An Archive

Unfinished Ars Magica drabble

The small village on the outskirts of the faerie forest was, more or less, a peaceful place. The echoes of past large-scale cosmic wars resonated throughout the place, and to the Gifted ones, these echoes were harmful.

So it was that a child of eight, previously thought to be as UnGifted as any other, awoke screaming, crying out to the world to make it stop.

This young girl’s name was Amande, and she was in great pain.

Her parents, a farmer and his wife, had no idea how to help their daughter, so, against everyone’s best judgement, they called upon the old wizard in the tower. The tower was in the faerie forest, however the feeling of a new Gifted one was powerful enough to cut through even the worst of the faerie magic.

An old WIP from my archives I never finished, meant to be a prelude to a Shadowrun campaign

12:00 am. Maverick Manor courtyard.

“Alright, team, listen up,” Ste said. He was a troll of considerable skill at head bashing, but he was also a good leader. The Snakes deserved a guy like him, for he made them tougher. “We got a job paying out in ten million nuyen and if any of you mess it up there ain’t no telling what I could do to you. So listen close!”

“’Scuse me, before you begin,” Linxan, the elf shaman, interrupted, taking a second to take out her contacts and replace them with a non-reflective set. “Okay, continue.”

“So, as I said, this job’s giving us ten million nuyen to work with. We ain’t splitting it ’cause I ain’t good with numbers. So, we gotta hack into the database, get this family’s bank numbers and SINs, and then get the hell outta there.”

“Where does the get the hell outta there part fit in, because I’m not seeing a link…?” Ru asked, making sure his cyberdeck was in working order. Ste looked down at Ru and growled ominously, “You’ll see. This ain’t no normal job. This’s a job for pros. We ain’t pros, but we’re also not new. So, let’s just get on in there and find all the computers, hack ’em, and go.”

The group nodded. It was time to go.

12:09 am. Maverick Manor interior.

The Maverick Manor was well-guarded, but not well-guarded enough. Good old Claws had taken care of those guards with her handy claws, and now they were in the foyer. Well, one foyer. This one was relatively windowless; the one at the front of the place had windows for walls.

In addition to its lack of windows, this foyer also had a wealth of ridiculous vases. Easy to hide behind, easy to get for a small pile of nuyen. Rigs, the dwarf rigger, commandeered a drone to lift two vases and take them to their van. The drone came back, ready to assist some more.

“Okay,” Ste said, pointing to the door. “We go in quiet, and if there’s any dudes in there we smash em. Got it?”

“Got it,” the team echoed. They’d do lots of smashing, they knew—a place like this didn’t come unguarded. If it did, it was definitely a trap. No shadowrunner wanted to be caught in a trap—in fact, no one did. That was suicide.

Ste opened the door, letting Linxan, Ru, Claws, Rigs and his drone, and the newcomer through. The newcomer was a technomancer going by Preacher, and he’d apparently been on many ’runs before.

The ’runners spread out, covering the room. It was one of those rooms that screamed rich people. Decorated with fancy objects on pedestals, expensive art, and even more vases (there were so many), in addition to the look-don’t-touch furniture, it was most likely one of the sitting rooms. Or, standing rooms—those seats didn’t look sturdy enough for sitting.

They dashed through this room, nabbing a few choice items, and got to the next room: a long, long hallway with many doors. At the end of the hall was a fancy door. They’d have to search all the rooms to find the computers….

But Preacher had an idea. “I’ll find the computers,” he said. He entered the Matrix, and scanned the area around him for any piece of technology that could be a computer. He found a few, one in the fifth left room, one in the seventh right room, and quite a few in the room with the fancy door. The Matrix vanished, and he told the rest where they had to go.

The fifth left room was an office. Filing cabinets, a huge desk, et cetera. Curious, Claws looked at some files. They were labeled by year, from 2075 (now) to 2013. They contained lots of documents on shadowrunners. In the 2075 file, there were documents on them. There was even one for Preacher…. Claws took this one and read its contents.

In which a time god meets his maker and learns a new reason to stay alive

(Yes, Soth is a renamed Sotha Sil.)

Nothing left. Soth leaned over the edge of the balcony above the clocktower, letting his eyes see everything. It was all beneath him now; millions of years of precise work, and no more could be done after. This was that time when Soth came to that realization. He could do nothing now, nothing but bide his time until he finally let go.

