I considered what my God had
said.
"Am I in a place in between life and death? Perhaps to be judged whether I
was deserving to enter Heaven or Hell, Sir?"
The man laughed, clearly amused, before he spoke, "Not quite, but I will
accept your statement. You are here, for I have seen the dedication you
have shown to the Light, and myself, and it merits further discussion. Your
faith has not wavered in this time, yet I will not reveal how much time has
passed."
To be continued...
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Mon Aug 10 23:35:41 2026
Subject Death of an Inquisition, End of an Inquisitor
The sound of hard leather boots on stone echo through the halls of the
small building, tapping out a staccato beat in the now empty halls. I pause
to glance in to each room and office as I pass.
The armory, left only to dust and cobwebs, any equipment long since used,
looted or removed to locales unknown. I close my eyes, picturing it when
last I saw it. It was filled with weapons of exceptional make fitted with
silver inlays. Pegs, hooks and stands of weapons to combat vampires, chaos
and those who revel in darkness, but are now no longer to be found. Racks
of armor blessed against the machinations of the foe lay empty and laden
with cobwebs. Shelves where potions and tinctures and vials blessed by
priests lay, now stripped bare. I spare one more glance to the room before
moving on. On, past barracks and offices, mess and scriptorium until
finally the treasury came last, deepest and that too, was like a bare
cupboard, any valuables including the safe long since repatriated to
elsewhere in the Empire.
Back through the building my steps carry me, echoing sharp reminders that
what once bustled with noise is now barren. A small breeze squeaks through
the cracks between boarded up windows to flutter a bit of parchment crumpled
on the ground. The ink was smudged and smeared, but I had seen similar
recently enough to make out the words that mattered: "hereby ordered
disbanded." With those three words, the cause I had given so many years to
was ended. Lost in thought, it was not until I look out over the building
from outside do I realize again where I am. The Emperor's Inquisition had
ended... And with it the life I knew, my identity and purpose.
I had been told there was nothing left of my old life, but I could not bear
not seeing this place one more time. It could not be real until I had. I
could not help but consider the Emperor's charge and the words of counsel
spoken to me by the Abbott. In response to them I cannot help but utter:
"I am not one to offer others hope... No, I have no hope to give... But
perhaps the Abbott was right... Perhaps even a ... Practical man... Has
value. "
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Mon Aug 10 23:41:54 2026
Subject A Practical Man, on the Temple Road
Travelers passed me by without a second glance as I watched from the side
of the road. Each the passed seem to haul carts full of goods off to the
city. The more heavily laden wagons churning deep ruts in the muddy road.
One seemed to get stuck and the drover looked in my direction, eyes pleading
for help but perhaps too proud to ask.
"You just going to stand there fella or will you help an old man out? " the
drover called over even as his feet lost traction in the mud.
I stepped to help the poor sod carefully. As we both leaned into the back
of the wagon a young lad who looked to be the drover's son laid on the reins
and the wheels finally found purchase in the roadway. The progress was slow
but the wagon moved on and the drover turned to me.
"You traveling too? Or another one of them mercenaries been wandering
about? " the drover asked me, eyeing my kit suspiciously.
"A mercenary? No, just a practical man with an eye out for ill intent. " I
smoothly replied as I began to turn back to where I had been waiting at the
roadside.
"Oh, a practical man is it? And I suppose he has friends everywhere" the
drover muttered half to himself as he lengthened his stride to catch up to
the wagon, clearly meaning to end the interaction.
"Not everywhere.. But perhaps still a few. " I breathed out, twisting the
corner of my mouth into a smirk at my own private joke. With that I settled
back against the roadside tree to watch the traffic. Boring is good I told
myself, I had best delight in in while I can. Soon enough this road may
become far too interesting.
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Thu Aug 13 02:41:17 2026
Subject Marble Mouth
A giant plate of bacon, eggs, and pancakes sat on the table at the diner,
the smell of breakfast, or as Thasgerd deemed it, the best meal at anytime
permeated the air. A cup of sturdy coffee accompanied his second favorite
meal, and in front of him was a book.
