Eric Woldry (he/him) 🌈

@woldry.bsky.social

3532 Followers 2131 Following

Librarian, cat papa, husband, invisibly disabled, ancient theater kid, AuDHD gaymer out & proud in rural US for decades. Obsesses over historical linguistics. Author of Clueless Cabot (as André D. Michaels) & misc fantasies under way. Website: woldry.com

He fell to the ground, face down. “Mr. Quinceberry!” Kier scrambled to his feet and scurried to the little man’s side. Sparkgun hanging at his side, Boden snatched his pocket watch up from the snow. With some assistance from Kier, Quinceberry sat up. Moonlight made him look paler than usual. “Thanks,” Boden said, approaching. Quinceberry gave a wan smile. “I cannot dream what you should thank me for, Mr. Durth,” he said, breathing hard. “I may have just precipitated all our ends.”
“You are so direct! It’s refreshing, after spending moon-ages navigating the labyrinth of elven indirection. Oh, I mastered that maze. I could dance elaborate spirals around even the most adept of courtiers, and leave them breathless and undone. Those were grand, grand days. Did you know that my name, my old name, became proverbial for elegance and etiquette amongst the highest tiers of elven society?” “Not seeing a connection here.” “One must lay the foundation ere one builds the manor, no? Perhaps dwarves don’t build, but delve from the living rock. I am not a delver.” Her eyes sparkled like the starlight on the waterfall.
A handful of people in grubby, mismatched clothing pried boards off the windows of a small building that might once have been an apothecary or a bookstore or a tobacconist. “Looters,” muttered Boden. “Ooh, truly? What luck! I’ve never met looters before. How delightful!” “Dangerous. Don’t only loot buildings.” “Well, I see no point in being coy. They’ve seen you already,” said Quinceberry. “Besides, I want to see something.” He pulled loose from Boden’s grip and strode forward. “Hello! Hello the crew! How’s the hunt today?” Boden tensed. He considered leaving the little man to the consequences of his impulsivity. But he needed that fare. He hastened his stride.
“I met her,” said Quinceberry. Boden did not rise to the bait. The headline still swam in his vision, nauseating him. “Lady Lavoie.” Quinceberry went on anyway. “Years ago, in the Lyceum Royale, at the Philosopher’s lecture on the conservation of theurgy.” He laughed. “Isn’t that an odd place to encounter a noblewoman? But I was sitting on the aisle, and she tripped on my outstretched foot on her way to the boxes at the front. Her heel caught in my stocking. Tore a hole this big.” In spite of himself, Boden glanced around the broadsheet. Quinceberry spread his arms wider than he was tall—which wasn’t all that wide. “She was most gracious,” he went on. “Loving, even, one might say. Altogether unruffled. Offered to pay for repairs, unasked. For a total stranger. She didn’t even know me. Can you credit that?”
Ennen’s voice grows soft and chill: “He ate my little brother.” She touches one bone in particular, her finger gentler than a feather. I have no words to offer, no comfort to give. But it clarifies her choice of blessings. After a moment’s awkward silence, I clear my throat. “And so—How did you get it in the cage?” “Tricked it. A magpie, trained to sound like a baby crying. He ate her, but by then we’d sealed the cage.” She looks up at me. “He’s yours if you want him.” “What would I do with it?” But I am intrigued. It’s rare that a philosopher of the divine has an opportunity to study a divine creature up close—even one as petty as this. “Study him,” says Ennen. “Or kill him, I don’t care.” “I don’t know if I can. How does one kill an immortal thing?”
Zarzek sighed. “The ways of the gods seem cruel to mortals, sometimes.” “Sometimes?” “Come now. You’ve felt Her blessings, brother. Even if you’ve felt Her talons as well. But had you not endured all you did, would you have been here, in this moment, with me? Would you be blessed with the friendship of our stalwart Captain?” He dared the next, unsure how Oghor would react: “Would you have an Ellyll in your life?” Oghor pulled his gaze down from the stars. “That obvious?” Zarzek shrugged. “I’ve known you since we were spanners. And I only spotted it today.” Oghor’s face was grim. “I’ll only hurt him.” “You won’t. You’re a good dwarf.” Oghor snorted. “And you’re a liar.”