There was nothing more to do. No more waiting. The clock did not tick forever; the gears would wind down. Such procrastination was not fit for the god who watched over the clock.

Soth went down to his Regent and took him up to the secret workshop. It was time.

“You are ready?” Gestalt asked. “You are sure? There’s still so much—”

“Do not make me wait,” Soth said. “We have waited long enough. Do you hear it, the ticking of the clock? Every second wasted is a second closer to apocalypse, time-stop, and after that, there will be nothing we can do. I must do this now.”

Gestalt placed himself up onto the worktable and wound himself down. Soth got to work, and just as he was about to begin the ending of this operation, a voice called out.

“It is not time for you to leave yet.”

“What gives you this assumption?” Soth asked to no one in particular, hoping that he had just heard a figment of his imagination. As the voice replied, his hopes were dashed.

“I know it. This is not an assumption, nor was it ever intended to be. The most you may do now is lose your legs, which is what the clock will allow. Once you fall, the clock will shatter; you know this. Why not hold that off for as long as you are able? A broken clock is no clock, and no clock begins the end.”

“Yes, that is… true,” Soth said. “I know this already and I know also that once I transfer, then my Regent will prevent—”

“No. The Regent is but your king. You are his god, omniscient in the eyes of time and powerful evermore than he. Your Regent cannot prevent apocalypse. There is no preventing apocalypse. It is the end; it is the turning of the Cycle, the changing of the guard, and there is no preventing that. However, there must be a watcher here, one who keeps his eyes on the clock and one who is powerful enough to fix it. That is, and has always been, you. From the moment you—”

“Enough,” Soth said. “Why do you bore me with this knowledge? No, don’t answer.” Soth turned around and looked the clock-maker in the mechanical eye, noticing how this artificial yet organic… horned one seemed to whirl, like wind.

This was a being made of clockwork. Droplets of creatia, like glittering jewels, fell from the gears ze was made from as they turned, an endless stream of the sacred blood of creation that vanished as it touched the ground. Hir eyes glowed scarlet, with a hint of purple. Ze was hovering, clockwork wings arcing from hir back, framing hir with the essence of divinity that the horned ones were so known for. And, of course, hir horns. They were spirals made of gears and sprockets and springs, gently wrapped in soft blue flame.

“I do not want to accept your view,” Soth said. “I feel that only I am right in this situation; I gaze upon the clock often and regularly, and know its wants and desires. You do that never. Who are you to know the clock?”

“Ignorance must be so peaceful,” said the clock-maker. “You know of me, but you claim to have never seen me, when I recall your hands feeling me, asking me what I wished, asking how to keep me ticking. I am the clock. I am its voice, its maker, and its avatar. I remember every visit you have made to me, entering from the left where your Citadel is carved, finding your way through the gears, unsure at first, but quickly learning the ways, quickly learning me. Do you now understand…?”

The clock-maker, wheeling, said, “Do not disappear from the world. Do not vanish. You are not yet ready to fall from the face of Reality. Perhaps, in time, you will learn, and when you do I will be here, always ticking, until my shape changes and I must part from myself and become half-broken, half-not. But that is several sparks away.”

An unfinished self-indulgent crossover, part I

Grayson opened his eyes, gasping. He’d just had the craziest dream—he had been riding on a giant insect…. Wherever he was on swayed, like a boat. He was wrapped in silks and shawls and such, and his friends and family were there too, and now he noticed the floor was definitely… was that shell? No, chitin. Oh.

When Miya woke up, she screamed. Why… were they on… a giant bug?

“Quiet,” said their navigator, a dark elf. “You’re scaring the silt strider. It can’t receive my directions as well—” he quickly jabbed a navigational rod in between the chitin plates “—when it hears loud noises.”

“Where are we?” asked Grayson.

“You’re in Morrowind,” said the dark elf, then he coughed. “You appeared suddenly in the back of my silt strider here; I don’t question the affairs of wizards, which is clearly what sent you here. Almost crushed the sacks of alchemy ingredients I am transporting.”

“We’re in the home of the… your people?” Miya asked incredulously. “Oh no…” As was known, she hated dark elves.

“Mh,” the dark elf grunted, and resumed directing the silt strider. They strode on in silence (well, whatever could be silence; they could hear the moving of the silt strider, and its weird growl-groan-moans , and the occasional cough from the navigator).

Night fell. The silt strider approached the dock of a curious dark elf city, and the navigator set down the rods and stretched his legs (standing in one place for that long tended to stiffen him). “Since you’re here, would you like to help take these sacks to the alchemists?”

