Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

In words, what is.

There lay a vision of a mirror made hollow by darkness. Yet in that mirror, more was seen than in the polish than which lay there before. Continue reading “In words, what is.”

Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

The parasites of giants.

In the world of the parasite, the cure is most vile, and must be fought against, parasite and host alike, for only with its destruction will the world be safe for the like of the parasite.

Continue reading “The parasites of giants.”

Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story


There are some who simply live in the shadow of death. Not by act or choice, but by the simple choice of fate, that they should be kept company by the one who bridges the way between the living and the dead.

Death and fate themselves working in tandem, neither caring for what is within a moment, what life might come or go.

For to them all things go on as all things should have and will. There is nothing which should be held so sacred so as never to be touched by either hand.

And in the world where all things bloom and fade in a time not of their own choosing, so is the world at the mercy of that which acts without a thought or care for mercy, but compassionate disinterest.

The toil of mortal lives goes on so long as life may hold. for the world knows not that which binds it tight until it comes to act as it does.

Lore, Sagas

A Sage’s journal entry [archive].

Perhaps we Sages are not immune to the chitter chatter and spreading of stories we do not know. As the washer women and the drunks go on of sights they have never seen and voices they have never heard. Perhaps it is built into our race, our blood, our very being to spread the stories of folk in every place far flung about the world that we enjoy for a moment to tell each other stories. Stories unseen in any tome or history recorded by the hands of our kind. Continue reading “A Sage’s journal entry [archive].”