Speculative Fiction & Synthography

Chapter 1 Scene 1

Blanc sits at the table, looking toward the door expectantly and a little anxiously as Muscle and Brain enter the Tin Throat. One hand rests on a small orange plastic box. She smiles a little shyly and waves to greet them.

The men wave back, signal the barkeeper, and join her at the table. Hardly do they take their seats when the barkeeper places their drinks on the table.

“What do you have there?” Brain, the tech-archaeologist, noticed the box the moment he walked in and can barely contain his curiosity.

Muscle nudges him. “Hello, sweetheart. Did you make it through your last trip alright?”

She smiles softly, looking at them. “Yes, I did. Everything went well, no incidents. I even brought something special.” She lifts the box and hands it to Brain.

He takes it with both hands, examines it from all sides, and places it carefully on the table. Then he sets up his foot-pedal generator and gets to work on the orange box.

Muscle watches the device, then turns an attentive eye to Blanc. “What was the price?”

“Just some water and food, nothing else,” Blanc downplays it, a little embarrassed.

“Your last water and your last food, as usual, right?” Her lowered gaze tells him more than enough.

“That’s a compact emergency transmitter,” Brain interjects, placing a hand on Muscle’s forearm. He senses that Muscle is about to lecture her again. “They used things like this in airplanes and on expeditions into remote areas.”

Muscle looks down at Brain’s hand on his arm, then at Blanc, then back to Brain. “Then they must’ve had a real nose for this region. You can’t get much more remote than this.” His laughter booms through the entire room.

Blanc now takes one of Muscle’s hands between her own. “Yes, Pops, it was my last water and my last food. I found a shepherd outside our camp. He was half-dehydrated. He told me about a shattered flying machine in an unknown oasis. The desert—the last storm—had driven him there. He had lost everything. His animals vanished in the storm. I felt sorry for him. I gave him something to eat and drink, and in return, he gave me this thing. He muttered something about it maybe being cursed and having sent the storm after him.”

Her heartbreaking look only strengthens the impact of the story.

A strange sound makes them all perk up—a beep. It doesn't sound natural. It's something you don’t hear in the Throat.

Muscle and Blanc look at Brain, who is rocking his legs while holding up the box, grinning from ear to ear. “Still works.” A green light flashes in rhythm with the beeping.

“What did you do there…”, “That’s great, I was hoping...” Muscle and Blanc talk over each other, directing their words at Brain, who clearly enjoys the fact that their attention has shifted away from each other and onto the device.

“It’s an emergency transmitter. The light and sound were meant to make it easy to find. It recorded position data.”

Muscle and Blanc fall silent instantly. “Position data?”

Brain nods. “Yes, and what’s even better: the device can show us the direction.”

They look around, but the guest room of the Tin Throat is empty except for the barkeeper. The “Old Man,” as they call him, is polishing his cups and smiles at the three of them. “A new hunt?”

They nod and put their heads back together.

Blanc’s voice trembles slightly. “The shepherd spoke of an oasis in the desert, so it must be to the east.”

Brain points to a reading on the device's display. “Quite far south and east. Maybe not even that far from the scrap fields. Didn’t you grow up there, Blanc?”

Blanc nods. “Yes, I did.”

“She was a little bird,” Muscle adds with a smirk. “That’s what they call the kids they send into the inaccessible parts of the scrap fields to salvage the very last bits of value—until this happened,” he gently strokes her white hair, “and they forbade her from sticking her curious nose into every dark hole and crawling into the furthest corners.”

“The name is bird.” Blanc straightens up proudly. “And plenty of people have benefited from the fact that I know how to read scrap. Where would our muscle-man here be if I couldn’t tell whether a part can still hold weight or is just held together by good intentions?”

Brain chimes back in. “What actually happened to your hair? I’ve been meaning to ask that for a long time.”

“Well, big guy,” Blanc snaps, “you tell him, while the little bird takes care of the next round of ‘used oil’.” Flapping her arms like wings, she disappears toward the counter.

Muscle can’t suppress a grin, but then his face grows serious. “It was a chemical accident. Three died, she barely survived.”

“Three children died,” Brain’s voice falters, “just because they were searching for scrap to survive. When does it finally stop?”

He looks over at the counter. Blanc is dancing and laughing in front of the Old Man, still flapping her arms around.

“She has enough joy for all four of them.”

“Yeah,” Muscle rumbles, “and some of us will make damn sure it stays that way.”

Blanc orders their new round of used oil—the house drink whose ingredients nobody knows—and watches the Old Man pour it.

“Where are you headed this time, Blanc? Are you hunting birds?”

“Yes, maybe. I think we need to talk. It’s going south and a bit east. I think we need to take a machine.”

“Dangerous area down there, or so they say.” The Old Man sets down the cups in front of her. “What’s it about?”

