Lorra in her massive bed. Ken on a simple yet floating bedroll in the suite’s common area… privacy with a dash of magic(ician).

They awake in near unison, a soft crescendo of morning movements that ends with a gathering of things and departure: adventure awaits (or, at least, breakfast at Monty and Ezma’s).

***

Lorra feels a distinct combination of pride, responsibility and capability as she strolls the streets of Prill with her very own wizard. A similar vibe to parading a beloved canine companion about. This feeling shifts to the mild anxiety of introducing your parents to a harvest festival date as they approach Monty’s haven.

Lorra’s nervous knocking is not lost on Ken, who adds a playful rap of his knuckles to her pattering. She scowls, the door swings open and—

“Lorra and Ken, the wizard!” Ezma booms with a smile.

Now, it’s Ken who’s nervous, as one often is when the ritual of introduction is curtailed by such boisterious displays of unhinged and unwarranted familiarity.

You’ve felt it, too, I’m sure, meeting a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-someone or some such and, instead of decorum, you’re met with delirium—omg ive heard so much about u!!1!—almost hearing the mislaid exclamation in their voice.

Ken feels similar awkwardness now, though he doesn’t dare show it because the last dealings he had with a powerful witch ended in his current cursed state of being.

***

Lorra assists Ezma in preparing the morning’s fare—an impressive spread crafted for post-Hallowhearth celebration (no-one died, nice!), customary for witches in the most boring of times, let alone when the holiday is once again alive.

Monty looks Ken up-and-down, as an old wizard would.

“Cursed, I hear. Tell me, boy,” Monty demands.

“A witch most wicked. She—”

“Tell me of afflictions, not affectations.”

“Oh. Are you sure? It’s a pretty good sto—” Ken begins, then cuts himself off due to Monty’s piercing gaze. “Right. Well, usually, I’m normal, like this,” Ken explains, motioning to himself. “Sometimes, though, I change…”

Monty raises an eyebrow at this, urging Ken to continue with a slow nod.

“Sometimes, I become old for a short time. Even older than you, in fact!”

Monty grunts at this. Ken shuffles in place.

“In those moments, my magic is more powerful but somewhat… erratic. More of a long-retired archwizard, you dig? BUT! Sometimes, I become young, my magic is weaker and, also… erratic. More like an apprentice.”

“I see,” Monty says, without judgement. “And the quest to break this curse? It won’t interfere with Lorra’s mission?”

“I don’t believe so. Look, man, honestly, even in apprentice form, I’m more useful than not having a wizard. And it doesn’t last long. And she can always replace me.”

Monty nods, with speed this time, satisfied with Ken’s defence of, well, his existence, really.

“That young woman over there is like a neighbour’s grandchild to me. I am fond of her. She could use your assistance. But she cannot protect you,” Monty advises.

“That’s okay, I can pro—”

“Not as well as I’d like, for both your sakes. Ezma and I caught a glimpse of your Hallowhearth Eve antics in her cauldron. We saw you as the ‘apprentice’ and how you evaded harm…”

“If you knew my curse, why—”

“To see if you would lie. Nothing personal, we can only help Lorra while she remains close by. When we checked on her and saw you, Ezma simply turned the ladle to rewind time a tad. You shrunk yourself and hid in a cobble crack,” Monty finishes, with a soft chuckle.

“It worked, though!” Ken exclaims, in one of those whisper-blurts that has the exact opposite effect any proper whisper would.

“Yes, because there were no bugs there at the time. No, no, child, you need better protection, at least until your party gains a healer. It’s dangerous to go all prone… take this.” Monty states, pulling a small booklet from the folds of his robe.

Ken takes the tiny tome, eyes overflowing with gratitude. “Your Healer Doesn’t Care – Practical Barrier Spellcasting by Archwizard Samuella Dankendorf,” he recites. “Thank you!”

Monty nods, with closed eyes and a motion of his hand, signalling the end of their chat (it was actually a second job interview, unbeknownst to Lorra).

***

Breakfast banter and bellows of laughter make it an enjoyable feast, for the most part, though Ezma adores crossing lines a bit too much…

“Maybe ye’ll find something more than friendship on this adventure! Love or, even better, one of its associates!” Ezma says, with a wry smile.

“Oh! I don’t think so,” Lorra replies. “At least not until I find my brother. Too complicated. Poor Jomas was smitten with me and look where it got him.”

“Yeah, it is too complicated,” Ken agrees. “And quite so for me. I don’t think I’ll ever complete that quest.”

“Oh? Why not?” Monty enquires.

“Well, man, I’m like, magiamorous but psychisexual, you know?”

“No,” Monty admits.

“My heart belongs to magicians… but I’m only attracted to psychics.”

“Psychics?!” Ezma shrieks, mortified. “Wizards and psychics don’t get on – and they certainly don’t get it on!”

“That’s the problem,” Ken explains, slumping in his chair.

“I don’t get why they don’t, though?” Lorra admits.

“Of course you don’t, dear, you’re a sword swinger,” Ezma teases, stifling a giggle.

(The other two magic users choke on their own laughter as well).

Lorra plays it off and replies with a half shrug, sips her tea and stretches her arms.

“You know, boy, there is one person who is both,” Monty explains. “And only one.”

“Oh Monty, don’t fill his head with ideas and his heart with hope!” Ezma scolds.

“I’m sure you know this, being a wizard and all,” Monty continues. “But here’s a hint to unlodge your ‘memry,” Monty furthers, motioning towards the window, to the city beyond. “She just changed the world forever.”

“No way!” Ken’s eyes go wide with realisation, then become crescents due to mirth, laughter spilling forth. “You don’t think I have a chance, do you?!”

“No, you don’t,” Ezma states, turning to Lorra to erase the worry and confusion from her face. “Monty’s talking about…” Ezma’s voice drops to a whisper “…the leader of the world’s most powerful coven – who sits on the throne of Volcano Keep. Rumours credit her lot with rousing the great trickster…”

“Okay – might as well court the Queen of Murr in that case,” Lorra states, growing weary of all this romance chatter. “And if you plan to do that, you can do it after we rescue my brother,” she finishes.

“Yeah, well,” Ken replies, laughter still peppering his words, “I’d have to meet her first, and I don’t think she entertains council with not-so-famous wizards.”

“Then get famous,” Monty barks, crossing his arms.

“Or die trying…” Lorra adds, standing up. “We better head out if we’re going to make today’s progress. Thank you for breakfast and everything else, always!”

Monty and Ezma stand and go in for a group hug, which Ken observes with a pleasant smile.

“Take care of yourself, boy,” Monty advises.

“And her, right?” Ken asks, grinning.

“No,” Ezma cuts in, “she has magical armour – she’s fine! You, however? Well… don’t stand in the fire, as they say.”

“I’ll see you both again,” Lorra promises, scooping up her pack and heading towards the door.

“Are you forgetting anything?” Ezma asks, knowing Lorra owes the corpulent adept some coin.

Lorra pauses, cranes her neck, pinches her nose, squints and—

“Nah, don’t think so!”

***

Monty and Ezma stand at the door as the two young adventurers depart. They look like proud grandparents, or at least some aromantic magisexual variant.

“Poor girl… for the mission ahead, she needs more than a wizard – she needs a Ken with benefits!” Ezma remarks.

“Oh, stop it!” Monty replies with a laugh. “That’s the last thing on her mind.”

Both reflect on this and issue a set of drawn-out sighs.

“Hopefully he doesn’t get himself killed with that ‘curse’. I sense much potential there.” Monty poses.

“I sensed someone waiting outside.”

Monty replies with a knowing nod as Ezma produces a minuscule dagger. No larger than a clip one would use to fasten paper—and fashioned from the ore of a fallen star, with all those wonderful waves and folds—the dagger floats in the palm of her hand.

The old wizard snaps his fingers, causing the dagger to shimmer with violet light. Ezma whispers in a strange tongue, alighting glowing runes on its bitty blade, which fade to become faint etchings.

Ezma then blows, all gentle, like how one would towards a lover’s ear (it’s actually weird, how soft she does this and her expression while doing so), pushing the dagger forward ever-so-slight...

“Follow sure, who follows them
And should THEY prove hollow…
Assure their end!”

The dagger floats forward, flickering out of sight with a final glint of pointed promise.

She turns, groaning, and sits up, grasping tormented temples and smacking dry lips, desperate for some of the moisture she feels beneath her.

Wet grass. Shards of clay. Bare feet?

Ugh, what happened?

Lorra cranes her neck, reaching through memories all a’blur, like cards shuffled at high speed. Ghosts. The phantom of the stableha—

“Patrick?!” Lorra spews, bewildered.

Yes, Patrick (the stablehand). Two days dead, and now semi-transparent with major equine vibes. A phantasmal assault rushing right at her and then… her mind goes dark.

She stands up, weary and wobbling. It looks like a dozen pots were smashed where she slept.

“You was a statue,” a crinkled voice says.

Lorra looks to her right, where a shrivelled elder sits on a park bench.

“You was a statue,” the fogey repeats, “and then you wasn’t.”

Lorra looks around, sighs, and shrugs at the wrinkle-worn adviser. Her expression is blank due to the pulsing, pounding presence plastering her pericranium.

“And then you was robbed. Y’need new boots now,” they finish, triumphant.

Lorra nods and starts to stumble away when a rather large shadow coats her form. It’s the tubby coven adept!

“Oh goodness, look at you!” the chubulent young witch exclaims, her high-pitched voice slicing into Lorra’s hungover thoughts like a chirurgeon’s blade. “Oh! Cold wet feet won’t do in this season! Let me help.”

With the antiquated onlooker’s attention assaulting her anxious temperament, the waxing witch only manages to conjure a fuzzy slipper for Lorra’s left foot and a wooden clog for her right.

“Not perfect but I’m getting better at this!” the candy addict lies. “They’ll only last for an hour, give or take – want a lift?”

“No, the world’s spinning already. Too much celebration last night. Can you lend me a few coins, though? My valuables are at Monty and Ezma’s. I’ll give Ezma the money to pay you back.”

“Okay,” the waistward witch replies, passing a small loan into Lorra’s eager palm (with reluctance). “Please don’t forget, our adept’s stipend is so small!”

Lorra winces—another pain pang rippling from crown to clogged foot—and walks off as best she can, while the kind-hearted adept putters off on her broom as best she can.

***

Prill is somber. Last night showed the true weight of Hallowhearth. Eight dead at current count, not counting the resurrected.

People are out and about, in a rush, the absence of cheer casting a strange dynamic between hushed and torrential. Chores are getting done and shutters shall be shut; the dust will be blown off all the old rituals and there will be minimal spectral savagery, thank you very much!

