VYSHKA OF RASHEMEN.

confusion. dizzy and disoriented. up is down, left is right, friend is foe ..

dark lashes flutter open as hazel irises quickly dart around in a desperate attempt to bring everything into focus. deafening ringing was in tandem with a splitting headache stemming from the right side of his forehead, now raw and sticky from an open gash.

the assault on his senses was utterly nauseating, thoughts now a muddle of incomprehensible words. once his vision was less dizzying, he maneuvers his aching body to be sitting upright, leaning onto his palms to maintain balance.

where am i . . ? how did i get here . . ?

were the first comprehensive questions that came to freyja's mind. his eyes frantically move about, taking in the scenery of crumbling ruins that were lit from a hole above. looking down at his hands, he realizes that he was sitting amongst a massive pile of rubble.

last thing i remember was running . . . why was i running . . ?

attempts of remembering what happened were rather futile, aggravating the existing headache. it was plain as day that he had fallen through a crumbling stone floor and into the ruins below, gaining a nasty concussion amidst it all.

𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖞 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝕶, 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝕶𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖘, 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝕶 𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖘, 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓. dusk has begun its decent upon the world, and it swallows the temple ruins right alongside the rest of the forest, piece by crumbling piece.

through the near dark it treads soundlessly, tall, too tall, bent over in an ugly hunch. dirt and blood cakes its matted, fly-ridden fur. long jagged fangs line a hot mouth like broken wagon spokes. its jaw trembles, drool flinging from it in great big drops as it snaps at air, at scent. at what it yearns to sink into and never let go. starved, it is, this loping and unnatural thing. obsessed. power has hollowed its simple mind out, turned it into a tool. yet it had been whole, once... quick-witted. silver-tongued. a friend, perhaps a stone's throw from lover. beyond help, beyond sense, it can do little more now than lumber on, driven by a will no longer of its own making.

and lumber it does. a sweet stench spurs it on: HIS blood, HIS fear. makes its chest ache, its claws itch to rip the rest of his limbs from him, swallow them, savor them, bones and all. what's left of its mind swims. it slows to a stalk. large paws make their way across the forgotten stone. just ahead, the floor yawns open.

what a peculiar comment. was the first thought that ran through freyja’s mind, thin brows furrowing together in a questioning manner at the remark. in his own hands was a tattered hard-cover book that had seen better days, the pages now yellow and worn through constant use. every other page revealed meticulously drawn illustrations regarding the careful use of magic within. 

carefully closing the book, freyja glances up at the fox-like man before following his gaze over to the librarian, who was sitting behind a desk littered with various scrolls and books. perhaps it was a coincidence that she was in fact an elder, whose face was adorned in wrinkles and a kind shimmer within her eye.

❛❛ while it’s not uncommon to live to the age of a hundred, especially for non-human races, i find it hard to fathom that she has been alive that long . . . might i inquire how a book ages backwards? ❜❜

〝 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖆𝖞 𝖓𝖔𝖙. i fear she forbade me ever to tell by threat of death, or worse. i’d like to keep my face, you know. ”  sionnach’s smile is as smug and curling as the man himself; he knows no shame, no bounds.  twisting truths, lovely little lies, he’ll turn this library into a stage if it means having the whole of freyja’s attention.  with a pointed claw he crosses his heart and raises his hand in humble pledge.  〝 besides, my word is my bond, dearest– at least it is, when i need it to be… 〞

were the stub of his tail not tucked away, freyja might very well see it wagging.  instead sionnach lets out a playful hum, beginning to flip through a book of his own.  he’d picked it on a whim, really.  the gold leaf spine had drawn him in.  the roads to darkness…  a tragedy, it would seem, composed of sweeping black ink and a threadbare binding.

.. and you? i saw your teeth, they're sharp as blades. and what is with this road, so slick with blood? what happened here? what happened to us all? ...

Siege Weapons, for Northeast Dungeon Siege MMXXV

Mark Jarrell

GREENGRASS — a celebration marking the first day of spring on the harptos calendar. traditionally, said festivals were dedicated to ushering in the new season, focusing on the celebration of life and receiving bountiful harvests.

prior to entering the village, it was apparent that a bustling festival was taking place. musicians were avidly playing their instruments as dancers gracefully swirled around. storytellers acting out their most bizarre tales with youthful vigor. stalls were decorated with baskets of vibrant flowers, their petals haphazardly strewn about common pathways. many citizens wore flower wreaths of their own as they flitted around to partake in the activities and food.         

elowyn couldn’t help but stand there beside vyshka, amber colored eyes wide and mouth agape in awe. the festival of greengrass was truly a sight to behold and one that he never got to experience first hand due to his noble background. the bustling energy of the town itself was purely electrifying —   

𝖎𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖋𝖆𝖗 𝖈𝖗𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊, 𝖒𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑, 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖚𝖇 𝖍𝖊'𝖘 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖔 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 40-𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖞𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖍𝖊'𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍 𝖔𝖚𝖙. people smile, cheer, dance hand-in-hand. there is no pain. no hard stares, no blades waiting at the ready. the music is soothing and light. the whole scene feels wreathed in life. vyshka watches intently, long ears pricked and twisting about trying to take it all in. he, like elowyn, is awestruck; it is as strange to him as it is beautiful. he doesn't think he's seen quite so much color in all his life. never seen such abundance. it makes his mouth water.

〝 of course, sweet dove. 〞 gentle obedience clings to every word. giggling flower girls pass, and from their basket vyshka plucks up a single thornless rose. a blossom of pure red, not unlike the plumage of elowyn's chest... he brings it to his nose and smiles. 〝 your desires are my own. 〞

Mountain hare, Vauldalen, Norway