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Writer: Thasgerd
Date Wed Oct 14 03:31:03 2026
Subject Peace of Cake VI
There wasn't a day he didn't think of her.
He still saw her on the ground before his sabatons. He hadn't saved her.
He'd knelt by her lifeless body while Gribblegrabble and Boof gloated. He'd
taken the Horn of Oblivion from the Devionite and crushed it. With the
priest no longer of use, the imp had flicked one of the ugliest creatures
Thasgerd had ever seen back to his hall in the Dungeon.
There hadn't been an amused quip or a wry, off-the-cuff remark. There
wasn't a man whose stance remained calm and whose demeanor stayed measured.
There wasn't a man who sought peace for those who wanted it or redemption
for those willing to earn it.
There was a man who remembered the names of soldiers lost before they even
knew what was happening.
There was a man who remembered riding into Pan-Toll and finding only stone
and rubble littering the streets, bodies strewn among the wreckage, charred
and twisted.
There wasn't the General of Gareth Keep.
There was a man who had finally had enough of someone and an imp deciding
who deserved peace and who didn't. Enough of chances being stolen before
they could even be given.
When he looked up from the Shadowhunter's lifeless body, All he said was a
curt, heartfelt: "No. "
Thasgerd pulled himself from the memory and caught his reflection in a
mirror within the Observatory. Drawing a slow breath, he puffed out his
cheeks and let it escape.
His fingers brushed the golden flame surrounding his right eye.
He remembered the visions Nadrik had shown him. His reflection reminded him
he had no desire to witness what waited if he failed.
With a grunt, he looked over the table buried beneath papers, books, and
scrolls. That could wait.
Taking his usual seat, he glanced down at his duffel bag.
Buttercup came clopping into the classroom.
She looked at him. He looked at her. Then both looked at the duffel bag.
Thasgerd knew she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She stepped to his side and nudged his cheek with her nose. Carefully, he
pulled out the broken pure-silver sword and laid it atop the table. With
the utmost care, he unwrapped it from the thick wool protecting it.
Hazel eyes snapped toward rustling branches.
Only the breeze. It whispered across his skin and through the willow's
hanging limbs. His gaze lingered there before returning to the blade.
There was no shine to it now. No gleam of light dancing across polished
silver. It looked as weary as he felt. The bloodstain marring its surface
reminded him of everything the other knights, Mercerion, Geirhart, and he
himself had endured to reach the end. Or, hopefully, the end of something
that could have become cataclysmic. He was grateful they had secured the
Horn.
Izha had helped guide them. Thasgerd and Thorell had found her. He hoped
she was living a life filled with peace and love, with perhaps a little
adventure now and then. Picking up the sword by its hilt, he tested its
weight as he rose to his feet. At the same time, his mind measured the
strain the broken blade might still be able to bear.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:50:13 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Blood : Part 5
A fountain of blood poured from the phantasm in front of Melchaleve as he buried the blade to the shaft
in the creature's chest. Thick, viscous, hot blood. It did not match the ethereal nature of the creature
at all.
As the blood dripped towards the path beneath Melchaleve, it seemed to evaporate into a black mist,
drifting towards the umbral wall that blocked his retreat.
At first, the change was small, hardly noticeable amid the swell of umbral power behind him. But as each
phantasm that blocked his way fell, the wall of black mist grew ever larger. The sounds of battle were
punctuated by shrieks and howls from the darkness behind him.
Beside him, ghostly images of the men and women of Storm Keep flickered in and out of existence. Those
nearest the phantom forms of Telthian, Symantha, and Archal took the initiative. Their battle flowed in
a continuous dance of action as they charged, defended, and stepped back to secure the flanks. Each
understood their role, and together they fought in perfect unison.
Around him, his troops seemed idle, lost. Time and time again he interceeded on their behalf, trying to
protect each from being struck down.
He was slipping. He could feel his stamina wearing thin, his troops must begin fighting for themselves,
or the line would be lost.
Attack that which they protect
Render them impotent in the eyes of their masses
This is how you drown the flame of hope.
The Dark Templar's words came fleetingly back as Melchaleve continued to press into the fray.
Victory tactics, but I can't push through! Melchaleve gritted his teeth, his whole body shaking as
his opponent's halberd struck him with tremendous force. How do I get through!
Follow, quickly.
To me, Dark Knight. Prepare to push.
Northwest, going in three, two...
Melchaleve grunted as another heavy blow sent him briefly to one knee. Recovering quickly, he glanced
around him.
Command. Guidance. My allies are an extension of myself. Trained well, they are an extension of my will.
Shifting his posture to a war footing, Melchaleve shouted to the knights around him.
On me, then spread wide to hold the front! Strike! Spells out! Fall in, healing!
The commands were familiar, though not ones he gave frequently. His knights were slow to respond,
their coordination lacking the practiced discipline of the troops fighting around Telthian, Symantha,
and Archal.
Still, they began to move. One held the line as another struck, while the others shifted to cover the
gaps. The formation was imperfect, but it was no longer entirely dependent upon Melchaleve alone.
The black wall pressed closer, the howls of the abyss chasing at his heels. The world itself was being
swallowed as the dark mist flowed across the field behind his group. Twice, the abyssal mist touched his
skin, causing him to scream in agony as his skin blistered and his flesh rotted away. Twice, he redoubled
his efforts to drive through the enemy ranks.
Gradually, the rhythm of the battle settled. Melchaleve pressed across the fallow fields, directing his
group as they fought their way through the enemy ranks.
Ambactus A Caligo! Tenebrae Lucem Consumunt! The Storm is coming!