The clanging of armour, the click-clacking of hooves, the clipped chatter of everyone rushing about, all of it pushing Lorra further into agony.

Yeah, last night was scary but can everyone just relax?! We have hours until whatever happens next.

More queasy than uneasy, she presses forward with an annoyed expression. Is the fact that, you know, most people don’t have deity-forged weapons to protect them lost on her? Yes, it is at this moment. She’s too hungover to be concerned with trivialities such as self-awareness.

Lorra spots a cobbler’s shop and opts for simple footwear; leather flats that let her feel the cold, paved footpaths (and it feels good).

I’ll buy better boots with my own money later. Maybe. Do I even need them if the sword makes my armor?

Lorra stops for tea, an herbal remedy with just a touch of magic (memories of last night return).

The sword covered me in some sort of shell… but did IT put me to sleep, or did I just pass out?

Lorra pops in and out of laneways, hoping to bump into the paladin and the sorcerer. She doesn’t manage to find them.

I hope they made it.

Lorra’s thoughts wander. Last night showed the new fate she’ll follow—north, to her heart’s reprieve. Tonight, however, will be for rest. Like everyone else, she’ll draw the curtains in her suite and follow the ways of old. She just needs to find out what that even means.

Still a good amount of daylight hours, though. Maybe go for a walk, check the outskirts?

***

Drawing a line from Prill to the next town with her finger, Lorra discerns her next best route—a direct path through wild valley lands. She walks out of Prill’s northeast gate to give it a look, reaching the plateau’s edge in under an hour (taking careful steps, given her current footwear).

Prill, a mere brush dab on the sky’s wide canvas, is nonetheless inviting. Mountains rise to the east and west of what is already high country. Between them is a deep chasm of dense wood, hiding all manner of rivers, caves, glades, bogs, animal trails and even ruins.

Lorra regards the wide valley below with no small amount of caution. Four to ten day’s worth of steady walking, but what of the night? Low on supplies, with limited local foraging knowledge (she’s far from the manor, after all) and even less willingness to hunt...

I’ll just have to make a go of it. Stay in Prill for a day or two more, get my stuff and keep moving.

At that moment, with neither a motion of wind nor a notion of sound, a shadow falls over Lorra’s own. The shape of it, while unimpressive, still disturbs her because she—

“Didn’t hear anyone coming,” Lorra says, whipping around with a battle-ready expression that fades to child-like confusion.

“Hey,” a wire-thin man replies.

He has deep-set, sleepy eyes—pale blue like the sky reflected on a frozen lake. Blonde hair falls well beyond his shoulders. The beard? Neat but noticeable.

“I’m a wizard.”

He’s wearing culottes, a singlet and simple sandals. A sheer shirt of some sort, dyed in an explosion of blues and purples, is rolled up and draped over a shoulder.

“You don’t look like any wizard I’ve seen,” Lorra replies, giving him a good up-and-down. He does have a wide-brimmed hat, though it’s worn on his back like a hood, held to his neck with the thinnest of straps.

The man sighs. He manages (in no small part due to his placid expression) to do so without appearing annoyed or frustrated with the young woman.

“I’m Ken… the wizard. Watch this.”

He raises his hands and shakes them about with the lack of care one gives such unofficial quasi-formalities.

The result? A cascade of miniature pyrotechnics. It reminds Lorra of the puff-bombs and swizzle-streams above the old (and now, likely dead) King’s winter palace on King’s Day. There’s even whizzing and popping sounds.

“Magic, man, see?” the wizard adds.

“Okay, well... sorry but you know,” Lorra replies, motioning to his full frame with a nod, “What’s going on with all this? Your pants don’t even go all the way down… and where’s your robe? Does that hat even have a point?!”

“Well,” the wizard replies, leaning in.

Lorra leans back on instinct, but this guy is so damn tall he just keeps going, their noses almost touching!

“I’m cursed,” he whispers, snapping back. “So, I ditched all that for comfort,” he continues, beaming, and wow! For what it’s worth, he has great teeth. In fact, when he smiles, he’s all teeth, with his eyes squinty and head tilted back, as if his beard was a king and that smile… a pearly crown.

“Don’t worry, it’s not contagious,” he adds.

Lorra considers this. Her mind hovers over his presence like a bee deciding if a flower is good enough, not worth the time or, perhaps, some sort of carnivorous trap.

“Well, pleased to meet you—” Lorra says as she draws her sword and slides into a fighting stance. “Now back off!” She shouts, her sword right up in the wizard’s face.

The wizard shrugs and vanishes, reappearing around three metres from where she stands, sitting in a large puffy chair with a small table to the side, a cup of tea, plate of biscuits and ornate lantern on a stand.

“No aggro, man. I’m just answering your post.”

“My post?”

“You know, on the town board?”

Dim memories flicker in Lorra’s mind. Tavern hopping last night. Trying to make sense, and use, of the calling board. Scrawling a message for—oh shit!—everyone in Prill to see.

As the memory returns, the wizard takes a piece of thick parchment off the table and holds it up.

“I took it,” he admits.

It’s a crude sketch of Lorra herself, with the word ‘ME’ and an arrow pointing at her face. Next to the unfortunate self portrait, ‘LF WIZRD’ is written in large, blocky letters, with ‘U WZRAD?’ beneath.

“Yeah, sorry about that, it was late, and I was drinking all night and I—”

“You aren’t looking for a wizard?”

“Well,” Lorra replies, right brow rising as she looks over her shoulder towards the vast valley. “Can you conjure a cabin?”

***

In theory, Ken could teleport Lorra and himself back to Prill, provided he’s learned such spells (he ought to have), is well-rested (he looks to be) and has attuned to the location (who knows?).

A walk, however, is far more intimate. Chatter becomes banter, banter becomes plans and plans ferment. Whether they become the stuff imbibed while charting a course in revelry—or poison—is for time to tell.

And so, they walk. If they tire? Sure, ‘port then, why not? The risk of injury is low (but not zero).

“To be clear, this gig’s unpaid?” Ken asks, for the fifth time.

“No. I don’t think that’s how it usually works. Last night, they told me they just divide treasure – sometimes, lots of it!”

“Right, right… but as a party, we’ll all share common interest, hey? I help you rescue your mother and you help me get rid of this curse?”

“Sure!” Lorra exclaims, having never been invited to such a task. “But it’s my brother, not my mother.”

Ken smiles, satisfied, teetering on the edge of, but not quite falling into ‘smug’. Something pulls him back and his smile becomes pursed due to a furrowed brow.

“What about the big stuff? Those are kind of selfish goals, aren’t they?” Ken asks, quizzical.

“Well, yours is,” Lorra replies with a chuckle.

“I suppose but, you know, I’m wondering about it, that’s all. That’s all I’m saying, man!”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“We have solid personal goals but what about a universal goal? Something that makes our problems look small?”

“Like the end of the civilisation as we knew it?” Lorra asks, sincere.

“Sort of but I don’t think anyone can undo that,” Ken says, sighing. “So, you know, maybe not that big.”

“Makes sense, I—”

“Or not! Woah! We might help undo all of this,” Ken says, waving his arms at the world itself. “Join a raid that puts the great trickster to slumber once more, you know?” he finishes, eyes twinkling with such awe and wonder you’d swear they were stuffed with stars.

Lorra can only reply with a semi-exasperated chuckle. The kind you make when you’re a bit ‘whelmed but enjoying it all the same.

“You know?” Ken reiterates, joining Lorra in soft laughter.

“We’ll see. For now, let’s make it through the night without being murdered by ghosts. Do you know what we’re meant to do to, you know, not have to deal with all that?”

Ken launches into an excited Hallowhearth lore dump. Lorra listens. Both trudge forth (the return trip is uphill), eager for the day to be sorted prior to sundown.

A coin slips from a fresh hole in Lorra’s skirt pocket, tumbling into the mud with an inaudible micro ‘thunk’.

Lorra doesn’t notice. Ken doesn’t notice. No-one would have ever noticed—the coin’s fate to sink into the ground and rest for centuries, or forever, even—except someone did… the person following them.

That’s right, unbeknownst to the budding warrior chained to a weapon that fell from the sky and her new companion—an all-powerful master of magic stricken by a malefic malediction (which Lorra didn’t bother to clarify because of course not)—a nigh-invisible and mayhap-insidious figure is mere metres behind, watching, listening, learning their plans.

The mysterious pursuer slips the lower part of their right arm out of stealth (neat trick), plucking the prize from wet soil before returning to their current chore: stalking our hero(es).

Chapter 13 ->

She wakes to the sound of scratching and a pungent odour. D’lli stands outside the entrance of the chamber in a slumber-induced daze, standing in a hidden open-air garden, pawing at a marble column.

“Are you okay?” Lorra calls out.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Puds exclaims, mid-yawn.

“Sorry, sorry… half asleep,” D’lli replies, sheepish as a shepherd.

“Cave-cat brain before morning tea,” Puds explains. “Happens to the best of us. Not to me, of course.”

All three put on their boots and depart, leaving the bed unmade and D’lli’s turds uncovered. The secret garden, high above any natural foliage, is a shame to put behind them but—

“More baddies will come to loot this place, soon, I bet,” D’lli says with a sigh.

Walking through the winter palace’s halls and cloisters, Lorra blinks and rubs her eyes at the sudden appearance of a new motif spread all about the place.

Strings of orb-shaped orange lights. Papier-mâché bats and bugs fixed to the walls. Giant pumpkins with crude (yet endearing) carved faces, lit from within by coal-coloured candles.

“It’s Hallowhearth Eve?!” Lorra exclaims, surprised by the disruptive décor.

“The Trickster’s favourite holiday,” D’lli remarks, in a low tone of awe and caution.

“Good, let’s get out of here – and don’t eat any sweets found along the way,” Puds advises.

***

Back on the road, heading north, Lorra checks her map scrap—still her most cherished possession despite now having a magic sword, (modest) cache of coins and four cards. She notes a small blip representing a town.

“Prill,” Lorra states. “That’s the next town… but it’s far.”

“We’ll make it, don’t worry,” D’lli assures.

“Yes, we can always make camp when needed,” Puds adds.

“I’ve been thinking…” Lorra begins. “About what you asked me yesterday – where I’m going? I’ve decided to—”

Lorra is cut off as sudden slabs of shade appear above and around the trio, as if a forest popped up right on the road, letting only shafts of light through clustered branches. She looks up, expecting the worst and instead sees—

“Elder Ezma!”

The shadows are not from branches, they’re from broomsticks!

A portion of Ezma’s powerful coven alights, soft and sure as to not kick up road dust. One chunkier young witch fails at this, sending a poulder plume towards her sisters.