The otherworldly guests helped the dark elf with the load, and eventually, when it was all in the alchemists’ hands, the dark elf went to the inn in town, got a room, and went in. Grayson and friends decided to do the same, though the keeper was quite confused about the currency exchange between marks and drakes.

Next morning, it was Malachi who was first to wake up and he wandered into the dark elf’s room, nudged the elf’s exposed arm, and the dark elf cracked his full-red eyes open.

“Mister dark elf, can you take us home?” asked Malachi.

“Not a wizard,” he said, and pulled the silky blanket close. “We’ll be doing wizards work today… they might help you. Now go away; haven’t finished sleeping.”

Malachi wandered the hallway, peeking into rooms and seeing who was staying. He saw a pretty high elf lady, a big strong orc, a lot of dark elves, and some humans. Then he went downstairs. Few people were down in the main area, only the keeper and a few early-birds, but when the keeper saw Malachi, she came over to him.

“What are you doing here without your parents, child?” she asked, taking his hand and guiding him back upstairs. “I don’t think they would appreciate you being here before them. Here, go back to them.” Reluctantly, he did so.

An hour later everyone was down in the dining area, attempting to eat (or in the navigator’s case, enjoying) the traditional dark elven breakfast of kwama eggs, saltrice, and scrib meat sausages, seasoned with bitterleaf and comberry. The drinks were also strange to them, so most took water, but Miya had some experience in dark elven fare (not that she liked most of it) and gladly took a glass of shein.

They took the silt strider to another town, and here the buildings were made from great mushroom towers; these were wizards lands. Well, dark elf wizards, anyway.

The navigator headed into the big tower, then came back out with some slaves carrying the wizardly goods, and the silt strider was loaded up with them. The slaves scurried off to their masters, and now the dark elf took the Merol-folk in to see the resident wizard lord, Master Bel-Betu.

“Can you take us back to Merol?” asked Grayson. Master Bel-Betu looked quizzically at him and said, very clearly, “I haven’t the faintest idea where that is.”

“It’s a world—our world,” said Miya. “We were teleported here, apparently. I don’t very much care for dark el… um, the landscape here and I would like to go home.”

“Were you about to say that you do not care for the Dunmer?” asked Master Bel-Betu, taking a sip of tea. “You may want to leave before you offend anyone.”

“So you can’t help us?” asked Grayson.

“By the Three, no,” said Bel-Betu. “Once you can tell me exactly where this Merol is, then I will consider taking you there. Until then, I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.”

Prologue: Missing gods and broken divinity

Far up, past the clouds, on the tallest peak in the world, there was a point in space where the realms of the divine became one with the realms of mortals. This was the point of ascension, and pilgrims from far and wide had long labored to climb this mountain in order to meditate there. Now, however, the gods were gone, and their divine sparks were faded from the world. No pilgrims came now, which was good for the Snow Elves who lived near the point of ascension.

The world was forever changed, split now between two timelines, both equally distinct and strange. The other timeline mattered not now; only the one where the gods did not exist did.

A twisted energy, though faint, wove its way through everything, changing it, darkening it. It was most concentrated in Frohiqui, where new laws were being put into place by its Judges—of which Aum Arcana was now one.

In an attempt to redeem herself, Aum Arcana had presented herself before her father and the rest of the high Frohiqui’in mages after everything had passed, and formally apologized. Then, she had enlisted in the ranks of the Judges, a noble position sought by many, and, upon donning her hat, she had revealed that she was to be addressed as a woman now.

The efforts to prevent another “Aum-ish” disaster were high, resulting in the Judges passing many new laws on magic, specifically the summoning and ensorcellment of Dream Eaters and other such mind daemons. The Bashrahni and Azar covenants of Frohiqui, in particular, restructured their rules on daemonology to accommodate these new laws, and several proud mind-daemonology experts quickly found themselves struggling to come up with a new field of expertise. Many went underground. A few fled to other parts of the world. Others still took up the arts of illusion and regular daemonology.

One of the fleers from Frohiqui was a young prodigy, a student of mind-daemonology. She was half elf, half Frohiqui’in, and she was of the noble line of al’Ashad, given name Sylwia. She had come to Anhasi, to the city Sandport. From there she had sailed on the Shady Waif to the Realms, and had traveled, alone, from the port of ruined Lightlandia to Dawnbreak. There was a small village there, an isolated community of magically-gifted people, that she and a few other fleers had come to, in hopes that the locals would welcome them and their now-illegal craft.