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:51:28 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Mind : Part 6 (a)
Cresting the ravine, Melchaleve struck a final blow at the phantasmal soldier before him, the enemy
lines dispersed into umbral motes of mana, floating upon the black winds.
Sweating profusely, Melchaleve doubled over, coughing. Standing, he spat blood out of his mouth and
took in his surroundings. A moonlit well sat in the middle of the path. To his left, high walls stood
far beyond his sight. To his right, a forest bathed in unlight.
The eastern path could not be reached from his current location, so he made his way westwards. As
he walked, a light rain began to fall.
As he reached the wall, he blinked in confusion at his reflection. He looked down at his hands. Wet.
Looking up again into the mirror, he saw his reflection looking back at him, his hands held out just
as his own were.
Red. Blood red. His whole body was covered in it.
Frowning, Melchaleve slowly walked into the path of mirrors, each reflecting thousands of paths within
their depths.
Just a short way into the maze, a click could be heard as a stone depressed under his weight,
followed by a Whoosh. A gout of flame, black as the abyss, spewed from a trap. Red light could be
seen within the mirrors, the flames of the fire dancing with delight.
Giving a yelp of surprise Melchaleve jumped back several feet. He immediately screamed in agony once
more as the abyssal mist flowed into the chamber behind him.
"You will not claim me! I serve the Mistress!
Hurrying ahead, Melchaleve reached for the sight that allowed him to see between the planes, searching
for the hidden traps in the passage before him.
The passage ahead seemed to ripple, as though the mirrors were made of disturbed water. He could see
the faint outline of mechanisms, but what they did was unclear.
From the mirrors came the sound of marching boots. One by one, the phantasmal soldiers of Storm Keep
who had survived the trial of blood emerged from the reflections. Their armor darkened in the unlight.
"Report," Melchaleve commanded, turning to the nearest knight.
"There is a door at the end of the passage to the north, Duskbinder. It seems to be unguarded."
"The passage to the north is a dead end. I just came from there, it ended in an obsidian wall."
"The eastern passage is clear, Duskbinder. It too, seems to be without guard and has a door."
"The eastern path was covered in flames. Only the west seemed safe to pass."
Melchaleve looked from one soldier to the next. Each spoke with conviction, none hinted
at any deception.
Walking the length of the nearest wall, Melchaleve studied the reflections within the mirrors. Some
showed a narrow arch on his left, while others showed the arch to his right. The shape of the arch
never changed, but the stones around it subtly did.
Abyssal mist began to flow into the corridor behind them, gently swirling.
"Report what you see beyond the arch. Do not assume your path is the same as another's."
The knights answered in turn, each a passage unlike their counterpart - even though they thought they
approached from the same direction.
Beckoning the knights over to get a better view through the arch, something stirred within a reflection
of one of the mirrors. Ripples spread across the corridors, causing slight distortions around the
edges of the path before they faded, once more appearing as pools of calm water.
A soldier shifted, trying to see what Melchaleve had been looking at, and Melchaleve noticed another
faint ripple in the water, this time from the other side.
The abyssal mist began flowing down the corridor where the knights were staged.
"Move again, slowly. Let us see what the mirrors do."
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:53:02 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Mind : Part 6 (b)
Melchaleve watched the mirrors as the knights moved. Each step sent ripples through the water that
seemed to bounce in ways that rejected the normal ways water moved.
He watched the water ripple out from his own steps, then glanced in the mirror closest to him. The
water flowed in the opposite direction.
"Hold!"
The knights stopped. The ripples slowly faded away, leaving a dozen corridors conflicted on the
movement.
"The water's movement in the mirrors doesn't match. That has to be the key."
Kicking the water with a sharp, short motion he watched the mirrors. Halfway through, the angle of
the water suddenly changed.
"Oh. That's interesting."
Gesturing to two of the soldiers, he commanded them
"You, move to the left, watching the arch. You, the right. The rest, remain where you are."
As the knights moved to their positions the one on the left exclaimed: "I see the arch on the left!"
At the same time, the knight on the right called out: "The arch is gone!"
Before Melchaleve, the arch remained in the center.
The Umbra will hunger for the uninitiated.
To fail is to remain trapped within the Umbra, consigned to be little more than sustenance for
the darktide.
There is strength in single purpose, shared vision.
Melchaleve recalled the Sovereign's words. A shared vision. Not a single pair of eyes, but many,
each observing what the others could not.
Faith is how we endure the price of power the Queen asks of us, Arden.
He drew a slow breath.
"Tell me what remains unchanged. What you are certain of."
The knights fell silent for a moment, only the sound of gentle splashing could be heard as the water
lapped gently at the mirrors.
As the knights reported each item, Melchaleve was able to consider the maze as others could see it.
No single knight's response could be trusted in full. But together, the truth started to emerge.
"Come. Stay close, watch one another. Do not follow a passage simply because it is open."
Tracing their way slowly through the water one of the knights spoke
There is a passage here, Duskbinder! My hand just went through the wall!
For an instant, Melchaleve thought of the moonstone and how Aothien had bypassed a similar deception.
"Let us try it, one at a time. Do not be slow in the crossing."
One soldier stepped through, then another. The wall seemed to ripple as each passed. Melchaleve
followed, and far in the distance he heard shouts of surprise, then panic. The desperate screams of
agony cried out, echoing, impossible to tell exactly where they came from. Turning quickly, Melchaleve
tried to push through the wall, back, to help his comrades.
The mirror was solid.
Clenching his jaw, he turned to those who remained.
"The darkness comes for us all. Failure will see us consumed within its depths."