“Little Lorra! Still alive, as I expected. And with friends. Adorable friends, look at you two! Lost, I imagine?” Ezma enquires.

Puds and D’lli bow but do not reply beyond nods and smiles. Every witch can’t help but stare, this being the first time they’ve seen such travellers.

“These are my three closest sisters,” Ezma continues, “Esmer the Eldest and Eensy Auntie Emalline – the rest are coven cadets.”

Esmer is thin and wizened, with an impressive, hooked nose. Emmalline is short, with an oversised pointed hat—the brim of which ensures she is immersed in shadow, regardless of where the sun sits in the sky.

“This is Puds and D’lli – came from The ‘Neath sort of by accident,” Lorra replies. “We’re on our way to Prill. It’s my first stop before…”

Lorra pauses. Should she speak her plans, aloud and to the world? To her new companions and a pack of witches she barely knows? Probably not but—

“Before I go to the upmost northlands,” she continues, garnering thoughtful and impressed expressions from the witches. “To kill marauders,” she adds, with a satisfied nod.

“A mission of murder?” Ezma asks with caution.

“No, no, sorry,” Lorra replies. “It was those mauraders who killed my parents and stole my brother. We ran into a few at the winter palace and I beat them.”

“Ah, vengeance and, perhaps, rescue! Much more acceptable,” Ezma states, with no sarcasm. “We’re also going to Prill – for Hallowhearth! We shall take you,” Ezma adds, turning to the Grimals. “And you two?”

Ezma focuses on the cousins, giving them a knowing look that’s warmer than their most recent meals and twice as trustworthy.

“We must return to The ‘Neath, at least for now. There are allies who will be worried,” Puds explains.

“And more importantly, all our stuff,” D’lli adds.

Lorra’s face falls at this revelation, her heart hollow once again.

“Very well. Hanna?” Ezma calls.

A young witch takes a dainty step forward, blonde locks punctuated by wispy flyaways from a widow’s peak escaping the brim of her pushed-back hat—all framing dazzling green eyes and a smile as cautious as it is beautiful.

“Take them to the island nation of Landland, which without those pesky realm seals ought to have the most reliable and accessible method of transport back to The Fae Realms.”

“Landland!” Hanna replies, shocked, her fellow cadets erupting in whispers of excitement around her.

“Indeed, Aspirant Sister Hanhanna! If what I’m guessing is your guess, too, then we’re both correct. This is to be your fifth sojourn,” Ezma replies.

“Yes, Elder,” Hanna says, offering a respectful curtsy. “Thank you!”

Lorra is a bit unsure what that all means but, regardless, is full of envy and jealousy. She leans down and gives each cousin a hug—and a gentle forehead kiss (you know how it is with felines, I hope).

Hanna performs a simple conjuration convocation, causing two small seats—with straps—to appear on her broom.

“Oh! Do get that sword chained to a bangle or bracer – may it never leave your hands again,” Puds suggests, climbing onto the hovering broom.

“Yeah, and keep smellin’ nice… and stay friendly!” D’lli adds, joining his cousin.

“We’ll meet again!” Lorra shouts, one hand waving and both eyes wavering, doing her best to hold back tears.

The cousins return departing gestures as they blast off westward, into the great unknown.

***

The ride to Prill is one of great speed, Lorra clutching the waist of that stocky coven hopeful. She has never been this high up in the air, and she doesn’t like it. The broom dips as they soar, due to both the driver’s heft and added magical gravity of Lorra’s sword.

Forests, fields, flowing rivers and growing farmsteads, all cast against a world a-curve, whirling far below. The angle changes and they descend, with Prill’s main spire—a bell tower housed in bricks of deep grey with marble feature stones—greeting the group from afar… and in short order, from far closer than that.

A little too close, actually! The witches whoop and wail with laughter as they fly through the tower’s opening, with a few of the feistier veterans and adepts kicking the thing!

Elder Ezma motions for Lorra’s chubby chaperone to follow. They break away from the main group and fly to the far end of the town, across a river and to a placid estate on Prill’s outskirts.

Lorra hops off, woozy and wendful of step, the rotund witch who carried her flying off before any thanks can be given. If you’re thinking she’s in a hurry to get Hallowhearth candy, shame on you! You’re right, though.

***

“Monty!” Lorra squeals, holding her joy close before being overtaken by tears of relief—then, collapsing into the old wizard’s arms in a cringe-worthy display of tormented sobs.

The wizard’s open-plan quarters feature several sprawling sofas, piles of books, trunks of treasure and an impromptu kitchen made of various floating cauldrons.

“Now, now, Lorra, keep it together,” the wizard commands, with far more cheek than gruff. “I’m glad to see you made it through that terrible night, too. Ezma and I are staying here for a time, awaiting news from peers and prophets alike.”

“So much has happened since I last saw you!” Lorra relates, wiping her eyes. ”I found a magical sword, the stablehand killed Riles and I killed the stablehand – Elder Ezma might have told you those parts – Ol’ Maud has one of those crowns, I met two Grimals and I killed a bunch of marauders.”

Lorra catches her breath and catches up to her own thoughts.

“Indeed. And now you want to go north, for a family reunion, vengeance… or both.” Monty returns.

“How did you know?”

“Wizards have more than magic, Lorra. We have logic, too. I know your history and I see your potential. You made it this far and yet… it’s a mere beginning. Also, that’s where the Nevvanites call home.”

“The Nevvanites?”

“Yes… the marauders from the Nevva Wastes who sometimes raid the northern most areas of Vaddia, the eastern areas of Delland and Oera, the west of Tyruss —and often raid Ralii, Vanl Span and the Icy Reaches, among other places.”

“Right! Yes, them,” Lorra replies, feigning insight. “With the fur-collared vests…” she says, in a half questioning tone that fails to veil her naïveté.

“Exactly. Their numbers are vast. You will need a party, at first, and after your skills advance, perhaps a guild or two… or a few. I’m sure an entire raid wouldn’t hurt, given the nature of your mission. One young woman can’t face their numbers alone.”

“A party… adventure…” Lorra says, eyes rolled towards the roof as every bit of her noggin burns at full heat. “I need to find an archer, then, I guess, or maybe a monk… a barrister, too?”

“I’d find a wizard first, but I’m biased,” Monty quips. “As fuck!” he adds.

Lorra is taken aback by that word.

“What did you just say?” she cautions.

“Why, I–I said that word, didn’t I? Strange… you don’t have any of those cursed cards, do you?” he replies (pronouncing ‘cursed’ as ‘curs-ed’).

“I do. I have four of them in my bags. I figured they’d be of use later.”

“Very well, I do believe you’re right about that, and ought to keep them – but certain magic users seem to be, well, sensitive to their presence. Do forgive me.”

Laura nods but the vibe is off now. She feels ashamed but her trust in the old wizard is thrown a bit due to his verbiage.

What if he has a crown hidden somewhere?

“Don’t worry, Lorra, those crowns can’t be stored as far as we’ve heard. Basically, they melt you like a candle if you hold one without putting it on,” Ezma calls out from behind the cauldrons, as if reading Lorra’s mind (she’s not, though she is reading her body language).

“Yes, worry not, Lorra. ‘Tis a minor agitation that is well worth time spent with you on this fine Hallowhearth Eve. You can still leave your bag here as well – Ezma will put it in her special magic-resistant footlocker until you depart.”

“Why would I leave it here?” Lorra asks.

“Because it’s your first Hallowhearth as your own woman!” Ezma says with a laugh. “You might be about to have actual fun for the first time.”

“Yes, and our security is quite more advanced than that of any Prill inn,” Monty adds. “No-one will get your death cards from our holiday home, that’s certain!”

“Death cards…” Lorra repeats. “That’s grim, isn’t it?”

“Just slang we’ve heard,” Ezma explains. “I suppose ‘magic cards’ wouldn’t do for whatever reason, and these often cause death… speaking of which, watch out tonight; it is Hallowhearth Eve, and we don’t yet know what may change due to the trickster’s awakening.”

Lorra considers all this and obliges. She takes a few items from her pack to ensure she can pay her way while in town as Ezma brings a kettle of tea for a sit—three cups floating in the air behind her.

***

Prill is small yet serendipitous. Numerous tight laneways, bright shops and quite a few coffee and cake joints. Lorra spends the day exploring it all, and even accomplishes a few chores of note along the way.

A burly, buxom blacksmith lends her hammer and anvil to the cause of safeguarding Lorra’s sword—fixing a thin yet nigh-indestructible band of fresh Elvenium (thank you for breaking the seals, Loreloal!) to Lorra’s wrist, connected by a chain of the same material to a smaller shackle fixed above the hilt guard.

How did Lorra afford it, you wonder? Easy: the skeletal mage card. Nothing like fresh set speculation to drive up the value of anything that looks cool. This was a good trade.

Lorra also books a suite at a local inn, with a magic-powered hot bath and shower. Cleaning up never felt so good (this is literal, it’s her first personal spa treatment EVER). All for the low price of that other skeleton card. This was not a good trade.

Don’t worry! She left her other two cards in her bag. She’s irresponsible (and on many topics, ignorant) but not stupid. With the two skellies as comparison, those ‘named cards’ were clear keepers… for now.

She has the best coffee of her life, paid with a gold coin valuable enough to return three-dozen silver as change. She doesn’t regret leaving her basket hidden way back near the manor, either—many places of business already have signs noting they’ll only accept ‘real’ currency.

Despite the world ending less than half a week ago, and losing the cousins as travel partners, the day is wonderful.

The sun slips behind the mountains, painting their edges. As the alps glow with alpenglow and the Hallowhearth celebrants shuffle to-and-fro, Lorra stumbles upon the town’s most notorious place of party.

A cobbled exterior with timber beams, covered in Hallowhearth décor. Smoke puffs from a triple-flued chimney, coloured orange for the holiday by means of magic. Laughter and music emanate from within.

Twelve Tonne Tavern? Sounds good to me!

***

Lorra enters the tavern with caution, scanning from the bar on its far left to a massive hearth on the far right. Booths and tables are spread about, occupied by all manner of patrons.

A small stage occupies the upper right corner of the main open space, beyond the impressive fireplace. The stage is occupied by a bard, who plays a stringed instrument fashioned from what appears to be a shovel, filling the air with a dirge.

The smooth melody is complemented by discordant ambience; the instrument (fancier than you imagine, rendered in a breathtaking brutalist aesthetic) must be enchanted… the sound seems to come from all directions.

The bard uses the tips of his boots to manipulate esoteric rectilinear relics—forged, faceted and fixed to a plank of bleakwood, resting on the stage.

