The Northern War

Hey folks!

It's been a while since I put up some of the artwork from the project, so I thought I'd share this piece that Shannon Potratz did for the project last year. It's really one of my favorite pieces he's done and I'm proud to say that it turned out above and beyond all expectations. Shannon really is a talented man!
This will be one of the pieces that we relaunch the world with. And expect to hear some exciting news about that coming up in the next few weeks!

A look at Emma Melville's "Balance"

One of my favorite parts of this job is giving a writer a topic and seeing that writer take said topic in a direction I hadn't thought of. Emma's done just that with her latest short, Balance.

One of the most important moments in the lives of the mysterious and ethereal Fae is the granting of a name. An individual's actions and attitudes determine his name and his lot in the strict caste system. Emma brought this process to life in a very simple but very beautiful way, making use of the existing castes to make it all happen. She also gives us a slightly different look at Old Bramble, a typically gruff, no-nonsense character that serves as a mentor to so many of our heroes. She shows us his compassionate side, and she gives us just a taste of the events that made him who he is.

Here's a bit of Balance:

The city shone in the bright sun, spread out before him as he descended from the heights of Vision. The soft Diun light he travelled through pushed forwards, the sharp line where sun and moon met rolling toward Maeda Criacao’s outer walls.

Bramble paused to watch Diun claim the city boundary, a wry regret catching his heart. No shades of gray here in the Dreaming Lands, no shadows of uncertainties. He missed the borders, the half lights of his valley, the times between times.

He’d probably spent too long on the edges of the Dying Lands, lit by dusks and dawns, but he’d grown to enjoy the twilights, neither one thing nor another. In a way it suited the life he’d made. The Valley of Munier hung between, neither of the Dreaming Lands nor the Dying.

Bramble shook his head and took a deep breath of Aiemer-rich air before descending, following the stark line of light into the city.

He wondered, briefly, what that made him; neither one thing nor another, perhaps. A pertinent question when on his way to a naming. His own had been somewhat unique, which he supposed fit.

Other Fae were entering the city, some no doubt also interested in the fate of the Lean’Aghan. He caught glimpses of them arriving from the circling talamhs. Some he’d already passed on his journey, exchanging greetings and news before their separate paths spun them off through the ever-changing landscape of the Dreaming Lands.

The path dropped suddenly, dipping through a gateway carved in stone, carrying Bramble forward without volition until he found himself standing still on a paved path. Behind him was the gate, the opening to the Dreaming Lands. If he looked back he knew he’d see merely a haze of multi-colored light. The path he’d entered by was there somewhere and, if he stretched out his awareness and grasped at the Aiemer strands, he would find it. Even just standing still he could feel the vague pull of the valley, of home. Content that it was where he expected and could be found at will, Bramble set off into the heart of the city.

The streets were paved in golden stone which glowed softly even after the sunlight had passed. Buildings were few and irregular, interspersed with the wide expanses of nature which were as much home to the Fae as the carved stone. An array of colors assaulted the eye, the Aiemer flows deepening and brightening everything even under Diun’s gentler light.

Bramble wandered slowly around the outer city, drinking in the familiar sights. Nothing ever changed in Maeda Criacao, a constant hub in the continual flux of the Dreaming Lands–a necessary paradox. He meandered clockwise through the golden streets and lush parks, ignoring today the impossible palaces ringing the center of the city, the sacred heart. The sky-touching spires and columns, twisted trees, and flaming waterfalls of the Nai’Oigher had never held much attraction for him, monuments to the immortal arrogance of the courts. He preferred the gentler places, the natural, still pools and elegant swoops of land left to its own devices.

The noise around Bramble gradually grew, bringing him out of his reverie. His feet had finally led him to his destination: the Delledeir market.

He stopped, letting the riot of color and noise wash over him. It brought a smile to his lips. Here you could buy or sell anything, trade even your soul if you owned one. Stalls were set up haphazardly in a giant wheel with wares of every conceivable make strewn across them. Each one had its attendant Delledeir, either buying and selling or merely observing and arbitrating, maintaining the balance so important to the Fae.

Their distinctive features–thin faces, long noses, beady eyes, twitching fingers–marked the Delledeir, the ferret caste.

Bramble nodded to a couple he recognized and headed for the market’s heart. Here was a clear central space containing a single table spread with a velvet cloth of shimmering hues. On it was placed a single set of golden scales and a giant book. Behind the table stood two Fae, ancient and unchanging. Cadwyn, First of the Delledeir, barely came to Bramble’s shoulder. His short hair was white, his eyes nearly black. His lips and fingers were never still, as if eternally counting over invisible profits and losses. His companion was much taller and upright, his face having the high, sloping forehead and faraway gaze of the Riddari. Harvlyn, Keeper of Names, rested his hand lightly on the book in front of him while his dark eyes scanned the crowd. He showed no signs of recognition, though Bramble knew those long fingers had recorded the name of every one of them.

Bramble remembered his own trip to the stall so many, many years ago, Cadwyn’s probing questions and Harvlyn’s scratching pen after their initial consternation at his singular appearance and lack of mentors.

A look at "Refrain" by Emma Melville

Emma's been with us from the beginning. She's done a great job with her signature character, a bard named Nikos, who appears in several of our stories. Here's a peak at "Refrain:"

Nikos staggered through the trees, his feet catching obscured roots and sudden hollows as he plunged along. Leafy branches snagged his tattered clothes and slapped his already bruised and battered flesh.

“Marii,” he muttered, “must get to the marii.” It had become a mantra, the only thing keeping his legs going and holding his fragile sanity together. For mile after mile he’d driven himself south, far beyond the reach of civilization and into the inner continent. He’d bypassed any place in Thila where he might be known. He wasn’t strong enough to take Aetos’s pity or face the truth of his loss. The hope that the marii, with their link to the World Song, could restore his music was all that kept him moving. He ate little and slept less; the deep void where his talent had been was present even in dreams, a hunger gnawing at his soul.