No answer came. Silence hung heavy in the air around him.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:54:28 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Soul : Part 7 (a)
Melchaleve sloshed through the knee-deep water as stepped clear of the high wall. The rain had
stopped, and the dark mist swirled along the sides of the path, held back by a mystical force.
As he approached the well he could see it radiating an umbral unlight that made the water sparkle.
Looking closer, the stars of the Infinite Night reflected within its depths.
You will come to Her through sacrifice.
Embrace Her, the Queen of All Darkness, as She has long known you.
Symantha's words drifted upon the black winds,
We All have a purpose to serve.
The conversion of Archal and Gladrim. So much easier it would have been had he followed their path,
then. But that had not been his time, it had been theirs.
So many around him had worked to show him the way. He had told himself it was faith that drove him
to cling to the dead Lord. Loyalty to what once was.
The time of madness set upon him started his transformation, but it alone did not bring him to Her.
The trials the Chancellor endured alongside the Dark Lord had opened his eyes. The suffering they
faced, and the determination with which they overcame it, had set an example for his own path.
Now it was his turn. He was expected to set an example for others. To help shape their path
as he continued to delve deeper into the umbral pathways.
"I will not let any of them down. They placed their trust in me.
For the Infinite Night.
By and for Her Will, Storm.
You bear the markings.
Melchaleve reached up to touch his head, where the eye peered between the planes. It had been
disorienting at first, the constant information assaulted his senses even while he slept. Disturbing
things existed in the realm between, shades and creatures too horrendous to describe in words.
He knew he would travel those corridors. His path would lead him to many dangerous places as he sought
to expand his knowledge of the secrets held within the umbra.
"I will not fail."
As he turned to walk towards the forest he had seen earlier, he heard the sound of hoofbeats striking
the obsidian stone tiles.
Glancing behind him, he broke out in a large grin as a spectral charger walked towards him. Its
cold, otherworldly light shimmered around its body as the creature's powerful muscles flexed as it
approached.
The charger's mane blew in the breeze from the black winds, its pupilless eyes locked on Melchaleve.
The typical heavy armor that adorned the charger was absent. The glyphs were not present to restrain
the charger here.
Moving towards the charger Melchaleve simply said:
"Hello, old friend."
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:55:52 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Soul : Part 7 (b)
The charger gave a soft snort, a mix between a greeting of an old friend and derision of a fool.
"Yeah, same to you." Melchaleve guffawed.
Growing serious, Melchaleve stood near the charger and reached a hand out to touch the creature,
"I don't have snacks this time. But I could use your help. What say you?"
The charger whinnied, snorted, stomped a foot and seemed to pull to the side. Huffing, it squared
back up with Melchaleve and gave a sharp huff.
"
I know, I know. I set down the reins of the crusader. Twice. I had some unfinished business
to attend. We're here, now. This journey is forever. I'll need you by my side.
"
Huffing again the charger seemed to relent his argument, pushing his face against Melchaleve's hand.
"
Well then. Are you ready? It seems the forest is next. The path circles wide and allows us back
up to a portal in the north.
"
The charger was resistant, nudging Melchaleve towards the moonwell.
"No, friend. It is time we begin the path."
Together, they moved towards the forest bathed by unlight. The ground seeming to shift and change to
become a forest floor, covered in pitch black needles. The scent of lavender filled the air as the
flowers bloomed along the path, purple rose bushes forming solid walls along either side of the path.
The clip-clop of the chargers hooves became muted, the color of the world bled and became monochrome.
Tightening his hand upon the reins, he guided the charger close.
On the path in front of them stood a single, enormous mirror. Black velvet draped the mirror. A deep
sense of unease came over him, he had seen that mirror before.
A slow trickle of blood began to pour from his neck.
Glittering green eyes and yellow fanged teeth could be seen beside the mirror. A demon stood smiling.
The Dark Queen desires to turn you into more than mere humans.
Pain welled in his head beneath the umbral eye, the scar burning with fresh pain that he had though
long since healed.
Re-write the rules of the Cosmos. Defy the laws that were crafted to bind you.
Melchaleve blinked slowly as the blood flowed from the umbrasign past his eyes.
The demon rested his hand upon the mirror, and with a heavy tug, removed the velvet cover.
He stared at himself, his reflection showing wild-eyed madness.
Use our Beloved Queen's gift well, and do not stray. She is a jealous Mistress.
"Ambactus A Caligo.
The other-self's face twisted in horror and madness as cracks appeared in the mirror. The sound of
shattering glass was All that could be heard around them.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 15 20:58:38 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Soul : Part 7 (c)
A raucous cackle came from the mirror before Melchaleve. Drawn out, the laughter stretched on,
echoing through the mist that had encroached around them. Black as night, the abyssal mist
loomed in the shape of an arena.
"Finally! FIIIIINALLY! Finally we meet again."
"The Lord told me of you. I know you are His enemy. I shall destroy you."
Melchaleve froze briefly, looking at the sight of himself. Disheveled. Uncontrolled. Wild.
"Was I like this?"
"WOOOOOOOO!" The other Melchaleve shrieked and sprinted in frantic circles within the arena.
"FREE!"
As he approached the edge of the arena, the other reached through the abyssal wall of mist
and drew out an obsidian sheath covered in runes. From it, he pulled a blade made of black
ice, wreathed with unholy empowerment.
Melchaleve raised his own blade, a crystallized blade imbued with umbral energies.
With a howl, the alternate charged. In the same moment, dozens of mirrors opened above he
alternate's head, each depicting a different sequence that could play out. Melchaleve focused
briefly on one, adjusted his stance slightly and received the charge.
As their blades clashed streaks of black and purple lightning lanced through the area around
them. Move and countermove, the alternate held to the forms he once knew rigorously. But he
had not forgotten. He had simply laid that life to rest.