A swift move of the Bard’s foot causes his current refrain to repeat all on its own. Another changes the timbre of his shovel-lute, producing a sound unlike any Lorra has ever heard; a pleasant and deep crackle, as if the essence of a storm wraps every note (it does).

Lorra takes it all in, allowing the sombre tune to penetrate her psyche. An auspicious time of year, emphasising the suspicious timing of the Great Trickster’s banes and boons. She exhales and, with the help of the bard’s ephemeral gift, lets some of her torment (and most of her inhibitions) go.

***

Lorra steps up to the bar, hops onto a stool and peruses a chalkboard above the taps. As she ponders what drink to try, a polite cough coaxes her attention. It is so proper—so pure—that one wouldn’t be faulted if they mistook its emitter for an angelic being.

Lorra turns and, sure enough, it’s a paladin.

“Hello, young traveller. First time in Prill?”

“Hello! Yes. This is the first I’ve been out of Vaddia, actually. My name’s Lorra,” she replies, sticking her hand out for a shake.

“Pleased to meet you. I am Sir Hex – a paladin from The Green Dragon Order,” he states, stepping off his stool to take her hand—which he does not shake, rather holds during a deep bow before returning to his seat.

“And I’m Balls,” a tousle-haired magician adds, leaning forward with a short wave. “Rank one-hundred-and-eleven sorcerer.”

“Balls?” Lorra cautions.

Balls flicks his hand and splays his fingers in a tight gesture. Myriad miniature elemental spheres manifest, orbiting his arm—ebbing electricity, whirling water, glittering gold, dazzling diamond, flittering fire and shifting shadow.

“Wow – such tiny balls!” Lorra exclaims, with as much innocence as exuberance. The paladin chuckles, soft, and swigs his drink.

“Oi!” a passing barkeep shouts at the sorcerer, hefting her giant bosom with a twist of her back for emphasis (both fists are occupied with mugs of ale). “NO. MA-GIC!” she warns, her chest slamming the bar for emphasis. “I’ve already told you twice!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Balls replies. “I just need some fresh air. Please don’t kick us out.”

Balls hops off his stool and heads towards the door, shooting Lorra a grin as he heads into the night.

“What kind of names are those? Hex and Balls?”

“Just nicknames,” Hex chuckles and shrugs. “We’re no trouble. Just waiting for the rest of our party to show up. Won’t be more than a few days now – then, we head south.”

“I need a party,” Lorra admits. “I’m going north, way north, and I’m new to this.”

“New to what, exactly?” Hex asks, eyebrow raised.

“Everything, really. Not living behind the manor’s walls. Deciding to do one thing instead of whatever the steward required on any random day.”

“What do you do, what’s your ‘one thing’?”

“Looking for my brother, who was taken north – and fighting, there will be a lot more of that. This sword,” Lorra says, motioning to her blade, “I got during the end of the world. It’s special. So, I guess I do, well, that.”

“Grats!” Hex exclaims, in earnest (he is a paladin after all; envy is one of the first things they overcome).

Lorra pauses, having confused herself while confronting what her mission means.

“I… I’m not a sword fighter. I have guard training, and I was pretty good with a short sword, but this thing isn’t really about that,” Lorra adds, nodding towards her sword.

“Are you in the front of the fight, or more coming in from the side or back after it starts?”

“I’m facing who I fight, that’s for sure.”

“Frontlines – like me!” Hex exclaims. “Barkeep, why is this epic young lady mugless?!”

“You’re a fighter?” Lorra questions. “You don’t even have a weapon!”

“Well, it is Hallowhearth Eve. I’m not in full armour, either… we’re out drinking, not at war! But…” Hex replies, pointing towards the door.

Lorra turns and sees a massive shield propped up against the wall—tall and wide enough to be mistaken for a second door.

“That’s part of it. I can show you my weapon later, we’ll get kicked out if I conjure it here,” he says, smiling. “But friends like Balls are who I rely on for damage.”

“My sword isn’t sharp. It’s more for smashing… someone else doing damage would be convenient.”

“You can’t go wrong with a magician as your first pickup. You’ll need a healer, too, though they mostly mend your friends, you’ll find.”

Lorra nods in thoughtful appreciation. Hex leans in a bit closer.

“Magic? It makes the road – all the in-between bits – much easier. We don’t even need to buy food most of the time, he can just conjure it or transmute rocks!”

The barkeep brings Lorra a tankard of dark brew.

“Shadowmead Stout, brewed special for Hallowhearth!” the barkeep announces.

Lorra takes a swig, then a gulp, then a gush—it’s that good. She struggles to stop herself from downing it all in one go.

“When you’re finished, we can hop to the next pub if you’d like – the clock strikes Hallowhearth in a few hours and you’ll want to be in the main square!” Hex explains.

***

Lorra, the paladin and the sorcerer spend the rest of the night tavern hopping, picking up social stragglers at each location. She slams down iron mugs, fluted crystalware, goblets and even a stein made of stained glass.

The laughs, the lessons, the loss of lingering lament (even if temporary)… she deserves it. Darts are thrown, trivia is dropped and there’s even an illegal game of Three-Up played at one of the more low-brow locations.

Roaming the streets is different with companions, too, even if they’re not friends, not really. You know how a decent night of drinking goes, though… acquaintances become so much more (even if temporary).

Lorra even spends time lingering at one of the town’s massive notice boards, inspired to action (even if temporary), focused on her future—attempting to take her life into her own wine-stained hands by putting herself out there.

As the time nears for the midnight bell to toll, heralding the arrival of Hallowhearth, the group is a veritable war parade: a few dozen adventurers with almost as many common folk.

The group stumble-spills into town centre (which is actually a hexagon, not a square), mixing into the massive crowd gathering around Prill’s famed fountain, all singing Hallowhearth carols with their best witchy wails.

Lorra, still near the pally and his pal, overhears a slurred sorcerous query that drains all calm from her heart.

“Imagine if – Imagine! If the seals being broken… means Hallowhearth legends will, like, happen? That can’t be, right? Right!”

It’s Hex’s reaction—looking around in a sudden wild panic—that concerns Lorra most. She’s too far gone to sober up, but she gets a sliver of her clarity back.

“Whass he talking abou’?!” Lorra yells over the crowd. “Not ghosts. Ghosts?!”

Hex, sober as a paladin (they really can hold their spirits, damn!) grabs Lorra by both shoulders to steady her gaze.

“I don’t know but midnight is moments away! Fear not, just stand still and trust me.”

Hex keeps hold of Lorra with his right hand and pulls Balls in with his left. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and hums. A halo of buttery light appears over the sorcerer and our hero, sending a sheet of glowing magic down each of their bodies.

“What the hell did you that for?” Ball rebukes. “I paid good coin for those last rounds!”

“Woah… I’m not drunk anymore!” Lorra exclaims.

“It won’t last,” Hex explains “even my cleanse can’t undo that bout of drinking. We have maybe ten minutes until you’re both wasted again.”

“Thank goodness for that!” the sorcerer quips. “The last thing I want is—”

The bell rings out, emitting a series of gongs and chimes to the tune of Hallow Dolt (a favourite holiday song).

For a moment, only rejoice reverberates through town centre and beyond. Just enough time for a collective sigh of relief from those paying attention to the last few days, and what the Great Trickster’s awakening might mean for everyone’s safety.

Myths are best kept as tales of caution, parcels of wisdom delivered from the past to the here and now. We all know history repeats itself… life is just far more comfortable if we’re around for the pleasant parts rather than the monsters, mobs and malicious movements of mankind. In short: you’re better off operating in accordance with the law of the land—not the lore of the land.

Before the next breath is drawn after that initial sigh of relief, Hallowhearth hell breaks loose.

***

Lorra’s goofy smile is jarred into a shriek of terror as the ground quakes and the fountain’s water halts its flow, reverses direction and drains in full. She steadies herself, hand on hilt, garnering a nod of approval from the paladin.

Hundreds upon hundreds of ghosts erupt from the fountain, shifting the holiday’s revelry to riotous chaos.

There’s too much lore to unpack here but you should know there are many types of ‘ghosts’. Some look like people, some are people (in a way), others are more abstract, all that. However, none have been seen in this quantity for many centuries.

The first wave are loose of form, ethereal beings that look much like the classic ‘sheet with cut out holes‘ ghost costume. They soar into the sky, though many return to frighten and even attack the mortals below.

The paladin conjures a glowing mallet with a cock of his right arm, taking the shield from his back with his left. He bats away at the air—the ghosts avoid this (holy is a good defence from spooky, as always).

Lorra draws her sword. Her clothes are replaced with a silver-threaded gown and veil. She shimmers into semi-transparency, becoming like a phantom herself. She follows the paladin’s lead (who is impressed by her surprise wardrobe change, btw) but her sword doesn’t do shit against the ghosts.

The sorcerer manifests a multitude of spectral spheres, which capture the floating fiends with magical gravity. The spheres vanish as they fill with trapped ghosts.

The crowd disperses in mad dashes, people running down every street of Prill. Witches fly above, neutralising the threat where they can—but enemies continue to gush from the fountain.

The sorcerer struggles to summon replacement orbs at pace with the attack. He bends over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.

“I need a sec to cool down!” he shouts over the din—the ululating lamentations of the returned is like whalesong beneath the waves, distant and complex, intertwined within a thousand gales, interspersed between the realms of the living and the dead.

A shade wearing a tall top hat of pure shadow passes through the sorcerer. He stands, rigid, clutching his chest without a sound, and collapses to the ground, dead.

“No!” the paladin yells, struck by grief and horror. His hammer vanishes, ghosts spiralling above the now-duo. He presses his eyes shut and looks down, grabbing his shield with both hands. Amber light blooms around its edges.

Accept my offering the paladin thinks to himself—Lorra hears it in her mind, too.

Hex throws his shield into the air, its glow giving rise to a supernova of light. A gilded barrier of magic surrounds them, ghosts fizzling into mist as they crash against it.

“I have limited time to rez him,” Hex explains, scooping his deceased companion into his arms. “The barrier’s boon will stay with you for around a minute or two. Run for cover – and be well! May our next beverage be tea!”

The paladin bolts into the night with the sorcerer in his arms. Lorra takes off in the other direction. True to his word, she is covered in a golden film… but it’s already fading.

***

Lorra sprints through side streets and alleyways, far from the epicentre of the epic ectoplasmic explosion. She reaches a public park right as her legs become noodles.

Ohps! she thinks to herself, in inebriated portmanteau. Back to drunk.

Lorra stumbles through the grass, admiring the willows, spirits soaring above like shooting stars.

Which way? How’get’to—

Lorra’s musings are interrupted by a wild whinny, the scent of grass replaced by that strong stable stench. It’s unmistakable, as is the sound of angry snorting coming from behind her.