Blanc takes the cups with a smile. “I know, I grew up there. I got an emergency transmitter, and Brain managed to turn it on. We have position data from a crashed airplane.”

She turns and walks back to the table. Glancing over her shoulder, lifting the cups, she whispers, still smiling: “Bring a drink for yourself, too.”

As soon as Blanc is back at the table and hands out the cups, the Old Man joins them. “An emergency transmitter? … and it works?”

Brain nods. “Yes. When it’s activated in an emergency, it shows this final position—which means, for us, the location of the plane wreck.”

“The shepherd I got the transmitter from must have come from the Scrap Fields. A storm and the search for his lost herd led him to that oasis. He told me it was completely unknown,” Blanc explains.

The Old Man listens quietly to both of them, then nods. “Sounds good.”

“We need a Machine—a Mule—so we can transport our equipment and salvage the most valuable pieces right away,” Muscle adds. “If the people from the Scrap Fields get wind on this, the best parts could be gone.”

The Old Man straightens up. “They’re your Mules. Take what you need. I’ll give you the fuel. I’ll let the fuel depot know.”

Blanc looks at the men and laughs. “Good, that’s settled then. Let’s gather our gear and meet in the workshop.”

The two men nod, and they all leave the Tin Throat.

In the workshop, Muscle takes Blanc’s luggage and throws it onto the cargo bed.

“Muscle, why Susanne? I would’ve expected Elly. Why not Elly?”

Brain pauses. “Who is Susanne?”

“She means the Mule. Just like she turned ‘Motorized Universal Walking Machine’ into simply ‘Mule’.”

“I can understand that,” Brain grins.

With a sideways glance at Brain, Muscle answers: “Susanne has more cargo capacity and the stronger compressor.”

“She spits,” Blanc says. “Whenever it hisses and goes pffft, she spits.”

Muscle looks worried. “What do you mean? When the compressor is full and excess pressure escapes from the valve, a little water comes out with it?”

“Yes, she just spits,” Blanc replies.

“Hold on, I’ll fix that right away.” Muscle crawls under the Mule to the main pressure tank and opens the drain valve. A fairly large amount of water shoots out with the compressed air, hissing and spraying.

“There, now she doesn’t spit anymore,” Muscle says proudly, looking at Blanc.

Blanc looks at her fatherly friend with mock horror and astonishment. “Well, you didn't raise her very well. Look at that—I’m supposed to travel around with this thing, and she’s not even house-trained. She went right under herself.”

She says it, turns away, and walks off. “Tsk.”

Brain looks completely bewildered.

Muscle grins at him. “You don’t know her like that yet, you’ve never been out with us. She needs that to release her inner tension, now that we’re about to leave.”

Blanc peeks around the corner from behind the mule, laughing. “Spoilsport, I was having so much fun looking at his face...”

“Oh, Brain,” Muscle puts a hand on his shoulder, “before I forget: Blanc is a scout and a tracker! Out there, she’s the one in charge. If she says 'stop', you don’t take another step if you value your life, understood?”

Blanc joins them, looking deep into his eyes.

“The Ruin, the desert, and even more so the Scrap Fields—that is death. Merciless. I mean it: watch what you do out there.”

Licence: CC-BY-NC-ND

It's been happening for quite some time now.

At first, it was probably just a coincidence.

I didn't notice anything except a rustling, a scurrying in the undergrowth, hardly a sound.

I'm amazed at how someone can move so quietly through the undergrowth and last year's leaves.

Apparently, though, it was enough attention from me for her.

Perhaps she was surprised that anyone had even noticed her.

It always happens in the same spot.

It's become our meeting place.

First just sounds, a scurrying, then a shadow.

Finally, I was able to determine that it was a two-legged being.

I always sit in the same spot, in the woods, on the bench with the beautiful view.

She comes and sits down in front of the bush where she always hides.

Her eyes look at me.

Her gaze was characterized by curiosity and caution.

It's wonderful to finally see her.

I don't know what she is, some kind of forest spirit, or perhaps a dryad.

She's wild and shy, even more so than the animals, who have learned to avoid us over millennia.

And me?

I sit here.

Amazed that a being is slowly beginning to trust me.

Me of all people.

Perhaps that's precisely why?

Perhaps she senses it?

Knows that I no longer trust anyone.

My trust has been betrayed hundreds of times, and now I'm being tested to see if I'm trustworthy?

Perhaps we need to learn what trust truly is?

Licence: CC-BY-NC-ND

Night-Wrought

The wondrous world of fae beings offers ample room for a multitude of legends. Yet, among all these myths, the line between what is true and what the storytellers’ imaginations have added often becomes blurred.

Here is an exchange between two scholars sharing their findings on a fascinating phenomenon.

The learned and the wise call it "Nocturna Contexta"; in common parlance, it is known as "Night-Wrought."