With a sharp pull to the side to narrowly avoid the strike of a blade, Melchaleve performed
a crescent moon strike that cut upward from the sheath, severing it from his body and ended
with the blade embedded deep within the scarrification on the other's head.
A soft chuckle, then another, then silence as the body hit the bed of needles.
A whinny of panic sounded from behind him. The charger had launched itself forward towards
Melchaleve and pushed against him urgently. Looking back, Melchaleve watched in horror as the
abysall wall of mist began to collapse in on itself, crashing down like a waterfall that
formed into a tsunami in its wake.
Quickly mounting the horse he urged it on with a quick press of his knees, pulling on the
reins to guide it towards a slim opening that parted the mist.
The charger flew over the ground, but no matter how fast it moved the tidal wave behind them
never slowed. They rapidly crossed where the moonwell was, pulling north.
On they ran, the roaring winds of the black mist in his ears. As the terrain angled up the
mist behind them slowed, just as natural water would as it pushed up against a hill.
Pulling gently on the reins to slow the horse, they came to a stop at the edge of a glade,
the grass a glossy black that seemed to shimmer and sparkle as they moved.
He felt a feather light caress upon his neck that traced his umbral scar.
"Well. The show could have been worse."
Melchaleve jumped off his charger and knelt before the shadowed outline of the Queen of Darkness.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Oct 16 09:35:22 2026
Subject Dark Currents : Awakening : Part 8
The woman before him was made of the umbral and abyssal mist. The stars of the galaxy could be
seen as the mists moved. An umbral flame burned within her almond-shaped eyes and the space
between the stars formed her flowing dress. She loomed over Melchaleve as he knelt before her,
the charger stood stone still, proud, before Her.
"My Queen."
She came to a stop before him, inspecting him like a fresh slab of meat being offered to her.
"Did you enjoy my gifts?"
"They were what I needed, my Queen."
"Perfection, like All that I do."
The umbral currents within her eyes flashed, the light giving the form a mischievous expression.
"Will you continue to entertain me? I do love a good show."
"Always, my Queen. Ambactus A Caligo, your Will be done."
"Then let the games begin."
With that, she laid a hand over his face. Water closed around him, and the sensation of falling
overtook him as the world faded to black.
He could not be sure how long that blackness held him, but when his consciousness returned he
tried to sit up with a start, only to find there was no ground beneath him. He tried to cough
but only water rushed in. He flailed, trying to orient on what was occurring.
As he brought his body under control and calmed his mind he realized he was within the moonwell.
Above, the unlight of the Umbrastone bathed him. Swimming the few feet to the edge of the well,
he pulled himself out of the water, coughing violently. He collapsed on the edge of the pool
and did not move for a long while.
Melchaleve struggled to his feet, he still felt hollow, empty. Something was missing. It felt as
if the power he had gained from the path of the Shukenja had fled him.
Resting for a time under the Umbrastone he felt it pulling at him, seeking to consume him. In
turn, he drew upon its power, filling the empty hole within his chest. The flow of umbral power
entering him directly through the wound the Umbraseer had left within his heart. He felt the
stinging power race through his entire body, searing agony flowing through his veins. It
strengthened him.
"I will not fail you, my Queen."
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Oct 16 21:58:26 2026
Subject A Woman Who Never Stops Moving (yet feels she's standing still)
The autumn harvest at Sacnoth's orchard was coming in beautifully.
Ezrianne had spent the better part of the morning among her trees as workers
gathered the ripe fruit, inspecting apples, directing workers, and
calculating what would be sold, stored through winter, or set aside for
liquor-making. By afternoon, she'd visited her two taverns to collect
profits, assess inventory needs, and confer with her managers. She secured
two more private sale agreements for monthly deliveries and exchanged sharp
words with a merchant who believed her generosity extended to being cheated.
It didn't. She seized him by the collar, hauled him across the Tipsy Imp's
bar, and sweetly informed him that he could either reconsider trying to
screw her over or discover firsthand why her roundhouse punch was renowned
on the field of battle.
His sudden agreement to reason was swift and eager.
Her son occupied much of her evenings until his bedtime, and she treasured
that time bonding. He was growing into his own giant-framed little person,
with his own interests, questions, and a keen mind. Raising him was an
undertaking she wouldn't trade for All the gold on Arkane.
The Spider & Loom blueprints were done, and the builders had her plans for
that third tavern.
By any reasonable measure, her life was full.
And yet.
Bloodlust was quiet these days. Leindo appeared when circumstances allowed,
and Tobryck remained reliably enthusiastic about anything that could be
solved by swinging something heavy at someone's face. She gladly joined
them in battle and was fond of them both.
Umbrus Caelum had once kept her occupied with endeavors that furthered
Drakkara's Vision. There had been purpose beyond her own holdings,
undertakings worthy of her talents, and allies with whom to share both the
labor and its rewards. She had yet to find another place where she could
devote herself to that kind of work.
In the interim, she was missing something.
Companionship.
Long ago, piracy had taught her the difference between acquaintances and
allies. The former shared a drink. The latter shared the consequences.
She wanted people in her inner circle; people with ideas, ambitions, and
peculiarities. People who might challenge her thinking, make her laugh, or
drag her into something gloriously ill-advised. People with whom silence
was comfortable because conversation had never been in short supply.
Her desire to establish the Scott name among the nobility had stalled. She
could confer a title easily enough, but building a noble house required more
than a name and a decree. It required a partner willing to shoulder the
undertaking with her. Someone with the ambition, character, and fortitude
to stand behind a woman of her considerable standing without disappearing
into her shadow. Such men, she'd discovered, were exceedingly rare.