She whips around, expecting a loose stallion, spooked by the night’s events, and instead sees—

“You?” she asks, staring at the spectral form of the stablehand she defeated prior to facing down Ol’ Maud.

He’s himself but see-through, blue, pulsing with supernatural luminescence. He opens his mouth but instead of words, the sound of horses yelping and pounding their hooves fills the air.

Lorra sways, tilting her head, confused.

“Wait… you’ar… hors’nao?” she blutters, the sober buff having expired in full. “WUT?!” she blurts, laughing.

The phantom stablehand stamps his foot and emits another unnatural equine call. Ghosts stream down from above, rallying behind him. Others seep upwards from the ground. In seconds, they are legion.

Lorra screams as the hallowed horde rushes towards her, the vengeful visage of the first to fall at her hands leading the charge.

Chapter 12 ->

The small squadron step into the light, revealing themselves to be—

Marauders from the upper reaches!

Indeed, they bear the bare trappings of trappers—loose dark leather vests with fur collars, rippling muscles exposed, mismatched boots stolen from their victims and weapons forged from the melted-down tools and treasure of those they’ve pillaged.

Just like the ones who destroyed my town!

“H’oi! There’s more!” one at the back calls out over their shoulder, to whoever stayed behind, beyond and around the gatehouse.

The way he says ‘more’ to imply more victims is a barbed hook to Lorra’s heart. She grits her teeth as anger eclipses fear, stirring an alignment of past, present and future with the same gravity as a procession of planets.

“Just a wee maiden and coupl’a cats,” another spits, sneering.

“Them’s not cats!” another shouts. “They’re GRIMALS!”

“Grimals?!” a voice from beyond the tunnel questions, loud and deep and full of grit. “Take care of the girl and bring the Grimals to me – they’ll be worth a fortune.”

Lorra is overcome by a piercing harmonic in her ears. For a moment, the world goes white. She’s back in her hometown, watching marauders of the exact same sort—fur collars and all—maim and murder and torch and take, take, take.

“Don’t even THINK about it!” Lorra shouts, returning to the present. “Stay away from us!”

“Aww! Are you mad, little one? She seems mad, h’ey?”

Three of the ruffians peer about the courtyard, looking for the cousins. Lorra catches eyes with Puds, who’s hiding behind a body of the slain. Again, an electric flash in her mind’s eye, the shock emanating from her little brother—and again, anger unfolding into fury.

A single foe heads towards Lorra, all smirk and swagger. Lorra shifts her gaze, meeting his stare with her own.

“Leave them alone,” she says, voice trembling with pure rage, not fear.

“Hands off the hilt, if you can even lift that thing,” he warns, pointing at her sword. “I’ll cut you down ‘fore it leaves your side,” he adds, motioning to a pair of curved shortswords on his belt.

Lorra puts her hands up, sighs and walks towards him. Fake out! She draws the sword as he nears and swings it fast, landing a crushing blow (literal) to the side of his head that puts him right to sleep (figurative).

No magic armour has materialised; there wasn’t enough time for Lorra to achieve threat.

Talk about awkward silence! The four remaining marauders pause, looking at each other and then at their party member, splayed on the ground with an inverted skull—blood pouring from his ears, nostrils and eye sockets like wine from a pierced barrel.

A second and third rush forward. One draws a pair of double-ended daggers and the other, a thin rapier.

Lorra receives the sudden gift of her sword: a suit of dark metal shingles that includes gloves, spiked knee and elbow pads, bladed pauldrons and a silver collar. Her helm features a skull-motif face mask with onyx gems in each eye socket. There are no holes in the mask… yet she can see everything.

The attackers halt, confused. One turns to the companions that hung back.

“Don’t look at us!” one shouts. “She’s in front of you, not here! KILL HER!”

The rapier shatters against Lorra’s armour, who returns a blow to its owner’s right leg in response (which also shatters). They shriek in pain and collapse to the ground.

The daggers remain intact but cannot pierce Lorra’s protection. She lands a hilt-blow to their owner’s jaw. They stumble backward and she spins, bringing the flat part of her sword’s blade directly onto their forehead. They continue backwards and fall for what will be the last time—their face now flat and deformed like a child’s drawing on parchment.

“WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG?!” the resonant voice from beyond the gatehouse tunnel questions.

The remaining two henchmen exchange looks. One produces a large, four-pronged throwing weapon fashioned from volcanic glass. The other unsheathes a hatchet and kneels where they stand… curious.

“Whatever metal your hidden armour is – won’t matter for long,” the marauder says with contempt, throwing the obsidian blades. Their remaining partner remains on bended knee, not even watching as he sprinkles an eerie iridescent powder onto his handaxe.

Lorra’s armour shifts, each shingle turning so that every edge faces outward. For a moment, the shingles shiver in place, erupting a sticky film to cover the exposed areas.

The obsidian blades strike Lorra’s chest, catching onto the wefted webbing. The weapon continues spinning and getting caught in the stuff—the force of which flings the blades back to its owner in a tight arc.

The marauder raises their hands to catch the blades in a shock-induced reflex. The unfortunate thing being that this particular weapon wasn’t meant to be caught. It slices through both hands and keeps going, popping their head off like a cork on New Sun’s Eve.

“Not hidden, is it?” the remaining marauder states. “Your armour. It’s not hidden,” he continues, standing up. “It’s conjured, somehow. Well... I got magic, too.”

He throws his hatchet to the ground. Glowing, snot-coloured runes etch the mud around where it strikes, radiating outward in a spiral. Putrid, acrid smoke of the same colour rises from the magical symbols.

“Fumetasm! Cover your breathing bits!” Puds calls out from behind a pile of bodies.

Lorra gags, taking a clumsy step backwards—right onto the whimpering ex-rapier-wielder’s skull. Needless to say, he stops whimpering, his final ‘words’ being more of a sickening crackle-crunch sort of sound than anything intelligible.

“Gross!” Lorra groans, gagging and dropping her sword as the sewer-esque mist coalesces into the vague form of a person.

The ethereal being regards the scene with what appears to be curiosity and disappointment before shooting off towards the clouds, leaving a trail of sulphuric smoke in their wake.

“You’re supposed to be bound to me!” the marauder screams at the departing being in anger. “I paid good money for that powder,” he adds with a grumble, scooping up Lorra’s sword from the ground.

Lorra, meanwhile, is on her hands and knees, dry heaving. She looks up as the marauder closes the gap between them—lifting her sword in readiness.

He pauses, waiting to see if it was, in fact, the sword that granted her protection.

“Hmph – no magic for me? Or not from this thing, h’ey? No matter!” the marauder growls, lifting the sword higher for the most dramatic downward plunge possible. “Any last wor—”

The sound of black powder igniting is followed by the immediate outward explosion of the fifth marauder’s face—now fast-moving chunks and red mist with the morning sky between it all which, for a brief moment, still holds his expression.

Lorra leaps up and grabs her sword before it hits the ground. She also, with timing that’s both coincidental and perfect, vomits.

The half-headless villain collapses, revealing D’lli standing behind, blowing smoke from the barrel of one of his tiny pistols.

Puds emerges, giving the scene a look of the deepest cringe. “Can you, uh… roll him over?” he asks, shaking his head at the near-headless, puke-covered barbarian.

As Lorra and D’lli move to roll them over, a broad shadow works its way through the tunnel.

The trio look up to see the lead marauder. He has more age, height and muscle than the others—punctuated by a thick dark beard that’s spattered with grey. He carries a hefty club covered in spikes.

The marauder mini-boss grunts. He looks at Lorra, to each cousin, to each corpse and back to Lorra.

Lorra draws her sword and becomes covered in multilayered armour. A thick, leather-like material sandwiched between shimmering steel plates. The gauntlets on this set are huge.

The final marauder’s face expresses curiosity and understanding, eagerness and wariness and a great deal of weariness, too. Their bushy eyebrows even pop up for a moment, followed by a slow exhalation from their nose and defeated shrug.

The elite ruffian backpedals back the way they came, muttering about not being stupid enough to die that day. Back down the tunnel they go, their back never turned on the trio.

Lorra cranes her neck. The felines shift their ears. Muffled stomping. Grumbled heaving. A whooping call and hoofsteps. They only see him for a moment through the tunnel, bursting away towards a side exit on his pudgy horse.

Lorra lets out a deep breath and walks towards the tunnel.

“What are you doing?!” D’lli shouts in shock.

“It’s over, we can find a place to rest for a bit,” Lorra replies.

“You must check their pockets and satchels for treasure… you know that, right?”

“Well, no, I…”

“You must loot!” D’lli continues, “They might have—”

“Trickster treasure, for the most part,” Puds interjects, with a touch of disappointment, having already rifled through one’s pockets.

D’lli motions to the fifth fallen marauder with both arms, eyes wide. “Loot the party corpse at least!” he demands with a snicker.

“I’m sorry, the what?” Lorra stammers.

“The funny buddy. Perished in a silly way, you know?” D’lli explains, with an inappropriate amount of anxiety and urgency in his voice.

Lorra does one of those head shakes that says ‘fine, I give up’, walks over and digs through their pockets and pouches. She finds a few gold coins (real, not from the night before—nice!), a worthless charm made of pale clay and scraps of fabric, a pair of crude dice and… three cards!

The first two are both skeletons, though one wears a wizard’s hat.

The third has a different finish than the others, shimmering with colour like clear oil. It shows an image of an enigmatic… creature? Construct? Something else?

Lorra examines its bizarre build: a squat suit of red armour capped by a glass dome, worn by four snakes—whose bodies and tails serve as communal arms and legs. All four serpentine heads rest under the glass dome, which appears to be their shared helm. Aside from various symbols and numbers, the card reads ‘Snake-Bot’.

Lorra repeats her head shake and secures the coins and cards in her bag.

“Want these?” she asks the cousins, holding out the remaining ‘treasure’.

“No, sell that to a vendor,” Puds replies, heading towards the gatehouse tunnel.

***

The morning is spent with light exploration, brunch from the palace’s storehouse and rest. The palace grounds are empty aside from the trio… of anyone alive, at least.

By afternoon, the reality that post-manor life will not be continuing in the palace—and that most manor staff are dead or scattered—weighs on Lorra like a sack of wet grain. She rests her arms on a marble railing, looking north from high above.

Where DO I go? And what do I do now?

She taps her fingers on the railing, leaning forward, pensive.

Where would have I gone, all those years ago… where would I have gone if the manor wasn’t there? I’d have reached the last road north and walked, wouldn’t I have? And what if this palace wasn’t here? Then what? Keep going?

A lone tear forms and falls, slow, punctuating a thought she hasn’t dared to even consider aloud in her mind:

Where would I have gone, all those years ago, if I was who I am now – especially NOW, right now, with this sword…

Lorra’s eyes are wide and her heart is open. She feels it in her chest and gut, the deep intuition and yearning and resolve and—

Jake.

It is on that palace upper balcony, looking down at a road strewn with death and dazzling detritus, that Lorra’s destination is defined.

I didn’t even need the armour for the first one. Just a sword.

Not only north but ever-north, until she arrives in the lands of those who took the lives of her parents and the life of her brother.

If he’s alive, I’ll free him. If he isn’t… I’ll avenge them all.

Chapter 11 ->

BOOM!

BOOM!

Lorra and the cat-ish cousins jolt awake. Their little refuge quakes with each successive explosive reverberation.

“Quick!” Lorra shouts, motioning to her body.

Puds, far too sensible to waste time, latches onto the left side of Lorra’s chest. D’lli, too close to his blade to leave it behind, fumbles with the tiny dagger. The curtain is unpinned and he joins his kin.

Lorra draws her sword just in time for the sudden upside-downing and tearing apart of the carriage. It turns over again… and again and again and again, crashing off the road and across the meadow.

The sword conjures a thick padded coat of unknown material around Lorra’s body, clinging cousins included. Each quilted panel is so large, and filled with air somehow (magic), that she now appears to be an oversized cannonball. The unfortunate thing about this is that cannonballs need to hit something to stop.

The humble hauler turned harrowed haven tumbles across the night-soaked moors, splinters askew against the soot-coloured sky—but not skewering our loveable trio!

Lorra’s eyes are exposed by a slit in the armour’s helm and protected by a fine mesh. She sees a vast figure in the darkness, taller than a greatwood tree, heading south. It’s not even on the road, yet each step causes a significant disturbance of the cadavers and curios cast throughout.

A Giant!? But leaving. Thank goodne—

Lorra’s thoughts, spinning far less than her body, come to an abrupt end as her upholstered form crashes into a patch of brambles. Slower and slower she rolls, carving a path into the thick of it, until she decelerates in full.

The armour vanishes and the cousins drop to the ground, shaken but not stirred by the trauma. Lorra blinks and yawns—that’s how tired she was—and looks around. Moonlight pierces the canopy in mere drips.

“Be careful, bramble thorns are very sharp in this part of Vaddia,” Lorra warns, grasping her sword. Nothing happens. “And I’m not getting any armour to help?”

“Perhaps the danger must come from something sentient? We’re lucky the sword’s power isn’t triggered by combat alone, or we’d all be dead, I suppose?” Puds ponders.

“Wh-What was that?!” D’lli stammers. “And why are you so calm, cousin?!”

“It was a Giant, judging by the pace of what I’m assuming were big steps. I doubt it was aware of our existence, hence my relief at the sword’s protection popping like that. I’m calm because it’s gone – and we’re not,” Puds replies.

“He’s right,” Lorra confirms. “I saw it – it’s headed south.”

“This isn’t a realm for Giants,” D’lli says, dismayed.

Lorra nods in agreement, looking down the path she created through the brambles.

“We can walk back through there,” she says, pointing, “but we have to be slow. We can still step on thorns and stuff. It’s so dark, maybe we should stay here until light?”

“Nonsense, we can see perfectly fine. We’ll lead the way,” Puds begins. “Judging by the angle, we were propelled northwest, so we won’t lose much time, either.”

They depart, careful as crows in a snowstorm yet twice as boisterous as those same crows in a cornfield, due to that burst of post-nap energy.

***

The felines recount adventures as they lead the way, allowing Lorra to hold each of their tails for guidance. She doesn’t know how big a deal this is but if you’re a crazy cat person (and you better be), I’m sure you understand.

Their presence is beyond comforting. Something about the cadence of their walking and speech—ginger steps in tiny boots, trills and purrs and yelps punctuating cheerful chatter—makes her feel so at ease with what should be a day of despair-tinged realisation.

“Hey!” Lorra interrupts. “Will you stay at the palace for a while? I’m hoping people found safety there.”

“Perhaps,” Puds cautions, no stranger to being the subject of enamoration.

“And where I go next, will you come with me?”

“Where are you going?” D’lli asks.

“I don’t know,” Lorra admits.

“Then how can we go with you?” D’lli laughs. “If there’s one place I never go… it’s nowhere. Except for our adventure in the Nowhere Labyrinth – remember that, cousin?!”

As the Grim’ll and Grimellor spiral into another bout of boastful banter, Lorra emits a sigh that’s two parts hopeful, one part listless.

Where WILL I go, after all of this? I guess it’ll work itself out…

***

Dawn’s opening act is as serene as any non-post-armageddon morning: moonlit darkness gives way to the cerulean hush of a new day. Birdsong (or to be more precise and honest, the screeching and warbling of birds a-calling) rings out, as if the avian residents of the forest are happy the world ended (they are… especially the crows).

Lorra and her two companions walk at the inner edge of the woods for safety, though the tree line tapers towards the road as they near the monarch’s winter refuge. The massive silhouette of the palace, backlit by the rising sun, grows ever larger as they get closer.

With no-one in sight, and entrance to the palace requiring the road, they head back to the path—which has less dead and debris than before but isn’t clear by any means.

“Look at that,” Lorra exclaims, motioning east wise. The Giant’s footprints dent the ground on that side of the fields and forest, each crater deep enough to be an issue for anybody who might fall in.

The palace is damaged, that’s for sure. The gargantuan ‘lightning bolt’ piercing its upper reaches has cleaved through stone and sanctum.

By the looks of it, the bolt—fashioned of some unknown metal and painted matte yellow—is now fixed there permanently, its gigantic form anchored deep into the castle’s foundations and bedrock below.

“I hoped the winter palace would be safer, and people would have made it, but so many perished along the way – and not just folks from the manor… I don’t recognise many of the fallen that we’ve passed…”

“That,” Puds says, motioning to the ‘lightning bolt’, “is no accident.”

“They say…” D’lli continues, lowering his voice to a whisper, “the Great Trickster loathes a monarch.”

“Then why make it rain crowns?!” Lorra blurts.

“Then why not make it rain crowns?” Puds challenges. “Look at that thing! It could have just been a bolt of real magical lightning. That’s a statement. Giving crowns out to anyone quick enough to grab them only furthers the point – a serious shake-up of power.”

“So the old rulers are gone or at least weakened, and the new ‘rulers’ are given power like they’ve never had,” Lorra clarifies.

“Sounds like it.”

The main gate has been bent around the stone on the left side and torn off the hinges on the right. The courtyard leads to an ornate gatehouse with an arched passage cutting through its ground floor.

All across the courtyard, through the passage, around the groves, along the long reflecting pool leading to the palace, within the great fountain, all of it that Lorra can see from where she stands… is decorated with the scattered dead.

Lorra takes it in and sighs, then perks up at the sound of laughter. Jovial laughter at that! The kind that hints at better times to come. Of brighter views despite the trials faced. She feels it in her heart; she’s drawn to that benign burst and accompanied muffled yammering erupting from beyond the gatehouse.

“There are people here – survivors!” Lorra exclaims with a grin, rushing towards the gatehouse’s marble archway.

“Wait!” Puds hiss-whispers, halting Lorra with more efficacy than any human chiding could. His scolding is scalding; the tone manages to address not only her impetuous action but also the reasons for it. Lorra halts to stillness, recognising her own careless irresponsibility.

The ambient merriment persists, suggesting the survivors are not yet aware of the trio’s presence. Puds places a paw on her wrist to provide reassurance after his reprimand.

D’lli raises a finger to his lips to suggest they remain quiet. Then, he motions to the dead dispersed across the courtyard.

Unlike those on the road, who fell victim to lightning, falling treasure or attacks from creatures not-of-this-realm, most of the bodies in the yard have had their throats cut.

The uniformity of their wounds suggests something that, in certain cases, can be even more sinister than a mad god’s apocalyptic act: human nature.

As Lorra and the cousins inspect the grisly scene—taking care to do so with quiet consideration—a grave thought enters her mind. In the same moment, a grim silence wraps the air.

Lorra looks up and turns to the marbled arc of the gatehouse tunnel. It is now blotted with the shadows of who she hoped were survivors but are, in all likelihood, the exact opposite.

Chapter 10 ->

It forks in strange ways. Often, what would appear to be the obvious continuation of the main path leads to a boulder or petrified tree stump of some questionable historic significance.

It’s pocked and potted like battle-worn armour, a consequence of being both well-travelled and uncared for.

Today, as should be obvious, it’s also covered in corpses—as if Death itself listened to that very drunkard’s tale, stumbled out of the theoretical tavern it was told in and vomited their wares to the world below.

Lorra isn’t a stranger to death but it has been a good number of years since her small hometown was raided. The dead, in this number, is as unsettling as it is unordinary.

The forest has tapered off, leaving her exposed on the road. She turns back, facing the treeline.

The basket… I should go back and get my treasure before heading north.

She turns more, facing the manor (now a smudge in the distance).

Mister Riles… I should go back and check his quarters. Give him a proper burial.

She swivels around, facing north yet again.

It would be smart to travel the open part of this road at any other time than now. Right before sunrise would be best, I bet…

Lorra—not known for adhering to even her own fleeting sense of responsibility, as we know—sighs, shrugs and continues forth. She steps around the now-peaceful expired, and pieces of the now-exploded, plugging her ears to avoid the unwarranted advice of yet another giant golden skull.

Treasure from last night’s supernatural storm is also scattered about, though upon inspection seems more foolhardy than even fool’s gold; what use are coins from other lands and realms in a time like this? Are they even made of materials as precious as presented?

Get to the palace. Check for anyone that made it there from the manor… and then what? Not starve to death, hopefully?

In the distance, the moors bleed into thickets once more. This makes the current stretch all the more bleak.

Lorra walks on in a trance, staring ahead while meandering around the dead in a state of quasi-automation. Biding her time until she reaches better cover, shifting between mindlessness and mindfulness.

So many dead. Did ANYONE make it to the palace?

Exhaustion has gone from creeping up to keeping step, threatening to overtake Lorra’s resolve. The brief bout of shuteye in the cave did not suffice.

Maybe I could just lay amongst the dead, rest up and depart at first light…

She’s had worse ideas.

Lorra takes a breath, mustering momentum for the march ahead. She narrows her eyes, focusing on an overturned carriage in the distance—and, for half a moment, catches the flitting form of a small child darting about its shadows. She blinks, winces and shakes her head from side-to-side.

Great, I’m ALREADY seeing things! Just tired, I guess. Maybe I could sleep in that thing, though? Not a bad idea!

