NicodemisFinch | July 11, 2010
The black-cloaked figure fed a steady stream of silk rope over the side of a stone bridge, pulling it from a bag much too small to have contained such a length. To avoid unnecessary attention in the endless subterranean darkness around him, Seth risked only the dimmest light from his hooded lantern, but still worried that the faint glow might capture the attention of any horrors lurking nearby. Yet, the light had been necessary when he tethered one end of the rope to the railing’s intricate stonework and would continue to be necessary until the rope was played out. As he worked, Seth sang a tune in his head to keep the stress of the moment at bay. He was more intimate with “The Lyre of the Clockwork Titan” than any other song in his canon. (more…)
Category: The Lyre of the Clockwork Titan |
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Tags: Clockwork, Darklands, Lyre, Short Story, Titan
Wicht | January 19, 2010
They say a girl always remembers her first time.
It was autumn and I was sixteen years of age. The smell of summer haying had been replaced with that of ripened apples. Our livestock had been moved out of the grazing fields and nearer the barns. Churlwood was bathed in a blanket of golden crimson and the promise of winter was heavy in the morning air. It was my favorite season and Lamashan was my favorite month; I wanted to make it a harvest to remember.
>>>>>><<<<<< (more…)
Category: A Harvest to Remember, Short Story |
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Tags: A Harvest to Remember, Arysta, Short Story
Dogbert | November 23, 2009
The young teen flipped through the pages of the leather-bound tome. Despite its age, the book was still in remarkable condition… almost like a grimoire. “So you’re a necromancer dad, no wonder you keep to yourself like you do” the girl said to herself as she ran fingers through her short, raven tresses. Her big, emerald eyes of elven half-blood went through the paragraphs in spite of the most insufficient light she used to read, skipping pages at random, stopping on paragraphs that called her:
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Almost every scholar of the black arts is familiar to some degree with The Whispering Way, a philosophy which seeks perfection in stasis, and claims the world must die in order for it to forever live. That, at least, is the assumed (more…)
Category: On the Whispering Way, Short Story |
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Tags: book of shadows, Irik, necromancy, On the Whispering Way, Short Story, Tar Baphon, whispering way
The black-cloaked figure fed a steady stream of silk rope over the side of a stone bridge, pulling it from a bag much too small to have contained such a length. To avoid unnecessary attention in the endless subterranean darkness around him, Seth risked only the dimmest light from his hooded lantern, but still worried that the faint glow might capture the attention of any horrors lurking nearby. Yet, the light had been necessary when he tethered one end of the rope to the railing’s intricate stonework and would continue to be necessary until the rope was played out. As he worked, Seth sang a tune in his head to keep the stress of the moment at bay. He was more intimate with “The Lyre of the Clockwork Titan” than any other song in his canon. (more…)