“Ohhhhh my. This is most distressing. Do you imagine there’s anyone at the ticket office might possess a key?” Boden shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Come, my friend! We’ll recover our effects one way or another! And perhaps even secure a full refund of our tickets.” Quinceberry seized Boden’s hand and pulled him back up the corridor. “We’ve expended far too much to sit here as the last light ebbs. This shall not stand!” Boden did not resist. The ticket office was off the train; to that extent, at least, his goal was identical to Quinceberry’s. But his backpack was his lone luggage. Once Quinceberry dragged him off the train, Boden intended to disentangle his hand and make his way northward on foot if need be. The fare to Vinturfell was a problem for another day.
His vision shifted. The river became a rushing cascade, chilly and swift, carving a new path through the loam as it flowed down from a glacier towering behind them. Humans stood on the banks in strange clothing of fur and coarse cloth, singing Arrama-ei! Arrama-ei! It lasted only an instant. Maybe longer. He shook his head.
Downtown Copperdon resembled some neighborhoods of Thren, with its half-empty storefronts, its ramshackle facades, its lonely, listless pedestrians. The dusty street lay wide. Here and there, abandoned sparkwagons stood slowly turning to solid verdigris. Here and there, though, some sparkwagons still puttered along at a pace barely faster than walking, their hind wheels crackling with faint purple lightning. Quinceberry grabbed a belt loop of Kier’s coveralls and yanked him backward as one approached. “Beware the chariots of death!”
Quinceberry reached into his pack and pulled out a flimsy booklet of cheap gray paper. He handed it to Kier. “The road is long and lonely, so enjoy!—but preferably not within my field of vision.” Kier’s face turned twelve shades of red. Boden leaned over. He gave a low whistle. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.” “But—I don’t—” Quinceberry raised an eyebrow. “I am a keen student of the human experience, my boy. I notice things you don’t even dream of. And speaking of dreams, I have noticed—” He tapped the booklet “—your inclinations.” Boden gently took the booklet from Kier and flipped through it. Printed drawings of nude men, women, and people who might be either—or both—filled every page, in various combinations and poses and positions. “Oh! And—I almost forgot.” Quinceberry handed Kier a small corked crock glazed with vivid cobalt. He gave an exaggerated wink. “Unguent.” Kier’s face, miraculously, grew even redder.
A tweet by Dr. Catharine Young (@DrCatharineY) that reads: "A year ago, the CDC made Cyclospora surveillance optional. It had been tracked for 28 years. Today: ~3,000 cases across 31 states, no confirmed source, and CDC's own count (843) is trailing what states are reporting by thousands." The tweet also retweets one by ABC News (@ABC) reading: "Cases of cyclosporiasis, an intestinal infection caused by a parasite, are currently being reported in nearly three dozen states, according to an @ABC News tally. abcnews.link/TPc8HXf"
They'd walked together, the whole lot of circus folk, out beyond the edge of Pettigloan, where the circus wagons stood gathered in a broad open field beneath the towering spire of glass. Stars shone overhead, almost as bright as out at sea; the only other light came from the shattered glass itself, a ghostly aquamarine gleam that barely sufficed to see the path. And always, always, as subtle as the gleam, the quietly mournful thrum of the towers underlay the chirping of crickets, the distant hoots and squawks of strange birds, and the quiet goodnights of the circus folk calling across the growing distances as they made their way for the various wagons.
Kier was at his side, crouching, one hand on Boden’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Mr. Durth?” Boden’s mind reeled. He’d dreamt of meeting Sen in the ruined temple, a person of such transcendent beauty he could not look away. Taking their hand, dancing together to the music of ancient hymns. Their lips meeting, as tender as any kiss Boden and Tondille ever— He shook his head, glanced around. In the firelight, behind Kier, Quinceberry sat upright as well, hugging himself and quietly weeping. “Fine,” Boden said to Kier. “I—I’m fine. Just a dream.”