Rarer still was the true friendship, folks who shared the camaraderie of
truly having each other's backs, even if they had their own individual
ambitions.
That evening, overlooking the orchard, Ezrianne took another sip of wine.
She had wealth, influence, a thriving estate, and a child she adored. She
had earned every bit of her standing and had no intention of diminishing it.
But so much of her life demanded something of her, and precious little
offered her a place to simply be. Perhaps she'd grown weary of being the
only one at the table that actually knew friendship and offered it without
strings.
And that, she decided, was a problem worth solving.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 00:52:33 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 1
The fevered man was gone by morning.
Tiber woke to the empty place across the compartment. The restraints there
hung open. The woman who had been chained beside the fevered man sat with
her knees drawn close, dried blood marking the cut beneath one eye. More had
dried along the boards where the man had rested against the wall.
The compartment remained quiet through the morning ration. Men ate without
the conversations that usually accompanied it. Where the restraints allowed,
they left space between themselves and the prisoners beside them.
Torsten's lip had swollen during the night. Sten worked his jaw carefully
before taking another bite of bread.
"How is it?" Torsten asked.
Sten opened his mouth wider, winced, and closed it again. "Attached."
Torsten gave a quiet snort. It was the closest anyone came to laughing.
Across the compartment, the coughing man still wore the strip of cloth over
his mouth and nose. He ate quietly.
He coughed once. Conversation had already been sparse - what remained of it
stopped.
The man lowered his bread and looked around the compartment. No one said a
word. The woman beside him turned her face away. He finished chewing and
took another bite.
A prisoner farther down shifted his leg. The iron of his ankle chain scraped
across the boards, and the man beside him looked over sharply before
realizing what had made the sound. Tiber watched him settle again.
Men who had been sitting shoulder to shoulder the previous morning now
angled themselves apart wherever the restraints gave them room. No one
complained about the crowding anymore - there was nowhere to move.
Boots passed overhead, drawing several eyes toward the hatch before
continuing on. The coughing man took another bite.
Branik came for them later that morning. He was alone. He began unlocking
restraints as he worked his way along the wall.
Torsten rose when Branik released him, touched his swollen lip with his
tongue, and glanced toward Sten.
"Back t' work."
Sten rose. "Apparently."
Branik unlocked Tiber's ankle restraint next. "Water?"
"Among other things." Branik stated before moving on.
When he finished, eight prisoners were standing. He led them through the
companionway and onto the deck.
More prisoners were working the lines than Tiber had seen the day before.
Two hauled at one near the mainmast under the direction of a single sailor.
Farther forward, another pair carried a coil of rope between them, while a
third prisoner worked beside a sailor securing loose canvas.
Torsten looked across the deck. "We're movin' up in th' world."
"Try not to let it go to your head."
Branik divided the prisoners between the waiting sailors. Torsten went
toward the mainmast with two others. Sten remained beside Tiber.
"You two. Water first."
Tiber took one of the empty buckets waiting near the hatch. The sailor
guarding the companionway called a correction to the prisoners working the
nearest line, then turned back toward Tiber and Sten. Branik was already
walking away.
Tiber followed Sten toward the barrel.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 00:54:43 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 2
The pair had nearly reached the water barrel when two sailors emerged from
the forward hatch carrying a dead prisoner between them. His shirt had been
torn at the hem, and a strip of the same cloth covered his face.
They crossed toward the rail without calling for anyone to clear the way.
The prisoners working the nearest line shifted enough to let them pass, then
returned to hauling. One of the sailors counted under his breath before they
heaved the body over.
Tiber heard the splash behind him - Sten did not look back. They filled
their buckets in silence.
The air below had worsened since Tiber's last visit. The smell of sickness
reached him before his feet left the companionway. Harl was farther down the
compartment, crouched beside a woman while Branik stood nearby.
Tiber found Corren in the same place, now sitting upright.
The change was enough that Tiber stopped before Sten nearly walked into him.
Corren still looked thin and exhausted, but the sweat had dried from his
face. A piece of bread rested in one hand.
Corren looked up. "You two again."
"Try not t'sound so pleased."
"I was enjoying the quiet." A faint smirk tugged at Corren's cheek.
Sten carried his bucket farther down the row. Tiber crouched beside Corren
and set his own between them.
"How are you?"
"Popular question lately."
Tiber put the back of his hand against Corren's forehead.
Corren endured it for a moment. "You could at least pretend to ask first."
His skin was warm, but nothing like it had been. "Still vomiting?"
"Not since last night."
Tiber's eyes moved to Corren's neck.
"Still none." Corren lifted one arm enough for Tiber to see beneath it.
"Harl already checked."
Tiber exhaled through his nose. "About getting better."
Corren lowered his arm. "He's less certain about that."
Tiber looked at the bread in his hand. "Keeping that down?"
Corren took another bite, chewed deliberately, and swallowed. "So far."
Tiber filled the cup and handed it to him. Corren drank most of it before
lowering the cup. Someone farther down began coughing. Harl's voice
followed, asking a question Tiber couldn't make out.
Corren looked toward the sound, then back at Tiber. "I've been considering a return to work."
"Have you?" Tiberius raised a brow.
"I hear the opportunities for advancement are excellent."
Tiber almost smiled.
Sten returned with the empty bucket and looked Corren over. "You're lookin' less dead."
Corren glanced up at him. "I've been working on it."
A shout came from above. Branik looked toward the companionway before
pointing Tiber and Sten toward the remaining prisoners. "Finish the water."
Corren tore off another piece of bread as Tiber rose. "Try not to worry. It's unbecoming."
"Eat."