Sylwia al’Ashad was the last to arrive at the village, and as she walked among its desolate, burnt down houses, she saw that there was no shelter here anymore. It had been torched. The fire-blackened bones of its past residents were hard not to step on and the ashes that had once been here was now long blown away. Sylwia did not believe in gods, but she hoped that wherever these people were now, they could find comfort among theirs. Then, she remembered: the gods had left.

These were written before I'd set up @aetherion-dwemer-zero so bear in mind they might not represent everything well.

Nzhavananear! A more glorious Aethership there had never been. Nzhavananear! Say its name aloud, now does that not inspire grandeur?

[This section has been lost]

…metal plates lining the hardened fabric of his voidsuit, an elegant and functional design. And as he looked out into the void beyond, spatial winds not ever managing to pierce through the voidsuit, he saw a spiraling galaxy in the distance and it was then that he realized he’d cut through the void so far and so fast in Nzhavananear that he’d left… the void.

But it was infinite. How could he had left?

[This section has been lost]

…and landed. Down they went, the Tower of Uplifting switching to the Tower of Downlowering (or something to that effect, translating such words from Dwemeris is really hard).

“Szard, fire off an announcing shot,” said Commander Kthchzand. The harquebus-master obliged, firing a loud burst of energy off into the sky, the sound traveling for miles. Naturally, the locals of this planet approached.

Szard looked at them, noted they had weapons, and warned Kthchzand, “They might think we are invaders.”

“That’s what we have harquebuses and orbital strikes for,” said Kthchzand. “If I wanted to kill them, you know what we would’ve done. No, let’s drop our weapons, to show we come in peace.”

The crew of the Nzhavananear let their weapons fall to the ground, held up their hands, and waited.

A warrior approached, dropped her weapon, and said something. Kthchzand flicked on his translator device.

“What are you doing here?” asked the warrior. “What is that metal thing you have come from? What are you?”

“We,” said Kthchzand, and his words were translated from the harsh Dwemeris language to… whatever language this planet spoke, “are Dwemer. We are the crew of the Nzhavananear, our… spaceship, and we are just exploring. You see, we traveled too far away from our home and we are lost, spacewise.”

“Hold on, let me get you someone…” said the warrior, and she went back to her group. She conversed with someone a while and then that person approached.

“Hi,” said the person. “I’m, well, the de-facto leader here. So, you’re space Dwemer?”

“If you must call us that, yes,” said Kthchzand.

“Well, mister space Dwemer, what are you guys named?”

[This section has been lost]

“So that’s how you got here,” said the emperor. “Huh. You guys have been through a lot then.”

“Commander—” artificer Mzin called, but Szard interrupted: “Hold on a dzum, suchi-el. Commander Kthchzand seems… zeroed.”

And indeed he did. The magnificent, opulent, glorious Kthchzand, whose face once shone radiant and fabulous, was now… dull. Dull, as the discarded waste of the artificers. His eyes were blank, staring off into nothing. Szard didn’t even think he saw him breathing.

“Commander!” Mzin exclaimed, grasping Kthchzand’s shoulders and channeling some energy through her artificer gloves. No response. “Bthan anum—where is Bthuand?”

Bthuand raised a hand weakly. He’d relegated himself to collapsing on one of the emperor’s delightful divans, as had many of the crew—compared to Nzhavananear’s seating this was luxury. Maybe they’d convince their commander to bring back some of this for the living quarters.

Bthuand approached Commander Kthchzand.

[This section has been lost]

…and the wailing,” Kthchzand gasped. “It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, and I’ve seen things. I don’t know how long I could have survived, had you not found a way to bring me back, and for that…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the emperor. “Really. Don’t. I tend to help people a lot and it kind of gets awkward after a while, hearing all those thanks and oh, however can I make it up to yous.”

The world was burning.

Malidi'taljam couldn't breathe. The air was so full of smoke that even an Ashlander like him found it almost impossible if not fully impossible to breathe. He dashed as fast as he could, as far as he could, away, away from the fire and smoke, but it was everywhere. Looked up, he saw vehkships trying to get people to safety, but they didn't notice him, not even after he risked the air he had left to call out to them.

The earth quaked.