Aurenn patrons of the Golden Peacock sat pretzel-legged on woven straw mats on the floor, drinking and eating, laughing and talking at low tables of heavily lacquered wood. If there had been chairs, and taller tables, it could have been any mainland pub, but for the colorful, patchwork clothing, the scent of arcane spices, the lilting language, the unfamiliar stringed instrument plucked by a handsome man with hair the color of parchment.
“Farm?” Peg tucked a few more doughnuts into the box. “Raising what?” “Geese.” Jacqueline waved a hand as if a flock surrounded them now on the floor of the bakery. Jonny tipped his hat back. “Well, at least no need to rebuild the barn. Though—can’t say I’ve heard of a goose farmer before.” Peg willed a fourteenth doughnut to fit in the box while he was distracted. “There is money in geese.” Jacqueline smiled. “And what do you do, Jonny?” He double-tapped the Odega State Forest logo on his coat. “Ranger.” He turned to Peg. “How you doing? Any more sleepwalking?” Ignoring the question, Peg held out the overstuffed box of doughnuts. Jonny took it. He frowned. “I only asked for a dozen.” “How’d you—?” “The Gift,” he said, grinning. “You said Mom had it.” Peg snorted. “You just noticed the weight. We need to fatten you up. What are you, negative 10% body fat now?” “That’s not a thing.”
The Philosopher smiles grimly. “We promoted one from among their number. The Bloodhound title is retired, though. Irreplaceable, though now we have an Alaunt.” The Lady sighs. “I had hoped you might tell me they were all being retired. What are the Hounds, without the Bloodhound to—” “Until the final cull, we need them,” says the Philosopher. “Every one. The Grand Project. They are invaluable.” “Invaluable. Irreplaceable.” The Lady sets her cup down. “How many others those words once described as well.” Her fingers trace the neck of the teapot. “But I confess a certain curiosity, your wisdom. What brings you here today?” “You invited me. But I have always wanted to meet the benevolent Lady Lavoie.” The Philosopher raises her cup in a silent toast. Lady Lavoie raises hers with a bow of her head and a humble smile. “As I have always wanted to meet the architect of the theurgical revolution. You are magnificent, my darling. I do hope we may meet many, many more times over the years.”
A bronze cast of Constantin Brâncuși's sculpture "L'Oiseau dans l'espace" ("Bird in Space"), a narrow elongated vertical arc of smooth bronze, standing on one end on a small round pedestal.
“Years past, I swore an oath to keep that child safe. Let us make a compact to protect our mutual interest.” Leaning back, she lifted a wine glass. Oghor did not lift his. “Define protect.” “It pains me for even the least harm to befall the boy. Let us keep him out of harm’s way. He is a healer of some promise. I should hate to see his promise squandered if he were, say, to be sent to a battlefront.” Oghor relaxed a little. “He hasn’t the training.” “Not now. Years away, perhaps. Several twelveyear, even, which—so I imagine—seems a long time, to the lesser folk.” Oghor knew better than to rise to the bait. “If he chooses to go?” She set her wine down. “My dear Oghor. You are wise enough to know—his choices have not always served him well. Let us keep him safe.” “I can promise not to harm him deliberately.” He raised his glass. Her eyes narrowed. “That’s something, at any rate. We old monsters must hang together, mustn’t we? There aren’t many like us.”
A still from "Treasure Planet", showing a young boy holding onto ship's rigging, with another ship soaring through space high above. A cosmic background looks above the ocean surface of a planet far below.
Naked, Boden left the paper behind and padded to the next room. A half-dozen cast iron tubs stood in a row on a white-tiled floor, filled with steaming water, and numerous candles stood flickering in steel sconces. The air hung heavy and humid. A tall narrow window, half steamed over, overlooked the Cenobium lawn, the snow pale in the wan light before sunrise.
The undead corpse of Connor Vinderblad from "Baldur's Gate 3", with a half-rotted body and face, and milky eyes.
The other passengers moved past Kindral at the bottom of the gangway. Last of all came Jad Walaal, leaning on a black wooden quarterstaff. She set down her colorful canvas bag and warmly embraced Kindral. “But did she keep it secret on purpose?” asked Jad, as if they’d been mid-conversation, in her familiar lilting accent. She let Kindral pick up her bag. Kindral shrugged. “Who knows? Nuinnan isn’t exactly the scheming type. She’s more the Forgot to tell ye, didn’t I? type.” Jad laughed. “You sound exactly like her. Your impersonations have improved.” “My singing hasn’t.” “I never imagined it would.”
I turn to hear someone calling my name. I’m packing away my slates and chalks after my last lecture of the day. The lyceum servants have begun lighting candles in their iron sconces around the dusty lecture theater. A student descends the risers of polished oak, carrying a strange item covered in layers of sackcloth. “Professor?” “Yes—” “Ennen,” she supplies. “I was about to say,” I lie. The student’s face lights up. “You remember me!” “I remember all my students.” I have a vague sense she might have attended some of my lectures on philosophies of power the previous summer. Her attire suggests one who struggles with the expenses of the academy, like so many of my students. Or like myself, when I was a young woman. “What can I help you with?”
Mr. Morrow turned away and lifted a languid arm to open the back door of the cramped stall. He disappeared from view. “Now,” whispered Quinceberry. “Now?” Quinceberry rolled his eyes. He touched the latch on the grille. “Don’t you see? This is flimsy as tulle. With your strength…” He waggled his eyebrows above his spectacles. “You want me to—?” “I do. I want you to break open this grille, and we will attain the contents of his till. Tulle—grille—till. We will have our refund, and not in two months’ time. No one is watching—and should anyone direct their regard this way, who would raise an outcry on behalf of Bronzeplate Rail? But you must make haste, my friend. Opportunity awaits neither man nor god. Our young friend and the overseer will be back any moment.”
“Where do you usually walk?” Over the past few months, he’d found her on Main Street, stumbling and shambling like a dead thing. He’d caught her pacing her porch in the early morning dark. Even on the outskirts of town, back in January—Luz Mendocino called Jonny because Peg was kicking over their backyard grill in the middle of the night. Peg didn’t remember kicking it over, but she remembered the shape, squat and round, like a toad. “Peg? Where do you walk?” She shrugged. “I’m asleep. I never know.” “What do you dream about?” She didn’t know how to answer that. “Seriously,” he persisted. “Sleepwalking is acting out dreams, right? So what are you dreaming about?” She couldn’t tell him the truth, but she owed him something. “That night.”
A screenshot from the video game Guild Wars 2, showing a bearded, muscular man in hot pink clothing with bare arms and exposed chest and abs, in a dramatic pose. He holds an ornate staff glowing with rainbow colors. Palm trees, ships' sails, and a starry sky can be seen in the background.
“Fooled you, didn’t I?” Sitting in the stalled railroad car, Boden lowered the paper broadsheet he’d been half reading. A round little man in a badly patched gray waistcoat and frayed green trousers sat on the worn mahogany bench opposite Boden. Spectacles askew, hair unkempt, grin awry, he looked to be in his forties. Maybe fifties. A ragged cluster of dried bluerain blosssoms was pinned to his lapel. Boden, unimpressed, said, “I saw you slip into my compartment, if that’s what you mean.” Not that his entry could have escaped notice; the bronze door grated when it opened, with the sparkwork mechanism depowered. “Excellent, excellent.” The little man held out a little hand. “Fimble Quinceberry, at your service, sir.”
As I eat my meager dinner, the caged little simian thing in front of me on the table—reaching a clawed paw now and then between the bones toward my mutton and millet, the greedy thing—when a knock comes at the door. “Enter,” I call. Ennen walks in. I’m not surprised. “Hound!” I wave her over. “See here, a most puzzling phenomenon.” I hand her my notebook. Chewing her lip, she peruses it. “Not even with the microscope?” I shake my head. “The blood goes on the slide. I can see it. Purple as a grape. But through the microscope—nothing.” I slap the top book on the pile next to me. “Berlonius claimed that bog creatures, much like the fae, had one foot in the shadows. I’m starting to believe he was right.” I laugh. “Absurd mysticism, of course.” Ennen sits beside me. Her face is cruel, harsh, avid. “What if we cut him open? See what his liver weighs?” I almost choke on my mutton. “Oh, that’s not appropriate. I’m surprised at you. We can learn so much more while it’s alive.”