A few more tired steps is all takes for her to be convinced that crashing in the carriage is pure genius.

Hopefully no dead people inside it.

She reaches the mass of wood, wheels and torn straps. All is still as she approaches the carriage and—

“MYYYAARRR!” a high-pitched voice shrieks, eliciting a gasp of shock from Lorra.

A small form soars from the door of the over-turned wagon. It arcs, spinning, a blur, battle cry echoing across the meadows—and as it does, a second form slides from the far side of the carriage as if on wheels instead of tiny buckled black boots, a cloud of dust erupting in its wake.

Lorra doesn’t leap back so much as lean backwards a bit. She flinches, sword-arm at the ready, her other hand making that strange sort of gesture that says “check, please”.

The figure lands, a puff of midnight with striking emerald eyes. The other resolves beside, a mix of browns, greys, creams and ginger bristles. Lorra blinks and tilts her head to the side.

“Cats? Are you—”

“Silence, scoundrel! You won’t be taking our treasure!” the black feline states.

“Perhaps that’s not her intent?” the tabby remarks, placing his paw on the other’s shoulder.

“What treasure, exactly?” Lorra asks, amused.

“All of it!” the black ‘cat’ snarls, motioning to the road or, perhaps, the entire world. He flicks his paws, unleashing claws, which garners a mere eyebrow raise from Lorra.

“I’m not here to—” Lorra begins.

“Quiet?!” he repeats, drawing a small pistol from his silk waistband.

Lorra draws her sword, summoning an impressive padded pantsuit and helm. She attempts to reply but her words are muffled through the musket-proof mask.

“Ooh!” both creatures shout in unison, scurrying towards Lorra, fear be damned.

“Impressive magics,” the black ‘cat’ states, putting away his pistol. “You won’t need our treasure, I’m sure.”

“We’d never be able to carry it all anyway,” the tabby explains with a sigh.

Lorra sheathes her sword, armour vanishing. Both strange creatures sniff at it, and at her.

“She smells nice, hm?”

“I smell horrible,” Lorra states.

“No, no, not the blood and dust and sweat and pee and stuff, you, YOU. Trusty.”

“Smells like a friend,” the tabby explains.

With shock and potential strife now a matter of the recent past, Lorra examines the two figures, noting a few anomalies—they can speak, they’re walking on two legs, they have thumbs, they’re larger than cats by a noticeable degree, they wear clothes…

“What… what are,” Lorra stammers, reality catching up to her. “You’re Grimal? You’re not cats, I mean?”

“Of course not, are you a monkey? My name is D’lli and I’m a Grim’ll, yes,” the black figure explains.

“And I am Puds, a Grimellor, which of course is not unlike a Grim’ll. We are cousins, in fact,” the tabby states. “I mean that literally; we share grandparents,” he adds.

“Did you come from the sky?” Lorra asks.

An awkward silence ensues as the two cat-like beings do their best to stifle laughter. They fail, and become so enthralled in the absurdity of her question that they’re sent into literal chuckle fits—tears and all.

“Why would you ask that?!” D’lli questions. “We are from The ‘Neath! Well… we were in The ‘Neath, no Grimal are from there. But that’s where we were.”

“Because the world ended last night. At least here, where a storm of death and treasure destroyed things and killed people for hours and hours,” Lorra explains.

The cousins look at one another and let out simultaneous yelps. They begin to empty their pockets of treasure—spitting and making hand gestures as they release bits of gold and gems and whatever else they’ve scooped up from the road.

“Loreloal! That explains it!” D’lli exclaims.

“Don’t say that out loud!” Puds warns, kicking road dust over the relics and rarities they tossed aside.

“We don’t want those sorts of riches. Just in case,” D’lli states.

“You see,” Puds says, turning to Lorra. “We are treasure hunters. Been exploring The ‘Neath for months, seeking clues in ruins of the deeplands. Last night, runes carved into a great arch glowed like we’ve never seen.”

“I knew it wasn’t anything we did,” D’lli adds.

“You were sure it was something we did,” Puds grunts. “You said ‘we solved it!’ and wanted to pass through the gate immediately.”

“We waited, though.”

“Yes, because one of us is sensible.”

“The seals are broken,” Lorra says, interrupting. She hopes it will prevent bickering among the cousins—and it does. “A wise witch told me so. She said even the Realm of the Gods would be open to us now.”

“Why would anyone go there?” Puds mutters, shaking his head.

“I have no idea,” Lorra admits.

“For treasure!” D’lli says, almost shouting.

“But not... sky treasure?” Lorra questions, glancing at her own magic sword.

“No. Not most of it, at least,” Puds begins. “I smell worry in your heart. Smart but not necessary, I hope. Your weapon is a treasure of treasures – a rare piece of something good to balance the scale of fate for the mad god itself!”

“For balance?” Lorra asks.

“Indeed, even the gods require balance – if the legends are true, at least,” Puds explains. “The trickster will cause chaos but also provide mortals a means to withstand it. There will be more heroes… probably not many, though.”

“Did you see anything… not good?” D’lli asks, steepling his tiny padded fingers.

“Oh, yes! Crowns. Crowns that seem to make people angry and ambitious. And able to do magic when they weren’t able to before, using cards of all things. That was probably the worst of it.”

The cousins cringe at this and exchange winces, sighs and head shakes—followed by a series of complex blinks and half-blinks, ear movements and tail gestures. A rapid, wordless exchange that Lorra senses is their more natural way of communicating.

“Do you think it’s safe to take a nap here?” Lorra interjects. This would be an awkward statement to other humans but is more than valid to this pair of fur balls.

“That’s what we were going to do!” D’lli replies. “We require more rest than most.”

“It’s self-care and recovery because we move so fast,” Puds explains.

Lorra climbs to the top of the overturned wagon and slides in, followed by the pair. D’lli pulls the curtain and pins it with a tiny dagger while Puds blocks the back window with a seat cushion. All three curl up in close proximity; the cutest thing that’s happened on this road in probably forever.

While it’s certainly not responsible to enter your most prone state with two transients (of a species you weren’t sure was even real only minutes before), Lorra has little choice given her level of exhaustion. She cradles her sword, hoping that if the claws do come out while she snores, it will wrap her in protective garb.

They drift off in near unison, all three rushing to attain that oh-so-crucial rejuvenation. They get it, too, for a time. The sun dips, the stars climb and the night’s low breeze cools their little cabin to perfection.

It’s all pleasant and palliative—until an unwelcome wee-hours wakeup call. All three are wrenched from slumber by a sound akin to every boom of the previous night’s thunder rolled together, folded up and directed right at their place of respite.

Chapter 9 ->

Again, the sound of Ol’ Maud howling. It quickens Lorra’s heart. She makes haste to its source, locating the old washer’s position much like a bat—and flapping about in as awkward a fashion.

It sounds like she’s in the northerly ballroom.

Careening around corners, zipping down halls, cutting through passages she’d often walk through with the greatest care— where she’d be porting platters filled with culinary delights instead of a magic sword—she arrives at the arched entrance of the grand gallery to see piles of bodies, the manor lord tied to a chair and Ol’ Maud—

“Cutting yourself?!” Lorra exclaims.

Ol’ Maud laughs. It reverberates throughout the once-majestic space, bouncing off its marble tiles.

Maud wears the crown she held the night before, along with the now-deceased lady’s raiment—contrasting with the humble washer’s gear she still dons to present a maddened visage.

A golden tome floats beside her, sheets of what appear to be glowing purple slime flip-flopping back-and-forth. Within each plasmatic page are rows of cards.

“Yes, Lorra. Testing the efficiency of my healing spells,” Maud explains, thrusting a dagger into her own stomach and mustering a squeal that would arouse the pride of any wild boar.

Blood gushes from the wound. Maud winces yet maintains resolve. A card floats before her eyes and, with no visible gesture of magic on her part, erupts into greenish-blue and purple flame—its ashes swirling back into the ooze-like pages.

Maud’s blood flows back in reverse. The wound heals. Stranger still, Maud’s skin smooths, a fair amount of her wrinkles vanishing.

“Ha! Too powerful a spell. Good one, that. I feel fifteen years younger!”

“You look it…” Lorra says, with caution.

“Where is the stable hand? He wanted to deliver an arrow to the lord’s knee before I finished my work.”

“He murdered Mister Riles and I—”

“WHAT?! The impudence! I told him to take care of Riles, and I meant it literally. He was always so kind to us…”

“So was the lord, though?”

Maud lets out a deep chuckle. “Maybe to you. For the short stay of your service thus far... but many of us old-timers know the devil dwelled in his details. Didn’t it, m’lord?”

The manor lord—also known as the distinguished Sir Chamberfield of Vaddia—looks away, overcome by shock and shame and the shambles his entire life has become.

Sir Chamberfield’s moustache is fuzzy, black interspersed with grey (or vice-versa), much like his eyebrows. He’s bald and dressed in a silk nightrobe.

“Not much to say now, hm?” Maud taunts. “Well, you’ll be silenced permanently soon enough.”

“I can’t let you do that, Maud. It’s not you. This crown, it—”

“MEANS I’M A RULER!” Maud screams. “AND YOU. WILL. BOW.”

“Maud! You’re a kind-hearted person, you don’t—”

“Will you shut up you fucking twit?”

Maud flicks three cards from her grimoire. An armoured knight appears, and, in an instant, his sword is replaced with a spiked flail. A half-moment later and his helm—no, his head—is replaced with that of a grinning machination, teeth like some creature from the deep, horns like a creature from somewhere even deeper.

“This empowered knight will make quick work of you!” Maud proclaims, cackling.

The knight rushes Lorra, who is encased in thick plate covering in an instant. Its flail doesn’t even scratch her armour’s impressive surface.

“What is this?!” Maud shrieks.

Lorra leaps backwards, then steps forward into an unorthodox upward swing of her sword. The knight-like figure stumbles back, taking a second blow right below the jaw.

This time, Lorra expects a decapitation due to the creature’s brittle nature. Instead, its entire form erupts in blue-purple flames, resolving into ash that is sucked back into Maud’s tome.

“I’ve underestimated you – or your little toy? No matter.”

Maud draws another card, summoning three imp-like creatures. Each is around half of Lorra’s height but with far more sharp edges. Dark red skin, black eyes, rows of yellow teeth like rusted sawblades.

They scurry, quick-like, fangs and claws gnashing. Lorra’s sword conjures a covering of scale mail, each piece sculpted in the form of a silver feather. It’s light, allowing her to make quick work of the miniature horde—batting each to ash with little effort.

“Maud, please! Stop this madness!” Lorra pleads, desperate to save her friend from the cursed crown’s effects.