"Yes, Branik." The two exchanged a faint look of familiar amusement with one another.
By the time he and Sten carried the empty buckets back onto the deck,
another body lay beside the rail.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 00:56:33 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 3
The body was still there when the sailor overseeing Tiber and Sten sent them
aft to sort a loose heap of line near the quarterdeck.
While they sorted the lines, a second sailor joined the man waiting beside
the corpse, and together they lifted it over the rail. The body struck the
water behind Tiber as he worked a kink from one of the lines and began
recoiling it.
Sarn stood above them beside the chart table with Talven and Harl. Branik
crossed from forward and climbed to join them.
"How many?" Sarn asked.
Harl rubbed both hands against a cloth already stained beyond cleaning. "Sick or dead?"
Sarn looked at him. "Both."
"Fifty-two dead since this began. Eight crew. Forty-four prisoners."
Tiber pulled the loose end of the line free and began working it back around the coil.
"And sick?"
"Eighty-three that I know of. Fifteen crew. Sixty-eight prisoners."
Talven looked toward the rigging. "...Twenty-two sailors fit for duty."
A shallow crease formed between Sarn's brows. "Twenty-two..."
He looked across the deck as he repeated it, toward the prisoners working
among what remained of his crew.
"If no one else goes forward today." Talven added.
A sailor called from the mainmast. Talven turned long enough to answer him,
directing two prisoners toward the line before returning his attention to
Sarn. Tiber finished the coil. Sten slid another toward him with his foot.
Sarn watched the prisoners join the sailor at the line.
"How many of them can replace crew?"
Branik answered. "Depends on the work."
"The work that gets us to Keshar."
"Some of them know ships," Talven said. "A few more know enough to follow
orders at a line. The rest can haul, carry, scrub, move stores. They don't
replace sailors."
Sten's hands slowed briefly on the rope before continuing.
Sarn turned toward the chart. One hand rested against its edge. "Four days."
Talven rubbed his thumb across one knuckle. "If the wind holds."
Sarn studied the chart for another moment. "Can twenty-two men get us there?"
"With prisoners doing the simple work, yes."
"And twenty?"
Talven didn't answer immediately. "...Probably."
Sarn raised his eyes. "Eighteen?"
A frown tugged at the corner of Talven's mouth. "Ask me when we have eighteen."
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 00:59:51 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 4
Tiber wound the last length around the coil and tucked the end beneath itself.
Sarn turned to Harl. "How many more will I lose?"
"I don't know."
"How many of the eighty-three will recover?"
"I don't know that either."
Sarn kept his hand against the chart. "But some are getting better."
Tiber thought of Corren sitting upright with bread in his hand, making jokes
while he kept down food and water.
Harl folded the stained cloth once, then again.
"Some are. Some looked better before they got worse again."
"Can you tell which?"
"No..." Sarn waited. Harl shook his head. "Not soon enough to promise you anything."
For several long seconds, Sarn said nothing.
Around them, the ship continued working. Prisoners hauled beside sailors at
the mainmast. Somewhere above, canvas cracked once in the wind before a line
drew it taut. Boots crossed the deck carrying stores toward the stern.
Sarn looked across the deck. "How many prisoners aren't sick?"
Branik answered after a moment. "Sixty-eight, last count."
"And how many of those are working?"
"Twenty-three today."
Sarn's attention settled on the prisoners hauling at the mainmast. "...Nearly a third."
"Today." Sarn looked at him. Branik didn't elaborate.
The forward hatch opened. Two sailors emerged supporting a prisoner between
them, one beneath each arm. His feet dragged across the deck as they brought
him aft.
One of them called toward Harl. "Fever. Started shaking while we were moving stores."
Harl left the quarterdeck and met them near the mainmast. He put a hand
against the prisoner's forehead, then beneath his jaw. Sarn watched in
silence.
"Take him forward." Harl's hand shifted beneath one of the man's arms.
"I'll examine him below."
The sailor overseeing Tiber and Sten pointed to one of the finished coils.
"That one forward. Both of you."
Tiber and Sten lifted it between them.
"Harl." Harl stopped. Sarn's attention remained on the prisoner between the sailors.
"How certain are you about the ones who aren't sick?"
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 01:02:20 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 5
Harl considered the question.
"I'm not." Harl glanced toward the prisoner between the sailors.
"I know who has symptoms now. I can't tell you who'll have them tomorrow."`
Sarn's attention returned to the prisoner. "He was working this morning."
"He was."
"Was he sick yesterday?"
Harl shook his head. "Not that I saw."
Sarn looked across the deck. "...How long between exposure and symptoms?"
"I don't know." Sarn's attention returned to Harl. "Not well enough to give
you what you're asking for."
The sailor beside Tiber pointed forward. "Move."
Tiber and Sten carried the coil toward the mainmast. Behind them, Sarn asked
another question. Tiber caught only part of Harl's answer.
"...could be days." The rest disappeared beneath the creak of timber and the
calls of men working the lines.
They left the coil where they were told and spent the next hour moving
stores from below. Tiber carried sacks while Sten worked beside another
prisoner shifting crates toward the stern. Sailors directed them between
their own duties, sometimes leaving one prisoner waiting until someone had
time to tell him where to go next.
Twice, Tiber crossed the deck while bodies were being carried toward the rail.
The first was a sailor.
Two of his crewmates carried him beneath the arms and knees. One stopped
long enough to pull the dead man's boots free before they lifted him over
the side.
The second was a prisoner. No one stopped working for either.
Near midday, Tiber emerged from below with a sack over one shoulder and
found Sarn standing near the rail. Talven was speaking to him, but Sarn's
attention followed two sailors carrying the prisoner across the deck. They
counted, then the body disappeared over the side.