Taking refuge in a small lean-to, Borrowsorrow examined what she’d looted from the laundry lines. Most of it wouldn’t fit, but the wide skirt covered her legs, a plain linen tabard worked for most of her upper torso, and an embroidered sash tied it all in place. Ooh, and to shield her head from the sun, a wool scarf—scratchy against her skin, but as her mother always said, This is your river. So swim in it.
A still from the film "Babettes Gæstebud" ("Babette's Feast"), showing a line of men with heavy-laden wheelbarrows, and a boy carrying a massive block of ice, are led through a rustic village street by Babette (portrayed by Stéphane Audran), a woman wearing a voluminous black woolen hooded cloak and carrying a cage whose contents aren't clear.
A circular stained glass window in tones of bronze, gold, rose, and green, with a symmetrical floral shape frame, in a solid black background. Stars of David and crosses alternate in each "petal" of the flower.
“Waaaait.” Peg’s tone did not sound receptive. Not at all. “Wait?” “Is this for that, that contest?” “Ah, and yes. You are clever as well as lovely.” There was a long silence. “Peg? Are you there?” “Yeah—sorry. Sorry. You want me to help you write a song? About the fire?” “I do. You and Jonny, you are celebrities of a kind, yes? Who better to tell your story?” “You don’t want my story.” Jacqueline’s heart sank. “But I do. I think—I think the telling, it will be cathartique, yes?” Another long silence. Peg said, “Listen—there are better choices. I’m not a writer.” “And I am not a composer! The perfect team!”
“She was trying to help! She wanted her friend back!” Borrowsorrow shook her head. “Rivers flow on. Dam them up, they flood. Mucks them up.” “I never understand what you mean. She made it right, though. She promised to make it right. She doesn’t break promises.” “She holds too tight. Promises. Things. People. Holding too tight—it snares you. Like the brrvdlip caught with its hand in the crock of dwirmul roots.” “But she saved us.” “She saved you. She holds too tight to you.” “She—she loves me.” “This, I believe.” She pondered a moment. “Saving your mother—it carried a cost. What did it cost to save you?” “I don’t know what you mean.” Borrowsorrow kicked lightly at the water. “I know.”
The slith cook here makes the most exquisite curry of millet, srilfekh cactus root, and slith eggs. Not to mention the profane spices one finds only in the desert! I admire the placid pragmatism of the slith, making use of eggs they can’t afford to raise. And you know I was never squeamish in my culinary tastes. Do you remember the fishing expedition? I’ll never forget the look on your face when I showed you the snacks I brought.
Jonny settled onto a felled log covered in lichen and drank deep from his water bottle. Something yelped, and under the trees something red flashed in his peripheral vision. He turned. Gone. He rose to head toward it, focusing on being as quiet as possible. —shh, not one word— He shook his head. He advanced farther. There it came again—ruddy fur, just for a second, in that gap in the underbrush. A rusty red, like embers among ashes, only noticeable by contrast with the deep green shadows. Not dark enough for a bear. Too brown for a fox. Too big for a badger. —a wolf made of fire— Underfoot, pearl-white pebbles dotted the forest floor, almost like a trail. Odd. He’d never noticed those before.
Twitter post from Pope Leo XIV @Pontifex "Dear writers, we need your imagination, your narrative creativity, and your lively thinking. We need to create spaces of Freedom and Authenticity, within which divine grace can make the promise of consolation and peace resound..."