“On the Nature of the Night-Wrought”

As you have described, the Night-Wrought is no mere fabric. Instead, it is a profound construct, spun from the threads of dream-shadows themselves. These are not the shadows of nightmares, for those are too dark for such an ethereal substance. No, from the dreams of moonlit nights, the Night Fae—ever skilled in the art of spinning—meticulously gather these elusive threads with their dreamcatchers.

With their ancient spindles and innate magic, these fae create a unique substance from the dream-shadow threads—a fundamental material. A weave of pure dream energy interlaced with the shadows of the night. The final form and purpose of the Night-Wrought then depend entirely on its intended use, making each creation a bespoke work of arcane artistry. It is a testament to subtle power and exquisite craftsmanship, woven from the fabric of sleep and moonlight itself.

Thus, it is the Nocturna Contexta, as the learned and wise name this wondrous entity made of dream-shadows—those delicate constructs wrought by Night Fae from moonlit dreams. This Latin expression, meaning "nightly-wrought" or "nightly-woven-together," perfectly captures the complex and deliberate creation behind the making of this substance. It speaks of the artful assembly and the magical weaving of the fae, who shape the threads of dreams into something new and purposeful.

The common folk, however, who feel the enchantment but do not know the exact mechanics, fall back on the apt but less specific term "Nocturne Wrought." This serves as a beautiful bridge between the Old English past and the mystical present, describing that which is "nightly-created" or "nightly-shaped." It is the vernacular term that captures the mysterious nature of the Night-Wrought without revealing its exact origin or process.

From Utility to Living Companion 

Over time, the Night-Wrought evolved from mere tools into something far greater. As the Night Fae further refined their artistry in "Night-Weaving," increasingly complex constructs emerged. These advanced Night-Wrought constructs served them not only as servants and helpers but, in some cases, even became true friends.

For in the end, the fae succeeded in creating these beings with such mastery that they were almost indistinguishable from true living creatures—imbued with a unique existence, wrought from the shadows and dreams of the night. Their evolution is a testament to the profound magical abilities and the special relationship the Night Fae maintain with the hidden forces of their realm.

License: CC BY-NC-ND

Silent Bloom of Dusk

The Envoy of Decay

Few among the wise have ever heard his name — if name he ever had. No records, no memories, no trace. Where he comes, all things have already ended. It is his hour, and his essence.

He is the Envoy of Decay.

Was he sent? Or does he walk willingly, bearing witness to the ruin of all things that die? Does he feed on the slow surrender of the world?

They speak of him in whispers, eyes darting, afraid he might step from the shadow behind them. Some tell of séances and the mutterings of infernal spirits that know his tale. No one claims belief — and still the story lives.

His arrival was never foretold. He was simply there.

Two black carriages — silent, dust-veiled, without wheels — halted before the southern gate of the infernal palace. A breath of ash rose and drifted down again, heavy as forgotten snow.

After an age — when even the idea of eternity seemed exhausted — the doors opened.

He stepped out first. Slowly. Unimpressed. Unchanged.

He spoke not. He regarded no one.

He moved toward the palace gates as though they had been waiting for him since the first collapse of light. His coat hung still — the air itself recoiled and thinned around him.

The wing darkened instantly, as if shy light had turned its face away.

The Grand Duke of Deceit, Prince of Lies, Keeper of the Nine Gates — the Devil himself —

... was not present.

He was occupied elsewhere.

Servants ran. The finest rooms were made ready.

The Envoy received quarters overlooking the Tribunal of Angels and the Purgatory — two faces of eternal order, smouldering like old photographs held too close to a flame.

He entered, sat, looked — and did not speak.

Time bent near him. Slower. Heavier. Uncertain.

Marble statues cracked. The torture engines sighed. The damned grew silent, uneasy in their own misery.

The Devil grew restless. He acted his roles — the jester, the deceiver, the tyrant.

Yet the palace was filled only with the stillness of decay. The Envoy did not eat. Did not complain. He simply remained.

At last, the Devil summoned her — the Envoy’s companion. Perhaps a sign of doubt. Some whispered, panic.

She came: black-haired, pale, graceful as dust before a storm. A smile that remembered beauty, though it no longer believed in it.

“Vacation …?” the Devil echoed.

She smiled. “Where, if not in Hell, could he best indulge himself? Sorrow, despair, futility … your realm is his delight.”

The Devil said nothing. A strange ache stirred inside him — something like helplessness. He did not recognize it.

Since then, the Envoy of Decay has kept his rooms within the palace.

No one enters.

The corridor outside is cold — not infernal, but void. Meaningless.

Sometimes new souls swear they hear a murmur. No one answers.

Only the Devil passes by, now and then. Slow steps. Straight back. Eyes lowered.

End.

Anmerkung: Die deutsche Übersetzung (Der Abgesandte des Verfalls) bekommt ihr hier: