Magic, Myth, and Occasional Mayhem
“Carpe Diem” is an interactive fiction in which you play the part of an intrepid traveler on the border between Krygon and Yeniden. Your journey starts with but a simple choice…
Hristijan Pavlovski is a professor of Philosophy who loves art as much as he loves wisdom. His philosophy is that no other medium can summon the full range of human emotion quite like the literary arts can, and it is his goal to explore the extent of that.
In all the corners of the earth, different spells have different names. The spell we call hideous laughter is called lunatic’s laugh in Avaliet; the spell we call vicious mockery is called Tatech’s bite in Krygon. But to this day, in both La’al Sha’ahr and the Princess’ kingdom, they call the fly spell by another name…
Malcolm Schmitz is an autistic author who writes about queer people, eldritch angels, nebbish unicorns, and lace-making orcs. His fiction has been published in Crossed Genres, Fusion Fragment, and Sword and Sorcery Magazine; his short story “The Captain’s Sphere” made the Long List for the 2015 Otherwise Award.
Translator’s Note: This story comes to us from La’al Sha’ahr, the Singing City, and is a variation of a tale that’s been told for several hundred years. In the very earliest tellings, it was the tale of an akor’mar mage and her human slave; the more modern variant below is the one most commonly heard today.
Like many such fables, this is meant to be a morality tale; the lessons conveyed are traditional for the time and place. Intellectual curiosity, honoring challenges, the value of a good idea regardless of the source, and forbearance for those of both high and low station: all are virtues any La’aln mage would strive to possess.
This is a story about a rukh-sham, but it is not a rukh-sham story. For that, I’d recommend Cartier et. al, “The One Who Flew Away”, or the bard Chrysoberyl’s stinging retelling, “Wax Wings Melt”.
In the Singing City, when lions learned to dance (1), there once lived a woman called Wnissa. Wnissa was as clever as she was proud, and as proud as she was cautious.
Wnissa lived in a tower as tall as a hill, so tall that she could see the plains and savannas for miles around. She knew the secrets of the stars, the secrets of the sea, and even the true names of the mountain khurarl. She knew all the secrets of transmutation, and some arts from every other school of magic. She was so wise that she’d crafted a rukh-sham from pure topaz and not the ragged stone that most rukh-shami are made of; she named it Sabah (2), because its body was the color of light in the morning. Yet with all her knowledge and all her wisdom, she almost never left the tower; few had ever seen her face.
One day, a young princess-errant (3) came to visit Wnissa from a far-away land. She stood at the foot of her tower, and shouted up to her.
“Build me a pair of wings,” the princess-errant told her. “I wish to fly.”
“I will not,” Wnissa said.
“They say you’re the wisest woman in the world,” the princess-errant said. “If you can’t build a pair of wings, who can?”
“No one,” Wnissa said. “Any man who built a pair of wings came to great grief.”
“I need a pair of wings,” the princess-errant said, “and if you won’t give them to me, I will find someone who will.”
“Very well,” Wnissa said. “I wish you good fortune.” (4)
The princess-errant went on her way, and Wnissa went back to her books. For three days, she was still and silent, at her studies.
On the third day, the princess-errant returned, wearing a sharp smile. “Lady Wnissa,” she said. “I have found a man who will build me wings.”
Wnissa set her book down and came to the tower window. Her dark eyes narrowed. She gazed down at the princess’ earnest face.
“Have you?” she said.
“Yes. His name is Harilden. He knows a ‘mar secret from deep beneath the ground,” the princess-errant said. “He can turn feathers into wings with wax and a spell lost to mankind.”
“Those wings will never take you an inch off the ground,” Wnissa said. “There is no secret of flight.”
“He says they will,” the princess-errant said and smiled her sharp smile again. “He says he is the wisest man in the world, and with his secret, he may do what even Wnissa cannot.”
Continue reading “Wings of Wax, Tongues of Topaz”So, from all corners of Talmenor in which the tokagi resided, entourages of wise folk flocked to Makuta’Mata. Some came to finally settle old debates, others to learn, and yet others to earn fame to their name… While some, well, some just appeared to have a bit of fun.