Malidi'taljam stared at the debris of what had once been his home, the Ashlander camp of Urshilaku. Memories, bitter now. He didn't want to see them. The air still riddled with smoke, but at least it was breathable. He tried calling his silt worm, but of course it wasn't any use. All the worms must be dead.

The sky cleared.

Malidi'taljam looked up, sure he was the last Dunmer left. Why had the sky opened up? Why only above him? Then he saw why: a vehkship, of some unusual type, descended from the sky. Malidi'taljam was pulled inside and sat next to its pilot, who wore a moon and star decorated outfit, navy and yellow-white the color scheme.

"Why did you come to rescue me?" Malidi'taljam asked.

"Because you're an Incarnate," said the pilot. "Malidi'taljam, yes? I am... Moon. Or Silvhar. The second the Echmer told us about Landfall, I knew I must get you alive. But there will be more time for explaining when we get to Nu-Mundelbright."

"Is that where the others have gone?"

"No," said Silvhar. "They went to Secunda. Nu-Mundelbright is far away from that, but with hope we will be there in a few chronocules."

The pilot flew.

On and on through the void they went, and this voyage took hours. When they reached the seemingly derelict spires of Nu-Mundelbright, Malidi'taljam found himself being carried down off the vessel. There was a strange, bat-like mer who gazed at him curiously - was this the Echmer that Silvhar had mentioned?

Edited from the WIP chapter 1 of The Dark Light Wars Volume 15: Prismatic Amaranth, for Temple Nu-Zero

In an adjacent place, there was a sudden buzzing amongst all the silence. This buzzing, to the grabbers, was deafening, and they covered their sonar receptors with their tentacles and grabber-hands and skin-flaps and whatever else they had, as they moved towards the source of the noise. The buzzing grew louder and now static accompanied it, and a wave of cascading spectra extended from the center of the sound, visually representing it, and now both forms of particles merged to form an outsider, clad in strange armor from a different time. Beneath the visor the outsider’s eyes flicked between all the grabbers, unsure of what to make of them.

The grabber nearest to the outsider uncovered its sonar-sensors with a loud and sticky-sounding shwoop, approached the outsider closer, and stuck a tentacle onto it. Now they could communicate.

Whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyou

“I am a Class-12 spectral particle-form apparition future calamity soldier,” said the outsider, “designate Wraith.”

The grabber thought clearer and no longer needed to repeat its thoughts.

Why have you come here?

“I am lost,” said Wraith.

The grabbers thought among themselves and stuck their tentacles to Wraith, and now as one, the grabbers shunted Wraith back where it had come from. Now the buzzing had ceased… but the buzzing returned as swarms of grabbers cried out, realizing their trans-dimensional shunt had taken one of the adj with it!

Wraith looked around. The adjacent place was far away now, all fractal thought spores agreed. Now Wraith’s realiwave detector said: 1xxxxxxxZERO. Twelve identifiers as expected, but seven of them were either obscured or not reading at all. What? Wraith had never seen this reali-d listed anywhere, so the reality it corresponded to was completely alien to them. To check, Wraith tried to ping the others.

“This is designate Wraith, please acknowledge,” Wraith said while focusing on the communication point. Nothing. So Wraith pinged again. Now, there was something, but it was faint: UNABLE TO AUTHORIZE DESIGNATE: WRAITH ON SPORE-3454.

Then Wraith noticed the buzzing. A grabber was stuck to them like glue, super strength glue, because as Wraith tried to get the grabber off, it just wouldn’t unstick.

“If you refuse to leave, then…” Wraith let a simulacrum of humanity enter them, “I suppose you’ll need a name.”

Once upon a time there was a kingdom named Aloria and the queen of this kingdom was named Lucia. Lucia was a kind and lovely ruler who treated everyone with care. She was so kind and helpful that her people never knew tragedy until it was too late…

A man named John came to the kingdom of Aloria and said: “I need your men. All of them. They will become my firemen. My own kingdom is on fire and therefore I need strong firemen.”

But Lucia said, “No, you will not have those. I need them they are my subjects and they have no reason to go with you

This was when the ground opened up and made a huge chasm between them and now, out of nowhere there were some armies. And we are talking big armies.

Dragon man came flying from the sky, as he did, he had huge wings, because he was a dragon man. No one knew his name so everyone called him dragon man. Dragon man said: “Get! Off! My! Lawn!”