"I'm Vance." He held out a hand. "Uh... Ike. Isaac." We shook. "Oh! Pete's nephew? Lordy, we miss your uncle. But welcome to the camp." I ducked my head, acknowledging, but not admitting I barely knew Uncle Pete. "Looking for a few things." "Mm-hmm. Where's your bag?" "My---?" He rolled his eyes. "Nobody told you to bring a bag? Well, don't you worry, sweetie, Vance has got you covered." He smirked over his shoulder as he turned away. "In a manner of speaking." He stepped to a rotating rack of cloth tote bags. "Let's see, how about... this one?" He returned, holding out a bag with a big rainbow on it, with a triangle of black, brown, pink, and pale blue stripes jutting into the usual colors. "Progress," he said with a smile. "Uh... how much?" "First one is on the house," he said, thrusting it forward. "Especially for Pete's nephew. But you lose or rip this one, the next one will cost you a bejillion dollars."
“Today,” said Jacqueline, “is a day for embers and remembrance. And so we give you our song. My voice today shall be a survivor of the fire, the bravest woman I know—Peg Holtzfeller!” The applause roared. Peg gazed out in astonishment, but Jacqueline couldn’t help laughing. “You see, ma chérie? You are loved.” Into the microphone she said, “And now—Embers and Remembrance!” She let go of Peg’s hand and motioned her to the microphone. She hefted her harp—the gilding restored, the strings freshly tuned—and began to play. Peg’s voice, at first unsure, wafted out over the crowd. As she sang, it grew stronger and stronger still, till by the end it soared on wide wings, and with it Jacqueline’s heart.
“I was a girl of twelve, Bloodhound. Twelve. My mother and I were dragged out by two of your Hounds, outside this very hall.” She nodded toward the door by which they’d entered. “We heard screams and shouting. Purple lightning crackling around the door. And then this man—your face, I’ve never forgotten it—this man, the Bloodhound, steps out first, carrying Nehybny in his arms.” “The Hound responsible,” said [SPOILER], “was penalized.” “So the Philosopher wrote us. Personally.” The Tacitor gestured toward a door on the far side of the hall. “I’ll be sure to remind his sisters. They serve in the scullery now.” She rose and stood before the haunt-boy as if he could see. “They never enter this hall. Almost forty years now. They must find it a great comfort, to know their little brother’s murderer was penalized.”
They parted ways with the overhead rail. It veered off northward over tall, craggy hills, but on foot they would need to take the long way around. The woods grew thicker, houses sparser, path narrower. Boden stopped, lifting his head. “Find cover,” he muttered. Quinceberry looked up. “Hm?” He listened: Rapid footsteps. Crashing underbrush. And beyond them, the faint thrum of spark and the unmistakable clank of metal. Boden loosed the cords at his throat. He shoved the cloak into Quinceberry’s arms. “Find cover!” The runner crashing through the forest burst onto the path—a young man with dark hair, wearing a dark brown canvas jacket with a stylized locomotive embroidered in dirty yellow. “Mr. Morrow?” said Quinceberry. Boden didn’t relax, though. The metal noises approached fast. “Mr. Durth! I’m sorry, I—please help me!” Kier ducked behind Boden just as the metal thing burst through the trees. Thrax.
The main hall could have encompassed the Aerie’s entire temple. In an alcove on the far wall, a crescent-shaped pool gleamed moon-white, fed by a burbling fountain. In one corner, a human chef puttered away at dinner—not sequestered in some side kitchen as in Liicataivan houses. In another corner, couches and armchairs ringed a cozy parlor-ish area. And on a lavish fainting couch, a book open in one hand, a fluted glass of thick red wine in the other, reclined Fae Farran. Ellyll always marveled at her beauty—not in desire, but in simple awe that any living creature could be so stunning. “Child of my heart.” She rose tall and set aside her book. She wore a crimson flower in her coiffured auburn hair, a brocaded silk gown of a red so deep it could be mistaken for black, and a pendant at her high-collared throat. Her rich alto sounded almost like singing. “My very soul.”
The movie poster for "Toys", showing a smiling Robin Williams wearing a red bowler-like hat. Inside the hat the same image can be seen, smaller, and inside that another, and another. The tagline reads "Laughter Is A State of Mind." General movie credits show toward the bottom of the poster. The background is a pale blue sky with scattered clouds.