Hristijan Pavlovski is a professor of Philosophy who loves art as much as he loves wisdom. His philosophy is that no other medium can summon the full range of human emotion quite like the literary arts can, and it is his goal to explore the extent of that.
My queen,
The following was taken from a set of tokagi tablets discovered during our expedition to Little Eyelet in the Isles of Nulst. The work done to translate this was difficult, as the tokagi notably do not have a spoken language, instead relying on pictographs as well as a dialect based on scent and gesture for in-person communication. For this reason, this translation may seem a little whimsical, but the priesthood of the Nulst assure me it is accurate to the tokagi way of thinking. May it aid you in your endeavors to make an alliance with these peoples.
Sincerely,
Magelord Tolrend Weal
Many moons ago, a summon was issued by Chief Punji-Mata to all corners of Talmenor, calling forth envoys of the wisest tokagi from their respective tribes. They were to come together and finally end the debate about their origins as a species: something that had caused them misunderstandings and quarrels for many hatching cycles. All those who deemed themselves wise and knowledgeable in such matters could attend, no matter the position they held within their tribes.
The meeting was to be held in the village of Makuta’Mata. If decisive, it would be a historic moment for the tokagi. Settling the dispute once and for all would bode well for the Chief’s reign, as well as serve as an example of his prudence and intellectual prowess.
So, from all corners of Talmenor in which the tokagi resided, entourages of wise folk flocked to Makuta’Mata. Some came to finally settle old debates, others to learn, and yet others to earn fame to their name… While some, well, some just appeared to have a bit of fun.
Continue reading “Flames by the Campfire”“Hmm… It is a magic axe… Maybe it’s my ‘Cast Iron’?” crowed Granny Dun.
“Granny!” Sirdrae cried in exasperation. Thalir chuckled from a few feet away as he swung at his next foe.
“See? He gets it!” Granny took a step forward and smiled…
Katrina Schroeder is a book coach, editor, and writer. When she’s not knee-deep in words, she’s playing tabletop and video games, reading more books than she can keep up with, or is in a kayak. She can be found on Twitter as @katrinaeditorial1 or you can learn more about her on her website at katrinaeditorial.com.
Rock and dust trickled down on Sirdrae as she chipped away at her work. The clinking of Little Folk pickaxes against stone echoed throughout the cavern around her. She paused a moment to close her eyes and let the symphony envelop her. She loved this. Nothing felt more right than when she was surrounded by the chorus of axes and stony earth. Sirdrae thought she could sometimes hear where the mineral sat in the stone, like a lone horn playing quietly and poignantly above the rest of the orchestra. She often wondered if it was her imagination, explaining away a coincidence, or if she held a little mage power herself.
She felt a nudge at her arm, and she opened her eyes to see her grandmother standing next to her.
“You gonna stand there all day, or you actually gonna get some work done, huh?” Granny Dun’s toothy smile was almost as contagious as her laughter. She began chiseling at the stone wall next to Sirdrae.
“Hey, Granny. I was just enjoying the moment.” Sirdrae swung her pickaxe at the stone in front of her. The day’s work had been slow going. She hadn’t found much of anything exciting.
“Well, I guess I’ll allow it. There’s nothing like the sound of a bunch of Little Folk grunting as they slam metal to stone, is there?” She cast a side eye to Sirdrae and followed it with a wink.
Sirdrae chuckled and shook her head. “No, nothing like it at all.” As much as she loved the sound, it still made her a little anxious. There had been rumors of demonspawn attacks further down in the Reaches, specifically on outlying mining villages. The news always came from clans much farther away though, so she felt a little safer. Only a little though: the worry still ate at her, like a hungry dog gnawing at a dry bone.
The dark metal of Granny Dun’s axe shimmered in the lamplight as she raised it to chink at the next bit of rock. Sirdrae’s heart fluttered, and she almost jumped from excitement. “Wait, that’s not steel! Is that a new axe, Granny? Made with the new metal?”
Granny Dun hefted her axe to better show it off. Now that was a sight to behold. Her massive braids of white hair piled about her shoulders, each intertwined with runic metal cuffs. One hand rested on her hip while she proudly held up the axe with the other. The sparkle on the bladed head matched the happy glint in Granny Dun’s eye.
The handle was ornately decorated with runic patterns that were beyond precise. Sirdrae knew Dolgan’s work — her husband and the clan’s mage-smith — the moment she saw it, but Granny’s new axe was impressive, even for Dolgan. The pommel had a green gem that glowed slightly. Dolgan must have added a little bit of magic to it to give the axe additional strength against chipping and breaking, Sirdrae thought. The head itself held no intricacies, but it didn’t need any in order to be beautiful. The black material had been polished and shined as though it had never been touched. She could practically see her own reflection in the black blade.
“You’re darn right! It’s waystone.”
Continue reading “Back in Axe-tion”“Quiet!” Brodin shouted over his shoulder at the frightened men and women. He stood between them and the door to the mage tower. “He is a Wvorgi! He did not hurt Khalen, but he may be able to find him.”
“The Wvorgi are extinct!” a man shouted. “They haven’t been seen in decades.”
“They are extinct,” confirmed Brodin. “He is the last, and we need his help.”
This story contains some mature themes to do with human trafficking and is not suited for younger audiences.
Editor’s Note
The crooked flats of Arondzei, the Village on the Steppe, were a series of plains carved across the northern ridge of the Alt’Rhazia Range, stacked together like neat vertical zigzags. Atop each shelf were shaggy, lush grasslands, the interweaving roots of the grass as thick as handwoven rugs, dotted here and there by small, modest homes of earth and stone, their roofs near indistinguishable from their surroundings, covered as they were in the same grass-woven sod. At a distance, the town was all but invisible, which was how the villagers liked it.
Then, one night, the window of the old mage’s tower was illuminated by a small candle. The overgrown dwelling had been empty for decades, its stone walls heavy with dirt and snaked over with vines. Creeping weeds and climbing foliage all but obscured the front of the building from view. If not for the candle in the window, the place would be all but invisible to the undiscerning eye.
Yet, the next day, the weeds and vines were cleared away. Not long after that, a new frame was set in the doorway, and a fence went up, creating a small corral for a cadre of goats. By then it was clear to the villagers that whomever had traveled to this place had intentions to stay.
Brodin, a young man from the village, elected himself spokesman to approach the dwelling. The rest of the village huddled in a group fifteen feet away or so, muttering amongst themselves as Brodin approached the building to find out whether the new arrival was friend or foe, warmonger or deserter. Striding to the door, his back ramrod straight, Brodin knocked brusquely.
“I come to discuss your intentions in this village,” Brodin said loudly, loud enough for the others watching to hear.
The door opened. The person inside could not be seen from where the villagers stood, but after Brodin spoke, the door opened a bit wider to admit him. With a brief hesitation and backward glance at those gathered behind him, Brodin ducked his head and went in.
Not ten minutes later he came out, his face as gray and heavy as autumnal storm clouds. Straight to his own home he went, where he closed the shutters and locked the door. From the secret place above the transom, he pulled parchroot beer and drank it late into the evening. When asked the next day, he told the other villagers the new resident had the right to stay but elaborated no further. Continue reading “The Last of the Wvorgi”
“Tell me where the gryphon is. Now!” she shouted out. Her breath started to grow heavy. Each swing, each thrust dug into heavy flesh… it took a toll on Juliette that wasn’t exclusively physical.
By Penny
Despite its ornate façade, gryphon riding has always been one of the most common causes of deaths in the Tarithian army. Those brave, ignorant or desperate enough to take up such an activity often meet a grisly end, falling from hundreds of feet in the air without the need for enemy intervention. It had become a running joke among the Tarithian army: “Defeating a Tarithian footman requires a blade, a horseman a spear, but with a gryphon rider, you only need one good eye to watch the show.”