Sarn watched the water for a moment before turning back to Talven. Tiber
carried the sack aft. By the time he returned, Branik had joined Talven and
Sarn.
"How many people are you sending forward each day?" Sarn asked.
Branik glanced toward the forward hatch. "For what?"
"Water. Food. Moving the dead. Whatever else they need."
"Depends how many can do for themselves."
"Today."
Branik considered it. "Six prisoners in and out. Me when I can. Harl. Sometimes crew."
"Six prisoners who could be working," Sarn remarked.
Branik looked at him. "Six prisoners keeping the others alive."
Sarn said nothing.
A sailor waiting near the hatch waved Tiber toward another stack of stores.
The work continued through the afternoon. The prisoner who had begun shaking
that morning did not return.
Another man was brought forward before the next ration. Tiber saw Harl meet
him at the hatch, speak briefly with the sailor supporting him, then take
him below.
When Tiber passed the quarterdeck again, Sarn and Branik were speaking near
the rail.
"How much water are they using?" Branik gave him a number Tiber didn't catch. "And food?"
"Less than they should be."
"That's not what I asked."
Branik's answer was lost beneath a shout from the rigging.
Later, another body waited beside the rail, a strip of cloth covering the
face. A pair of sailors hoisted it over as Tiber passed on his way below.
Near the end of the work detail, Branik came aft from the forward hatch.
Sarn called him over before he reached the companionway.
"The sick prisoners."
Branik stopped. "What about them?"
"How many can walk?"
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Oct 17 01:08:11 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Can Walk pt. 6
Branik studied Sarn for a moment. "Most of them."
"How many need help?"
"Ten. Maybe twelve. A few more if you expect them to go far."
Sarn looked toward the forward hatch. "...I don't."
The prisoners waiting near the companionway had begun looking toward the
quarterdeck. The sailor guarding them noticed and motioned for them to mind
their own business. Tiberius continued listening.
Sarn rested one hand against the rail. "Harl can't tell me which of them will recover."
"I know."
"He can't tell me which of the others will be sick tomorrow."
To that, Branik said nothing.
"We have twenty-two sailors left fit for duty. We're already using prisoners
to do their work. Every man sent below with water or food is one less
working the ship."
"Sick men still need food and water."
"And tomorrow?"
Sarn continued before Branik could answer. "Four days to Keshar if the wind
holds. What happens when we arrive with this aboard?"
His arm swept in a broad gesture, motioning to the ship.
"We get there first."
"With what? Half a crew? A hold full of sickness? Slaves no one will buy?"
Talven stood a few paces away. His thumb moved slowly across one knuckle.
Branik's eyes remained on Sarn. "Keep them separated. Limit who goes below.
Harl sees anyone who starts showing symptoms."
"The man he took below this morning was working beside the others."
"And when he got sick, we moved him."
"After he'd spent the morning among them."
Branik's jaw tightened. For a long moment, only the sounds of the ship
passed between them.
Sarn looked across the prisoners waiting near the companionway.
"Bring up the ones who can walk."
Branik did not move. "Why?"
Sarn answered without hesitation. "We're throwing the sick overboard."
Branik stared at him. "They're alive."
"They're sick. And every day there are more of them."
Branik rebutted, "Some are getting better."
"And some aren't. Harl can't tell me which is which."
"So you'd kill All of them."
"Nearly seventy prisoners are sick. They need food, water, and men this ship
can no longer spare."
Branik took a step toward him. "They're people, Vaelith."
"They're slaves we may not be able to sell, carrying a sickness that's killing my crew."
"And that makes this right?"
"It makes it necessary."
Sarn held his gaze. "Bring them up."
Branik didn't move.
"No."
Sarn stared silently into his eyes for several seconds. "That's an order."
"I heard you." Branik remained where he was.
Sarn's eyes remained fixed on Branik. "Talven."
Talven hesitated. "...Captain?"
"Find men who'll carry out the order."
Branik's eyes shifted toward Talven. Sarn's did not.
"If he won't do it, someone else will."
Writer: Arcadian
Date Tue Oct 20 12:51:29 2026
Subject Part one of two - The ghost of a road never walked!
( Of old stories, forgotten hearths and a young philosopher's awakening )
I was not there when the wagons burned.
This is the first truth I must establish, for I would not have my words
mistaken for the testimony of a witness. Nearly fifteen years have passed
since the destruction that scattered the Gypsy Wagons and cast their people
into uncertainty. I was not among those who watched the flames consume
their homes. I did not stand beside the broken wheels, nor did I feel the
heat upon my face as the smoke climbed into the heavens. The sorrow of that
day belongs to those who endured it.
I was born into the world that followed.
For much of my life the tragedy existed at the edges of my understanding.
It was spoken of in fragments, sometimes in quiet conversations between
older folk, sometimes in bitter recollections offered by those who had
little patience for the past and sometimes in stories told around fires by
travellers who remembered what had been lost.
At first, I listened as one might listen to any tale of distant misfortune.
I was young, preoccupied with my studies and convinced that the world could
be understood through reason if only a man devoted sufficient time to its
examination. The destruction of wagons belonging to people I had never met
seemed a terrible event, certainly, but one among countless tragedies
recorded in the histories of Algoron.
I did not yet understand that history may remain alive long after those who
witnessed it have fallen silent.
It was an elderly traveller who first made me reconsider my indifference. I
remember the evening clearly, though I cannot recall every word he spoke.
We had gathered near a modest fire and the conversation had turned toward
the old roads. Someone asked whether the wagons had once travelled farther
than they did now.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Once," he said, "you could hear their wheels long before you saw them."