“Marii,” he said again, the words slurred, “must get-” His foot twisted out from under him, sending him sprawling. Ignoring the pain and the tears, Nikos dragged himself back to his feet. “Marii,” barely a breath.

There seemed to be a red light through the trees, a sharp contrast to Diun’s silver twilight. Nikos stumbled towards it, his twisted ankle depositing him in a heap every few paces until he resorted to crawling.

“Music...”

Dragging himself into a small clearing, he registered two forms leaping up in surprise at his arrival before he crashed onto his face beside their fire.

“What is it, Fale?” The first voice was soft and feminine.

“A man, and a badly injured one at that.” The second voice had the peculiar lilt of the marii, somehow heard inside one’s soul as well as through one’s ears. The guild taught that it was a by-product of their music and the magic in it.

“Marii!” Nikos struggled to rise, but the last of his strength had seeped away.

“It’s all right,” the woman said, misunderstanding him. She came to kneel at his side. “Can we help? Can I help?”

“Leave him, Gwyn. You don’t know him.”

“But I can help.”

Nikos shook his head as best he could. “No, marii–music. I need music!”

The marii knelt at his other side. “Do you indeed?” she asked.

The two of them helped him up and moved him to sit beside the fire. They sat opposite, side by side, staring intently at him. One was indeed a marii, its animalistic features more wolf than human, its eyes wary. The other surprised Nikos.

“Fae? You are not mortal.”

“I am Fae. My name is Gwynhaefar, and this is Fale. Who are you?”

“Nikos.”

“You said you needed music,” Fale said.

“Mine has...was...it’s gone.” Fresh anguish left him trembling.

“Gone?”

“Taken.”

“How can someone-” Gwyn began, but Fale laid a hand on her arm.

“Silenced?” the marii asked.

Nikos flinched away from the word, his hands covering his ears.

“Who would do such a thing?” Gwyn said.

“Bards,” Fale snapped, spitting the word like something distasteful and sour.

“Why would they silence someone? I thought they-”

“Why?” Fale demanded, cutting her off. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” The word was screamed from a torn soul. Nikos slumped and repeated softly. “Nothing. They said I caused disharmony in perceived futures.”

“No!”

“What is it?” Gwyn demanded. “What have they done to him?”

“Cursed him. Taken all his music from him. Silencing leaves a man devoid of all ability, all hearing, all-” The marii stood, obviously agitated. “It is evil beyond any words of mine. To sever anyone’s path to the World Song–how dare they?”

“I hoped the marii-” Nikos whispered.

Sad realization dawned in Fale’s luminous eyes. “Oh, child, I am sorry. Our music has not such power to heal.”

Nikos’s last hope crumbled, and he felt his tenuous grip on sanity slip. “Please, you’ve got to help me!”

“Truly, I cannot. I wish I could.”

“I can,” Gwyn said firmly. “This is something I can do.”

“This is a destiny you came here to escape,” Fale said. “You turned your back on your own kin because they asked-”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Semantics. What difference-”

“You cannot take what someone is away from them like this. It’s killing him.” Gwyn came around the fire to kneel in front of him. She was taller than Nikos and very slim. He noticed that her long chestnut curls were flecked with green and marred by a single black streak. “I can take this curse from you,” she said. “It is what I am.”

“How?” He looked to the marii, who was obviously unhappy with Gwyn’s offer.

“You were right: she is Fae, but she is more than that. She is Ainghad Fas, one of those who takes in the darkness of others in order to maintain the paths of light upon which the world rests. She can take your curse upon herself.”

"Cordellon" by Scott Colby

Here's a quick look at the story that tells us the fate of the man responsible for the death of Emperor Pileaus:

The alley was a dead end, a lidless tomb of towering limestone walls. Cordellon risked a glance over his shoulder, back in the direction of the yapping hounds hot on his trail. The Imperial guards would be on him soon, despite the rain. If they caught him, he'd be strung up before a million snarling fanatics who'd like nothing better than to tear the mastermind of their god's murder limb from limb.

And so he dashed down the alley, his old joints creaking in protest against the speed, the hems of his billowing black robes growing heavy as they soaked up the puddles between the cobblestones. He let the far wall stop his flight, pressing himself as close to the slick white stone as he could. Craning his neck to the left so he could eye the reed-thin seam between buildings, Cordellon began to shuffle sideways toward the tiny gap.

There's no possible way I can fit through there. Cordellon banished the thought from his mind, knowing that doubt would slam shut his only escape route. He took a deep breath and shuffled on. Plenty of room, plenty of room, plenty of room...

The fabric of his sleeve distorted as it pressed into the gap, flattened like light through a prism. He pushed onward, the barks of the hounds loud in his ears now, ignoring the strange tingle as his body passed into the space between realms. The other side was warm and dry and inviting. He closed his eyes as Fuiligh had told him. The view of one's form passing between could drive a man mad, she had said.

Cordellon stumbled as the gap released him, and his eyes snapped open. The alley was gone, replaced by a lush meadow, the skies above clear and blue, the dirt path at his feet slicing through the lush green grass in dozens of directions. He glanced back at the gap, now nothing more than a narrow slit between a twisting tree with a split trunk. A set of canine teeth snapped at him uselessly on the other side. He waved and smiled at the hound and sauntered away arrogantly, impressed with his escape.

To his right, a stand of purple lilies as tall as a small child swiveled their blossoms to examine him.

“Did you see that!” he crooned, squeezing the rain out of his long gray hair. Most mortals would've feared such creatures, but he, Cordellon, was at home among the Fae. “Stupid Pileans will never find me here!”