Of course, the subjects of such crude and morbid humor have not been blind to the dangers of their profession; gryphons have been fitted with equipment so their riders are firmly seated upon them, and the riders are extensively trained to avoid accidents. These measures kept overzealous riders from doing all sorts of tricks and twirls that might otherwise become the last bit of theatre in their lives.
However, as with all things human, there are always certain outliers.
Above Tarith's forests flew a squadron of gryphon riders, the courier bags on their hips full of written orders for the officers on the front lines. Everyone was shrouded in anxious anticipation; as the war with the Krygons dragged on, horror stories from the front lines started to trickle back home. Bands of akor'mari, branded as killers and savages, stalked the night, their gray skin blending into the shadows, their red eyes gleaming in the dark, their hair as pale as the First Daughter moon – save for the strands drenched in the blood of Tarithian soldiers.
But right now, for better or worse, these boogeymen were the least of the riders’ concerns. One was a woman, whose frame was too small for the large gryphon she was riding on. Her feet couldn’t even reach where the stirrups were supposed to be, but even if they could, her gryphon was fitted with none, anyway. All it wore was a saddle, reins and body armor. The sight unnerved everyone; lack of proper flying gear was usually a death sentence, but this woman was an outlier, thriving in the skies far more than any of the riders.
“Hey, Juliette…” one of them called out to her. “Aren’t you scared of ending up being another one of the army’s safety stories? You’re barely wearing any gear at all!”
“Huh!” Juliette scoffed. “We’ve been over this again and again. If I was going to end up like that, it would’ve happened already, but I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Still…!
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To find Sar’Kata, Barmy had to cross the River of Life and Death. It was a long, long journey, full of twists and turns. Barmy defeated a dozen droth, moved a naiad into a dried-up well, and saved a village from wildcats with the help of Talking Mice. But all of these are other stories for other times.
Malcolm Schmitz is an autistic author who writes about queer people, eldritch angels, nebbish unicorns, and lace-making orcs. His fiction has been published in Crossed Genres, Fusion Fragment, and Sword and Sorcery Magazine; his short story "The Captain's Sphere" made the Long List for the 2015 Otherwise Award.
Translated from the Talshei Codex
with commentary from Borage of Freeport
Editor's Note: This folktale comes to us from the Talshei Codex, a record of folktales from the Little Folk of the Shey Lands.
The Talshei Codex was most likely composed in the Year of the Dappled Rat by the Traveler, an adventurer from Krygon whose records have long outlived their true name. The Traveler is thought to have been a bard from the Mogul's Imperial Court who was tasked with cataloging the legends of outlying parts of the fledgling Empire -- and, incidentally, rewriting them to better suit the Mogul’s political aims. The Codex therefore takes a condescending Imperial view of the Little Folk that would be considered offensive in cosmopolitan academic contexts today.
The Codex is an unreliable resource for earnest academic discussion of Sheyn folklore, but is quite a revealing look at the political and spiritual views common in the early Empire. Any student of Krygon’s recent history should be aware of the Codex -- and the other works like it.
Very, very long ago, when fleas were barbers and sheyn-goats learned to smoke, there was a little yurt-village on the west slope of nowhere. The village had goats; the village had goatherds.
And the village had its idiot, one Barmy Blakken. (1)
Barmy Blakken was a goatherder, son of a goatherder, grandson of a goatherder. Not a single branch of his family tree had ever grown towards anything more.
But one day, his folks took their goats to Stormvale, the biggest city Barmy had ever seen, and in Stormvale, the Market Street was roped off. A crowd of Big Folks gathered round it, thick as plaster.
"Momma," Barmy said, "what's all that for?"
"There's a parade, Barmy," his momma said. "Pay it no mind."
A trumpet bleated, and a carriage passed through the empty street. A carriage made of shiny gold, and inside was a maiden: a Big Folk maiden with long, black hair and skin as dark as the night sky.
She was the most beautiful woman Barmy had ever seen, and he couldn't help but stare.
"Momma," Barmy said, "I'm gonna marry that girl."
"Like nuts you are, you idiot," his momma said. "That's the Princess of Tarith. You ain't never gonna speak to her."
"Yes, Momma," Barmy said.
"Now hurry up, come help me with the goats," his momma said.
Barmy didn't want to help with the goats. Barmy wanted to follow the Princess and ask her for her hand. So, he helped with the goats, but late that night, he snuck off to the Palace. He climbed up its stepped terraces, pulling himself up brick by brick, until he reached the highest room and the tallest terrace. (2)
A light shone through the window. Barmy had to stand on tiptoe to get a glance inside.
He saw the Princess brushing out her long dark hair. He reached up high as he could and tapped on the frame.
"Who's there?" the Princess said. She looked out the window, but didn't see a soul.
"Down here, Princess!" Barmy said. He waved, so hard he wobbled.
"Oh? What do you want, Little One?" the Princess said.
"I've come... to ask... for your hand... in marriage," Barmy said, trying to keep his balance.
"You asked me?" The Princess raised her perfect eyebrows.
"If you're wanting," Barmy said. "My momma has the biggest goat herd in the village. I could treat you right."
The Princess laughed, covering her rosebud mouth.
"How... sweet of you," she said, "but my father won't allow it."
"Your father?" Barmy blinked. "What's he got to do with the price of goats?"
"If you want to marry me," the Princess said, "you have to ask my father for my hand. And he thinks no man is good enough for me, not in all of Talmenor."
"Well, that's dumb," Barmy said.
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“You moron! Never do that again!” yelled the captain. He approached Percy, yet as he put his hand on Percy’s shoulder, he was taken aback by what he found. Percy was standing stiff, but he was not alive. His throat had been bitten out.
Hristijan Pavlovski is a professor of Philosophy who loves art as much as he loves wisdom. His philosophy is that no other medium can summon the full range of human emotion quite like the literary arts can, and it is his goal to explore the extent of that.
Our story today begins in the market square of Rivermeet. On the board present in the square, we find a posting by the captain of the guard. It reads as follows:
The bailiff requires brave and capable adventures to investigate and inquire into rumors about strange noises emanating from the sewers below the city. Furthermore, in recent days there have also been reports of disappearances from the slums. We are unsure if these two events are connected.
A party is to be formed on the first day of the following week. Any adventurers who sign up will be awarded a gold coin for their services, with further compensation when the task is completed, based on the arduousness of the endeavor.
Signed,
The Captain of the Guard
Even among the hustle and the bustle of the busy market square, a pair of prying eyes spied the posting. The eyes belonged to Vivian, an aspiring medicine woman.
She had recently finished her apprenticeship under her master, Dalaran, and was looking for an opportunity to test her knowledge. And, as most youths are, she was willing to potentially risk her life if it meant that she could gain some renown from her exploits. So, she decided to take up the captain’s offer. Even though she had no prior experience with adventures, Vivian understood that every party needs a healer, no matter the circumstances. It was better to have one and not need it, than not have one present when you needed it the most. Continue reading “The Black Blade”
The one called Dana was incessant. Every sound that came from the surrounding jungle was met with a “What was that?” and the near constant questions about safety and security in these lands made it difficult for Caryx to process his own thoughts.
By Joe Salamone
Joe Salamone is a gamer, narrative designer, and writer. His belief is that the written word is only one way to tell a story, and that through imagery and music, a well told-tale can take on an energy that goes well beyond what’s written on the page. His hope is to one day craft stories that can be put to use in video games or around the roleplaying table.
Caryx,
I trust you are well. I have a task for you. I feel you may be the one most suited for it, and I trust that you will take the utmost care in fulfilling it. We have received an emissary from Tarith recently with a request. I’m sure she will make her requests known almost immediately. Please see to it that she is provided with the utmost respect and care, as her larger requests are pondered by Her Majesty. When completed, please see that the emissary returns safely, so that she may have her audience with Her Majesty.
Respectfully,
Nin’Sari Valden
Caryx stared at the words on the page. The heavy seal of the Mamean Circle completed the letter, which Caryx searched heavily for any other details, though he could find none. His amber eyes darted quickly between the words on the single piece of paper and the young human girl standing in front of him. The two of them stood face to face -- or face to chest, as she was significantly smaller than him. Her blue cloak stood out from the greens and browns of the jungle that framed her as a backdrop. She had arrived alone, carrying only her own small pack and this single-page letter.
As he lowered the page, he began the task of studying her. Small in stature and young, by his reckoning. Her cloak protected her head from the rains that often swept through this area, and her eyes remained fixed on his.
In all of his years as a game warden on the Mamea Nubandu preserve, he felt that the most telling feature of any living being was the eyes. Her eyes were big, bright blue, and unwavering. If not for the conviction behind them, Caryx would say that these were eyes of a prey animal: a scared creature whose purpose was to run and to feed whatever larger beast found her first.
“Well?” the girl said, breaking the silence.
“What is request?” Caryx responded flatly.
The girl let out a large sigh. “A request. If I ask you for a…” She paused slightly. “Like a favor.”
“I know what request is. What is request?” Caryx asked impatiently.
The girl blinked. “Oh! Oh, you mean my request. Of course. Well, I have been sent from Griffinrock to evaluate the possibility of training large predators for use in armed conflict.”
Caryx flicked his tongue at this. “Armed conflict not for animals.”
The girl lowered her head. “Well, yes. Right now they are not, but with the proper training, as we’ve done with our gryphons, they could very well turn the tide--
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Vigmarr wasn’t ready to share his story yet. He was beyond grateful that Elly understood that. What would she say if she found out the truth? He couldn’t bear to hurt her. Yet he couldn’t bear to keep thinking about it, either.
Katrina Schroeder is a book coach, editor, and writer. When she's not knee-deep in words, she's playing tabletop and video games, reading more books than she can keep up with, or is in a kayak. She can be found on Twitter as @katrinaeditorial1 or you can learn more about her on her website at katrinaeditorial.com.
The village lay just ahead at the bottom of the hill, a few miles west of Bataklik Forest. The sky was gray, threatening to spit rain, and smoke rose from a few of the homesteads. Vigmarr wrapped his wolf-skin cloak a little tighter around him. The temperature was comfortable, but the sight of the village settled within the fog brought a shiver that shook him to his core.
Who the grel am I kidding? Vigmarr knew the shiver wasn’t the thought of the coming winter. He didn’t have the courage to make his way down the hill.
He’d camped just outside of town over the night. After taking six months to return home, he didn’t think one more night away would make a difference. Grel, his family probably thought he was dead anyway. He could just keep traveling and continue taking up mercenary work here and there, but none of those battles carried the same rage and excitement that they used to.
No, his family deserved to know. Elly deserved to know.
“Screw it.”
Vigmarr hefted his bag over his shoulder and made his way home.
He felt like the walk down the hill was the longest and heaviest walk of his life. But he also didn’t want it to end. The sooner it ended, the quicker he was in town. He grunted, shifted the weight of his bag, and picked up his pace. Dust kicked up around him, and it carried with it a nostalgic scent. He hadn’t been gone for more than a year, and yet the familiar scent of home’s earth elicited a softer grunt from his throat. His face began to relax.
Vigmarr finally crossed the village threshold and stopped. It didn’t feel any different. Why did he think it would? He shook his head and continued on.
“Vigmarr? Holy chit, boys, it’s Vigmarr the Scarred as I live and breathe!” He turned at the familiar voice. A young man, about Vigmarr’s daughter’s age, jogged up, followed by a few other young Yeni soldiers.
Tomas whistled as he got closer to Vigmarr. “Wow, I heard the stories, but they sure don’t do it justice. Trade ya a drink for each story you have for those scars.”
Vigmarr nodded his head once at Tomas and grunted. “Grab that drink another time? I best be getting home to Elly.”
Tomas nodded, and his eyes softened with grief. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
Vigmarr turned to leave.
“Vigmarr?”
Vigmarr stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I’m sorry. We’ll catch that drink soon. You deserve it.”
No, kid. I don’t. But he nodded and continued further into the village.
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