The Emil Project

@emilproject.net

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A fantasy saga by mathie.gay and @jtfg.dev Available in both French and English! 🇫🇷 🇬🇧 Read online at emilproject.net

Etrika shoves the door open with a dull, heavy thud, its hinges crying out for oil. She motions her companion through the door she’s holding. They take a deep breath before stepping forward with all the courage they can muster. Everything here smells of paper. Vellum, ink, the very aroma of literature. Endless shelves are stacked with books, binders, reports, theses, and gods-know-what else. The knowledge here is overwhelmingly dense, to the point it seems to leave no room for leisure, or any personal touch from its owner. This place is a treasure trove, the kind of which Emil’s people would have killed for.
Emil’s body hits the wood, their chin knocked sharp against their skull. Their head is ringing. But they’re quick on the defense: an upward swing, a kick with both legs. A direct hit with the latter sends the shadow scrabbling against crates labeled with older years. The shadow assumed their target clumsier, and was right: but a worse fighter, hardly. Emil has years of combat experience on this stranger, which is clear even as they had to improvise rising to their feet. The atmosphere in here is oppressive, the beat of both hearts as one, heavy breathing. Emil almost wants to shout out, to call for a parley; but before they can say a syllable, the shadow is rising to their feet, crying out furious. A survivor.
A turn-of-the-century complex device designed for the creation of tuning forks. Wires, dials, and moving parts stick out from a varnished wooden base. The picture is in a cold gray-purple sepia tone.
— And there you see, I made the wings. — They’re pretty big, aren’t they! — My teacher told me. I’ll need really big wings to fly; like… at least twice as big as a vespin. Rieli spreads her arms triumphantly, as if to prove to her big brother that, yes, one day she will indeed have these wings, and that she’s already practicing, because she’s very very serious and has thought everything through very carefully. Kenna picks up her drawing from the floor, before comfortably resting an arm on the edge of the couch, smiling at his little sister and her cheerful scribbles.
A sprawling textless map illustrating, in sketch form, a vast world filled with floating islands of various shapes and sizes.
At first it looks, for all the world, like a historical artifact; dated knowledge of Presquile. But that can’t be: there are eight dark-blue ink lines connecting Younger and Older, all in the same pen; and that eighth one was only opened for traffic four months ago. Emil’s hands retreat to the safety of the poncho, as Etrika takes the map gingerly, with a sense of religious responsibility. — If you would, show me on map, where the tailor lives?