So dragon man started a killing, and then everyone ran away because they didn’t want to die! Well the old witch in the forests found them all and cackled madly as she does, and then she headed to the necromancer's haunted house, and she gave all the people to him. The necromancer nodded in approval and began grinding bones. Then his pet raven said “Stop it!” and yanked the head of Lucia and John right off and flew away with it, throwing it in the general direction of Sword Town. Now the leaders of Sword Town, the knight council, ran out and asked, “Who are these heads?” the bird told them.

Knights took the heads and stuck them on new bodies, then the new John and the new Lucia were relabeled knight council people.

Doubtful that I will ever finish this, so in the case I don't here it is

"How fares your mind, my king?" Goveri asked, his metal feet echoing as he walked across the marble floor.

"Today I am... unwell," the king answered, placing two fingers on his eyepiece and twisting it. "My sister has decided that she will visit our city shortly. I fear that she will be disappointed."

"Have no fear, my king, you are an excellent host," Goveri said, going over to the windows and opening the white silk drapes. The light from the artificial sun shone through now, casting colorful shadows as it was tinted by the stained glass. "Now, my king, what would you like to present yourself to her in?"

"I am not going to," said the king, and closed the curtains of his ornate bed. Goveri heard him open a book. "If my sister asks for me, tell her that I am ill."

"My king, are you sure that is wise?" Goveri questioned. The king said, "Whether it is or isn't is not my concern. You may go now."

Goveri bowed and, as he left, said, "I will check on you in a few hours, my king."

Later, when the king's sister arrived, clothed in thin white silks that accented her form and jewelry that showed her wealth but was not too ostentatious, she immediately asked to see her brother. Goveri denied her request and, as he had expected, she grew irritated. She walked straight past him up to the king's room, thrust open the bed curtains, and demanded, "Are you purposely avoiding me?"

"Yes," the king said. He was lying in the fetal position, the book he had been reading placed beside him. "I cannot handle you at the moment, sister. Don't think that I no longer care for you; this has nothing to do with you."

"Then what is it?" his sister asked. "What is so important that you cannot see me?"

"I cannot tell you," the king said. "Now please go."

"Tell me," his sister hissed, her magical flaming sword appearing in her hands.

The king looked up at her. For a moment he said nothing; he stared, mouth slightly open, considering how to say it. Then, very carefully, he said, "I am with child."

"How?" his sister asked. "You are male; it makes no sense. Do you mean that you finally have found a partner?"

The king shook his head. "Go. You will learn this later."

"Brother..." his sister said, growing angry. "Who was it? Who could possibly love a half mechanical abomination such as you? Tell me!"

"It is nothing like that," the king said. "I tell you the truth; this involves no one but myself."

"My king, if I may be permitted to remove her," said Goveri.

"Yes," the king said. His sister screamed, resisting Goveri's strong pull on her, but not for long. When she was gone, Goveri asked, "Did she harm you?"

"No, nor Ehn," said the king, finally choosing the name of his child. Ehn, "memory".

"You have named it Ehn?" Goveri asked. "May I ask why, my king?"

"In the future, Ehn will be all that remains of myself and my creations," the king said. "Ehn will be my memory and those that see her will remember it."

"You worry me," said Goveri. "Every day, you speak more and more about this... ending. My king, if there is something troubling you, please share it—let your caretakers share your burdens."

"I... know when the ending of the world will occur," said the king, caressing the child inside him. "I will not live to see it, nor will you. Ehn will be born soon after I die, and her caretaker I have already chosen and met with in secret. Now Goveri, do not worry about any of this. It is none of your concern."

"You truly are gifted with knowledge," Goveri said. "Good night, my king."

The day the king died had arrived, five days after this. His sister entered his workshop and asked him about the child. When he did not respond, she killed him in a fit of rage and insanity, and then she, too, died. When Goveri came to check on the king, he watched as a person he did not know appeared and took the growing fetus from the king's womb. The caretaker caressed Ehn, whispered, "You will be his memory."

"Who are you?" Goveri asked.

"That is for me to know and you to wonder," said the caretaker. "Rest assured, I knew your king very well and he trusted me with his life."

It looks down and creates a little lizard, then makes her humanoid. It names her: Vos-Ei. It creates an elf too, and it names him: Varyn. It creates more: Enal, Serevi Nerevar, Alandro, Looks-At-Water-Fancifully, Al-Naboor, Aliyah, and J'drirr. It splits these into timelines, several, and with each new timeline the ways are changed, and now it's in danger of ruining reality.

Some stream of consciousness