Joan Cusack as Alsatia Zevo in "Toys", wearing a pink plastic helmet shaped like a hairdo and looking at the camera with a wry expression
Far ahead in the road, walking casually their way, came a half dozen people in full-body brass and bronze suits—not the skin-hugging health enhancements worn by most of the nobility, but full combat regalia, all angles and coils and pulsating veins of purple glass. Too late to turn around. And he was in no shape for a confrontation. “Say nothing,” he muttered to Kier and Quinceberry. “Nothing.” The suited warriors came nearer and nearer. Faces came into view, framed in faceted brass helmets. On their backs, each wore a sparkgun the size of a butter churn. Elliptical glass globules shimmered with purple lightning barely contained. Boden pushed forward, keeping his gait steady despite the pain. “Ho the Hounds,” he called.
A weary-looking woman of fifty or sixty approached down the center aisle of the hall, swooping her feathered skirts back and forth as if she dreamed she too were dancing. “Welcome to the eternal dance.” Boden wasn’t sure whether she was in pain or trying to smile. Either way, he hoped she’d quit. She halted right before them, though her face didn’t change and she still swayed. “It’s rare,” she said in a raspy voice, “for the Gaggle of Oloris to receive new visitors. Welcome! Look, all. A new cob and a new cygnet, come to join our rites.” She took hold of Boden and Kier’s hands and pulled them forward. Boden could have resisted easily, but he let himself be pulled forward. She stopped by the mats in front. She released their hands, and motioned for them to sit before resuming her skirt-swinging parody of a dance.
Ellyll stopped at the bottom of the gangplank and turned a full circle, staring in wonder. Branches of one tree encircled the next, weaving an intricate web overhead. Some limbs angled toward the earth, each limb a step in a grand stair ascending toward the web. Latticed limbs overhead formed platforms and fences. Glowing green orbs danced here and there amid the leaves. Bustling about their evening, green-skinned folk stood, sat, and walked between the massive boles and across the platforms above. Varr Zarzek chuckled. “Close your mouth, lad.”
“Ah, I do miss that old estate sometimes. None of the rest of it—the backbiting and maneuvering, the vituperative gossip of court. I don’t imagine one such as you knows the least of that.” “I have an inkling.” They stopped on the common level. Still with her hand on his shoulder, Fae Farran scanned the area. “I have it on good authority the inn known as the Haven offers the best lodgings here. Now where have my porters taken my things?” “Haven in the Oak.” He pointed to the tree that housed the tavern. “Oh, I knew I selected the right companion. Won’t you join me for a glass or two of wine? The winds on the airships do parch one’s throat.” They found a table, a smaller one with seats against the tavern wall. When they ordered, Sléodha smirked. “Som’n likes the elven look, nay?” He winked at Oghor and went to fetch the wine. “This is quaint. Charming. I do adore the energy and enthusiasm of the lesser folk.”
“The Philosopher, she dreams of wealth and power. Not for her own sake, mind you—she’s far too selfless for that. But for her Grand Project.” His hands rise and fold out. A vision billows above and between them—a glorious city of brass and bronze, crackling with purple lightning. Ships without sails, carriages without horses, great metal birds without wings. The humans stride as brazenly as gods, with swift resolve and uplifted faces. “This,” intones Loric, “is what she will bring, if she can. And at such a trifling cost.” “Cost?” says Kilvog. He claps his hands together, and the vision scatters into violet sparks. He points at Ilgannan. “You.” The sparks swirl around Ilgannan and wink out, one by one.
“In my youth, longer ago than generations of dwarves, I was deemed the fairest maiden ever born to the golden folk. The Crimson Flower of Careiden! My hair then shone like orichalcum, and I always wore a flower in my hair—this very blossom, in fact.” She touched the blossom adorning her hair, stirring a heady fragrance. “This flower has outlasted dynasties.” The blossom looked fresh as though it had been picked that very evening. Fae Farran gazed off into the dark distance. “Lovely, hm? Prince Quintrobilem himself gave it to me, before he ascended the Swan Throne.” “The Priest-King?” She made a dismissive noise. “They didn’t call him that then. Yes, later he courted piety and conquest. Back then, he courted me. Me, only child of a duchess from Careiden, no closer than thirty-seventh in line for the throne. But my youthful beauty drew his eye. I was a tender elfling, scarcely four twelveyear in age, impressionable as all the young are. And I cherished this blossom as nothing before.”