He spoke of painted wooden panels, decorated canvas the familiar creak of
wheels upon uneven ground and music that travelled between wagons as
families gathered for the evening. He described a way of life that appeared
to me both practical and beautiful, homes that could move with their owners,
traditions carried across distances and a community whose sense of belonging
was not confined to a single stretch of earth.
Then his expression changed.
He spoke of the destruction, of the loss of those homes and of the years
that followed. His account was not theatrical. He did not embellish his
words for the benefit of his listeners. If anything, he seemed reluctant to
speak of it at all.
That restraint affected me more deeply than any impassioned lament might
have done.
I asked him what had become of the wagons.
"Some were lost," he answered. "Some were abandoned and some became
memories that people were afraid to speak of too often." I considered that
answer long after our conversation ended.
In my studies I had encountered many discussions concerning the nature of
loss. Philosophers debate whether a thing's value lies in its substance,
its usefulness, or the meaning that we assign to it. Yet the old man's
words suggested a different question, what becomes of a community when the
objects through which it remembers itself are taken away?
The wagons had been homes, but they had also been witnesses. They had
carried marriages, births, celebrations, arguments, reconciliations and
countless ordinary moments that no historian would ever record. Their
destruction had taken more than timber and canvas. It had removed places
where memories could be made and where traditions could be passed naturally
from one generation to another.
I found myself wondering how many young people had grown up hearing stories
about something they had never seen, much as I had. How many had
possibility?
That evening, I returned to my thoughts on Austinian.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Tue Oct 20 12:54:03 2026
Subject Part two of two - The ghost of a road never walked!
(continued ..)
My faith teaches me to seek truth through reason, goodness through
understanding and harmony through eloquence. I had often considered these
principles in relation to personal conduct, debate and the pursuit of
wisdom. Now I began to see their relevance to something greater than the
individual.
To understand a people, one must listen to their stories.
To act with goodness, one must consider what has been lost and what might
yet be restored.
And to pursue harmony, one must sometimes undertake the difficult work of
bringing together what history has left divided. I could not undo what had
happened fifteen years before. I could not claim the suffering of those who
had endured it, nor would I presume to speak in their place. Their memories
were their own.
But I could listen.
I could record what they were willing to share. I could ask questions,
preserve their recollections and consider what might be done in the present
to ensure that the past did not become the final chapter of their story.
For the first time, I began to think seriously about the wagons not as
something that had been lost, but as something that might yet return. I had
never walked the old roads beside them.
Perhaps, I thought, it was time I helped make them passable again.
Writer: Vierxae
Date Tue Oct 20 18:06:43 2026
Subject A Students Journal: That Which Lay Beyond - Entry One - Recovered Entry
I fear I have made a mistake.
Not the kind you turn away from and abandon. No, this is the kind of
mistake where you open a box of endless possibilities only to find enticing
horror within. I have found myself such a box, or rather grains of sand,
that have opened a door of possibility that will either restore something to
me which has been lost.. Or very likely drive me unto madness with what
lies beyond.
Obsession. Such a horrid sounding word for something so terribly
amicable to the study of a singular subject. Yet that is the only word that
offers the correct description of my current state of mind. It's been over
a week.. Two..? I can scarcely remember now, sleep lies beyond my grasp
and I fear the extensive hours I've remained awake within the libraries of
the Ebony Tower have truly taken a toll upon me. I feel a bare husk of my
usual self, though even that was barely a state better than I find myself
within.
I have begun to hear whispers when All is too silent, barely audible even
upon the most still of nights. They are felt within the back of my mind,
scratching and gnawing at mine own mental barriers as they seek entry to a
mind not their own. It's possible they are simply my own thoughts, ones
pushed aside screaming for the relief of rest and nourishment. Though the
chance that they are something more, something dangerous, keeps me alert
enough to maintain my mental barriers even as my body fails me.
This detracts from the purpose of this journal with my own ramblings. My
initial experiment has been, thus far, a partial success. I have been
attempting to melt the umbral sands gathered from the site Queen Piknim
brought me to. And I have managed a, to be blunt, miniscule sphere of
glass.
Attempts were made to model the appropriate color and opacity from the
sphere at the center of formation, having taken numerous trips back to the
side to take further notes as my mind brought forth new questions. This
has, at least, been successful on the small scale in which I attempted to
reproduce said sphere.
Magical flames that I produced, which are likely severely sub-par to what
a full magus is capable of, were not able to melt the sands. I've melted
more than a few vials and set no less than three tables aflame due to the
unforeseen consequences of using magical flame with the sand. At times, it
does seem magic is its own greatest enemy. Or perhaps bumbling students
are. Regardless.
I acquired the services of glassblowers in Verminasia for a modest fee to
instead work the glass for me as I observed and took notes. As one might
expect, the transformation of the sand to a usable medium was horrifically
long by compared to its mundane counterparts. In the end a whole pouch of
sand was reduced to a barely usable sum. This, at least, they were able to
transform into a sphere about the size of a large marble. Hardly fitting
for our purposes, but it does show that it can be worked with and shaped.
This must be presented to Wizard Thindyss so we might continue our joint
research. I will, eventually, need one large enough to hold not only an
eye, but a small amount of liquid in which it will be suspended within. I
do not know how we will manage the eye and.. What ever we decide to suspend
it with.. Inside the sphere. That is tomorrows problem.
Today? A small success.
Through I swear when I hold it up, I can almost see something within it..
Not with my eye, no.. But through the gaping socket where my other used to
be. Like a lingering shadow, formless and vast. Quite frankly, it
terrifies me.
But I can't stop looking at it.
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