His eyes zeroed in on the title, "How to Speak Betterer". He cocked his
head to the side slightly, like a dog trying to figure out what was going
on. "Tha' dinna saem righ'. " He thought. He had speaking lessons before
and they didn't quite work out, but hey, he tried.
His solution was to learn the languages of All those he could, the phonetics
made him slow down some, but he opened the book and the first page listed
the author and the contents. The name of the writer was faded and couldn't
quite make it out, and he wasn't going to try. His eyes scanned over the
contents, they were All the same name but each chapter was dedicated to one
letter. The first chapter made his brow rise. 'The Letter A and You'.
Every chapter after that, each letter after the other. He was feeling very
skeptical. His brow scrunched as he eyed 'The Letter O and You' and he
turned to the page that begun the chapter. His eyes widened when he saw the
diagrams of more than poorly examples of a mouth making an double O sound,
and another making an O face using the short O sound. He saw some words
that stuck out, "Now you try."
"'ell nah I'm nah doin' thaes 'ere, o' an'whaere. " He whispered with
amusement. He remembered speaking very slow, and controlled. It didn't
feel natural, but it kept other's from their heads exploding and ears
bleeding. He always made light of folks needing to go visit Nordmaar and
spend a day there listening to the Highlanders speak. There was some jovial
seriousness underneath. He closed the book and shook his head and chuckled
softly before sipping at his coffee. "Marble mout' i' bae. Tha's mae,
tha's mae kin. Dinna li'es i', t' bad. "
The ratty book closed and he rose from the booth, leaving a blue for the
tip, because that's what you do, and left the empty and clean plate and
drained cup of coffee along with the book. He wondered who he could get to
make an O face just for the entertainment.
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:16:25 2026
Subject The Wound Remembers I: Beneath Broken Chains
The Main Gathering Hall of the Warp was built as both sanctuary and
declaration.
Paintings covered its marble walls, preserving visions of fallen gods and
orcs tearing themselves free from bondage. Stone Abhorrants guarded every
passage. At the center of the octagonal chamber, a fountain murmured
beneath a golden image of Malachive standing astride the world, His hands
triumphantly ripping chains from it.
Before that image stood the tree of horn.
Light scarred its bloody bark. At its roots lay the corpse of an Arborien,
abandoned beneath the twisted branches like a final, meager offering.
Two servants of Chaos regarded the scene.
Justian stood tall upon four powerful legs, his pure white coat marked only
by the uneven textures of wounds long healed. White silksteel armor
enclosed his upper body with austere precision. Above his piercing blue
eyes, the eight-pointed star of Chaos remained carved into his forehead, its
bloodless edges healed while its center seemed forever raw. There was
warmth in his distinguished face and restraint in every movement, though
both gave way to something colder when the conversation turned toward gods
and endings.
Across from him towered Crelius Atennim, broad-shouldered and encased in the
remains of a long-dead dragon. Once-blue scales had darkened to the color
of rotted oak, their surfaces scarred and veined like diseased bark. His
pallid flesh was stretched taut over a body charted by cuts and gouges. One
black eye, touched by a vermilion sheen, burned from his severe face. The
other was gone, its ruined socket sealed beneath scar tissue twisted into
the crude likeness of an eight-pointed star.
From the hollow of Creliuss throat rose an unnatural growth. Sinewy
branches curled around his neck and climbed the back of his skull, their
tips burrowing into flesh and bone to form a warped, inverted crown.
Justian glanced briefly toward the corpse beneath the horn tree.
"Greetings," he said, his deep voice carrying through the hall. "I see the
forest has fallen and not gotten up in some time."
Crelius followed his gaze.
"Ah, that one. I had not noticed."
Justian chuckled.
"Let him rot before the tree," Crelius continued. "Should his soul not be
worthy for this world, the ether will find use for it. As meager as it
might be."
Justian agreed.
Their attention soon turned from the dead to the wounded world beyond the
Warp. Justian spoke of the storm raging near Fort Ironclad, a curious and
confusing place whose secrets had yet to reveal themselves.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:26:11 2026
Subject The Wound Remembers II: The Bleeding Vision
Then something split open inside Justians mind.