A screenshot of a human woman from a video game, wearing an elaborately macabre gown of dark purplish red, with a red flower in her hair. Eerie tendrils jut out from the gown. Her shoulder garment sticks out like insect wings, almost as long as her arms. Her hair is tied up in a tidy bun.
A green-skinned sylvari woman from a video game with branches for hair and wearing green and gold armor that resembles tree bark stands against a pink and purple background.
“How soon do you plan on opening?” Smirking, Jacqueline lifted her primly folded muffin bag. “First, I finish my gingerbread.” Peg couldn’t help laughing. “And your coffee. Please don’t hold it against me that it’s just… well… coffee.” Jacqueline poured herself a paper cup. “I’m sure it’s fine. But to answer—by summer. Many permits and contractors between times. I hear four July is big in your country, yes?” “Fourth of July is very big. Especially here—Oh. You’re joking.” Jacqueline’s turn to laugh. “You’re quick, Peg. This is not, as the movies say, my first rodeo.” She sipped her coffee and smiled over the rim of the cup. “Lovely. The coffee.” The praise, the smile, the dark eyes, brought heat again to Peg’s cheeks. Jacqueline said, “I thought the festival would be a good opening time.”
Oghor put them away without a word. “The Nightmare Blades?” Ellyll’s eyes widened. “The real ones?” “All right, I’m the only one here who doesn’t know these Nightmare Blades.” Kindral tried to drink more beer. “Ugh. Empty. Barmaid! Another round!” “I’m fine,” Ellyll called, raising his mug of tea. “I’ve read about these. They have names. Loathing and Dread. They drink… souls…” His voice trailed off.
A line drawing of a young Jane Austen. The background is vertical rainbow stripes. The text reads "More pride, less prejudice." Across the bottom the words "For reading addicts" appear.
Chromie from World of Warcraft, a dragon in gnome form. She looks like a small, blonde gnome with pigtails and gold-and-white robes. A subtle sparkling particle effect hovers around her.
How macabre mammals are, though, hoarding a clip of hair as a keepsake! When I was a slith, it would never have occurred to me to treasure a lover’s shed scales—as grotesque as treasuring their scat or spittle.
Eerie magics seethed around Darkmoon Manor; its very walls swallowed up daylight, returning no warmth. Oghor pushed open the door. No servant barred his way, no wards tripped at his trespass. Vast enough to house an army, the hall steeped in absolute silence, save for the echoing trickle of water. Dim light seeped between shutters on tall windows. Brighter light, the color of the moon, radiated from a crescent-shaped pool in an alcove, supplied endlessly by a fountain in the stone wall—a rare luxury in a desert city. Preternaturally still, Fae Farran sat in a thronelike chair, hands in her lap. Her breast did not rise or fall with any hint of breath. She smiled. “Old monster! What a pleasant surprise.” She gestured grandly toward a wine rack, broad and bountiful. “Won’t you have a drink?”
Fae Farran touched the flower in her hair. “It is indeed how necromancy typically works. Rendering something undead that never died? That would be an achievement indeed. Ellyll mentioned poison?” “Just so. I am not the natural healer Ellyll is. But I am somewhat skilled in alchemy. I smell poisons on that blade, a concoction I haven’t encountered before—paralytic agents, but also ingredients with some other use I can’t discern.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I am hard pressed to believe these were ordinary bandits.” “Many in Liicataiva walk outside the bounds of elven society. It wouldn’t be the first time someone with necromantic aptitude found it beneficial to hide from the Eyes of Inhoava.” Zarzek studied her. “I imagine you speak from experience.” Fae Farran smirked.