The old mill [archive].

Further away than our village limits, even beyond the lonely farms, the river Quith rolls off the mountains and down the steepest hills. Upon the hill which holds the Quith is a mill from ages past. A giant water wheel was there with spinning stones both thick and vast. And as the waters came to pass, they went back to the same, they turned with speed that giant wheel and joined the Quith again.

The life of a messenger [archive].

The world is never still or simple for those who dare to be a messenger. It is far more than going from here to there with spoken word or sealed letter. It is a world that more people would only glance as we shoot by as quick as an arrow on the backs of horses. Horses bred for a sprint which lasts only until the next stable gives another horse to drum its hooves into the ground and beat its rhythm for urgent words.

The happy widow.

So many whispers in a cycle of rage with hands to never come clean. It was to be but a squeal in the night, no fight, but a silence soon after.

The tale of Erek.

In the lower ranges of Epher, where winter brings rain, not snow, and temperatures too cold for crops to grow, the winter brings stories told by folk who drink and gather about a fire so warm and full of light.

Old pride.

Ruins are all that’s left of what megalithic greatness once was. A faith and life so rich and strong that through all things it could be.