Pain tore through his skull with such force that the hall vanished. The
fountain fell silent. The painted liberation of the orcs, the golden image
of Malachive, Crelius, and the corpse beneath the tree were All swept away.
For one fleeting moment, there was only a vision.
A gnarled tree loomed before him, ancient and twisted. Blood welled from
wounds in its bark and coursed down its trunk in dark streams. Its crooked
branches reached outward like grasping fingers while its roots sank into
something unseen. The vision held him for no longer than a heartbeat.
Yet within that heartbeat it deepened. Something vast pressed behind it, as
though the tree were not merely seen but remembered. The air around it felt
heavy with old violence, and the sense of watching eyes lingered just beyond
perception, as if the world itself had briefly turned its attention toward
him. Then it was gone.
The hall returned. The pain vanished with it, leaving neither ache nor mark
behind, as though neither had ever existed.
Justian winced and looked wonderingly toward the horn tree. For a moment,
his composure gave way to uncertainty as he regarded its Light-scarred,
bloody bark and searched for some connection between it and the vision.
The moment passed unnoticed by Crelius.
Nor did Justian yet understand what had passed through him.
When Crelius returned to Justians account of the storm, he spoke of the
storm goddesss wrath made manifest and of portents beginning to reveal
themselves. The altars there held significance, he said, though other
designs had also begun to bear fruit.
Crelius drew a dragonbone wakizashi and regarded it with his single eye.
Ochre wisps writhed across the blade, painting his pallid flesh in a
jaundiced glow.
"The remnants of that wayward realm have been given a purpose," he said,
"forged in the memory of a great betrayal upon this world. The blade will
serve as a key, or a death stroke... Or perhaps both." Justian considered
the weapon and the truth given shape within it.
"Betrayal leaves a wound, and the wound remembers," he answered. "Now that
memory has been given an edge. Whether it opens the Path or strikes dead
what bars it, I suspect Chaos will find use for both."
Crelius nodded slowly and sheathed the blade.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:37:22 2026
Subject The Wound Remembers III: The Deacon
Even as they spoke, another soul lingered at the edge. A goblin had come
seeking Chaos, claiming a pact with the gods of destruction and asking to
become a blade of ruin. Crelius judged that the goblin might be put to use,
provided his allegiance was first tested.
Justian agreed, "He will be tested in the flesh before his flesh and blood
shall feed the Cause. Regardless, your words are true. He will be put to
use."
Before the horn tree and the dead man beneath it, Justian began teaching the
goblin the Verities across the distance of the Warp, his words carried
through unseen channels rather than presence.
They were not commandments made to please distant gods, he explained. They
were truths meant to open the eyes.
"First: Suffering exists. Every creature knows the wound, though many
pretend otherwise..."
Justian continued, guiding the goblin through each of the Verities in turn.
His words carried across the distance of the Warp, revealing the Path one
truth at a time.
Crelius regarded the corpse of the Arborien.
"I see it as worthwhile," he said as He pointed toward the corpse, "lest
more unworthy souls end up as our forsaken sapling here."
Then, as Justian continued his instruction, Crelius announced his departure,
"I shall return."
Justian nodded, and the towering Knight of Ruin departed. His felbeast
faded with him, leaving the white centaur alone beneath Malachives golden
triumph.
Only then did Justian recognize that something had changed.
The pain returned only as a memory. A gnarled tree. Blood flowing from
wounded bark. The horn tree still stood nearby beneath its scars of Light,
while the dead remained sprawled at its roots.
Yet the vision had not interrupted a battle, a sacrifice, or some grand
invocation. It had come as Justian spoke with Crelius beneath the image of
broken chains. It had passed through him before he taught the first Verity
to a soul seeking the Path.
No divine voice declared its meaning. No herald announced what had been
done.
There was only the lingering vision, the truth he had spoken, and the
certainty that his place within the priesthood had changed.
Justian, Word Bearer of Chaos, had become a Deacon.
His sapphire eyes settled upon the wounded tree.
"Every creature knows the wound," he had told the goblin.
Now he understood the answer that had been given.
The wound remembered. The star carved into his brow answered with a single,
painful pulse.
And now, through the Deacon, the wound had found its voice.
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