Maud pops up another card. Jet black vines erupt from the ground, twisting around Lorra’s ankles and calves.

“Magic armour. Interesting. Good for you, honestly,” Maud begins, amused at Lorra’s squirming. “Doesn’t look like it helps against control, though, does it? Now, where were we?”

Maud turns and faces the manor’s previous owner. She draws two cards, which float above her gilded tome.

The first erupts into flame and dust, causing the bonds and chair to disintegrate. Lord Chamberfield falls to floor in a pathetic and humiliating display. He’s shaken yet steadies himself to face the Ruler. He appears to contemplate his next words, wise to choose them with care. He is, however, too late.

The second card bursts into teal-tinged violet flame. Lord Chamberfield screams in anguish and woe. A thick, black rope erupts from the top of his head. There is no blood.

A flame flickers into existence at the top of Chamberfield’s wick. His bellows of torment continue as his flesh melts like wax (it has, in fact, become wax, so that simile might not be all that clever).

You likely expect that his muscles, organs and bones are revealed beneath his now-tallowed skin—not so! They, too, have become a cierge-esque rendition of the body that stood alive mere moments ago.

In less than a minute, all that’s left of Lord of Chamberfield is a rather large lump of melted wax, in all the colours and vague shapes of his outer form… and his insides.

Lorra, meanwhile, continues to struggle against the choking vines. The sword, being as blunt as Elder Ezma’s advice on a good day, has no effect.

Ol’ Maud turns around, cavalier with triumph.

“I am now the ruler of this estate. And soon, the winter palace will be mine. But you? That’s a potent trinket. You, I’d like to keep.”

“What does that mean? Just let me go!” Lorra fires back.

“It means that you will fight for me – Queen Maudellain! I mean, look at me! I have the power, I’ve regained my youth. Ol’ Maud is gone… but I’ll still rub you out like a stain if you defy me!”

Lorra resists with all her might—both of the body and the heart, with a touch of her mind, too.

Come on sword! Get me out of this mess!

Her sword does not shimmer—and remains useless against the vines.

“Ol— I mean Oh, great Queen, please let me go! We were – we are – as close to family as anyone in this place. I’ll come back to you, in time, I swear!”

“Then bow and pledge fealty to me. We’ll be bound by my crown’s magic. Empty promises from a berry-picking upstart mean nothing. Bow!”

Lorra kneels, hoping the vines will loosen. They do, but no more than necessary for her to genuflect in submission.

“Might you loosen the vines so that I can swear my oath, unobstructed?”

“I think not! Pledge now – or die!”

Well, I guess it’s all I can do, and maybe escape later or rebel with others?

Lorra takes a deep breath, preparing to submit for her own survival—interrupted by a satisfied snortly grunt from behind.

“That’s how it’s done! Heroes are here to slay monsters, not defy their rulers!” a deep voice bellows.

Lorra turns to see Big Paul, the tavernkeep from the closest town—a bearded behemoth who somehow looks more like a bear with a beard than a real bear would. She’s overtaken by an instinctive gulp… he’s wearing a crown.

“But this land has no queen. It has. A. KING!” he booms, spreading his arms wide, evincing an exotic gilded codex of his own.

The vines grasping at Lorra wilt and wither, their spell broken along with Maud’s attention.

“A what?!” Maud fires back, her own folio flipping through sheets of cards as it floats before her.

The two rulers begin summoning forces. The banquet hall fills with guests for an event you can be sure isn’t going to involve intricate desserts, complex dance steps or merriment of any description.

Armour without knights inside, floating in place. Knights without armour, clad in leather and covered in warpaint. Constructs click-clacking on the tiles. Creatures with gnashing teeth and manes of smokey embers. Gargoyles, once the stuff of foreboding statuary, now heaving forward (and one of them is wearing spectacles, of all things).

Stranger horrors materialise into being, too; floating paintings that must be haunted, hobgoblins in holy raiment, a barrel with wooden legs, set to burst, the chittering of simian sentries seeping from its slats.

Most disturbing of all to Lorra, for a reason she can’t quite place, is another out-of-place man on a scooter.

His trappings include an oversized red shirt draped atop baggy, short-cut pants with pockets in places she’s never seen. A red hat, with a brim that only faces forward, releases a shag of straw-coloured hair from an opening at the back.

He carries two large, flat, rectangular boxes with one arm. Each box emits steam, which has gotten the attention of his nearby cohort, who sniff at the air in gluttonous glee. Strangest of all, he seems… happy? Not at all put off by the fiends that surround him.

He turns to Lorra and smiles, offering a peculiar gesture—a semi-closed fist, with only his smallest finger and thumb protruding, shaken in time with his slow, satisfied nod.

“I will enjoy thrashing your forces and taking your head!” Maud screams, her voice drenched in derangement.

Big Paul returns a growl-infused laughter in reply. “We’ll see about that, queen!”

Lorra rushes the delivery guy, shoves him and snatches his scooter.

Zooming beyond Big Paul, towards the doorway, she maintains control of the thing for less than three anxious breaths. A quick fumble sends it careening to the wall, with her tumbling into a roll—springing from the impromptu somersault and resolving in the maddest dash of her life.

“LORRA! Get back here! We’re going to conquer the FUCKING world!” Queen Maud screams.

Lorra does not turn back. She reaches the central spiral stair and descends all the way down to the third floor. She then cuts through several halls and hurls herself through an oriel window, knowing full well the rampart is a mere two metres below.

Lorra lands on the northern wall, battered but not shattered. She gets up, cranes her neck for a good crack, and shudders at what she faces on the horizon:

The winter palace has been assaulted with what looks like a child’s drawing of a lightning bolt, formed of gold and as large as any spire in the kingdom. The entire palace is half destroyed, at best.

Searching the landscape ahead for any sign of safety, and finding nothing of the sort, Lorra’s mind calls upon the recent words of both mystics and maniacal manifestations.

“There comes a time when life’s wending ways are ours to warrant from within. For you, that time has come.”

“Depart from here and find your next place in this world. Stay away from the crowned and be safe.”

“Get yours, girl!”

Lorra muses on the wise (and not-so-wise) sentiments, eyes fixed on the northern road, winding its way into the borderless lands and all that lay beyond.

I suppose I must.

Chapter 8 ->

This isn’t one of those times.

The bolt travels with all its swiftness, hitting Lorra right in the chest.

However!

If time did slow its roll, we’d see Lorra’s sword glint in a brief display of magical brilliance. No, not a burst of golden light or flash or sparkling cascade—more like the gleam in someone’s eye when they draw the card that strengthens their hand for a win. Subtle.

And if time did become a more syrup-like substance than its quicksilver reality, we might have noted the way in which hundreds of thousands of chib chain links materialised, folding and fastening into the perfect fit.

Yes, the bolt hit Lorra square in the sternum, which would have been tragic if she stood as she was moments earlier—uniform topcoat unfastened, slinky sleeveless shirt beneath. If the bolt hit that getup, she’d be bringing Jomas his pack, so to speak.

Instead, by the time the bolt hit her, she was covered in chainmail, sized to her form as if tailored and forged by the most erudite of smiths. As such, the bolt thunked off, and yeah, she’ll bruise, but…

Both Lorra and her aggressor spend the next half-minute dumbfounded. His third bolt fumbled to the floor due to shock-induced shakiness.

Armour? How?

Lorra looks down at her sword, held firm in her small hand.

It must be…

The stable worker bends downs to pick up his bolt. Lorra rushes towards him, weapon raised, the shock and injustice of all the senseless violence propelling her into predatory rage.

The chainmail armour is gone. She is swift, unencumbered. He looks at her, begins to stand—it’s too late. She brings the sword down on his neck, expecting it to cleave him clean and clear.

It does not. His neck breaks with a sickening snap. He spends his last moments on the ground, twitching like a crushed insect (except in all the agony of a self-aware, conscious human being).

Lorra turns to regard the corpse of dear old Mister Riles, right as a cheeky raven alights for a bite. She almost hurls but her stomach is empty. Choking down her own bile, along with her aggression, she falls to her knees and breaks down, sobbing.

Three swallows into one of her ugliest cries ever, she’s disrupted by the sound of clapping.

***

“Well done, little one!” an ancient voice calls, beckoning her attention. “Now quit yer cryin’ – he was just trash.”

Lorra turns and stands, patting gravel from her knees, eyes falling on a short, plump old woman with short silver curls creeping out from under a pointy hat’s black brim.

“Elder Ezma?”

“Yes, of course!” The crone croons.

“What are you doing here?” Lorra asks.

“I’ve come to call on the Wizard, though Taer Monty seems to have departed.”

“You’re a witch, though, surely you don’t need his magic?”

“No, but we’ve been friends for decades upon decades now. Sometimes more than friends,” she adds with a sly smile. “I’d like to know he’s safe.”

“I’m sure he is, he knows everything,” Lorra states, grim—garnering a guffaw from the aged witch.

“Oh, a bit less than everything but quite more than nothing,” the crone muses, with a light chuckle.

“Why are you so happy?” Lorra asks, stunned.

“I lived to see this. The reawakening of the great trickster – what a time for magic!”

“For magic?”

“Yes, child! Our mortal world has been closed off to the wilderealms for so long. Hundreds of years, no, thousands, even!”

“And now it isn’t? How is that a good thing?!” Lorra exclaims, taking a step back.

“Because this is natural! And it’s our heritage, too, you know. Think of all the empty and tarnished guild halls that will be full once more. So many wayward types, unaware that their calling wasn’t unsung, rather echoing behind a locked door…”

Lorra has no input, returning the old witch’s joyous stare with her own blank, blink-laden countenance.

“… Demonologists won’t have to pay ugly people to follow them around anymore, they’ll have actual demons! Let’s not forget the Elves – they probably have all sorts of new stringed instruments and delicacies to share. And when was the last time you had real Dwarven bread, made by Dwarves with Dwarvish ingredients? The next time will be the first, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t see any of that last night, did you?” Lorra asks, with genuine interest (and concern).

“No, but from what I did see, it’s the trickster’s time, finally awake again! And that means the seals are broken, among other things. Even the realm of the gods will be open to those who dare seek its challenges. It will be an economic boom, you know. In fact—"

Their chat is interrupted by yet another cry of pain from within the manor. Lorra looks at the grand manse, determined.

“Forget all that, now. You best make your way out of here,” the witch advises.

“I have to see if Ol’ Maud’s okay, if she can be reasoned with. I left her in such a state last night, the madness in her eyes…” Lorra explains.

“Well, let’s just see if – actually, first, I’m going to have to remove Monty’s spell.”

The witch weaves the air, a spectral needle and thread manifesting in her hands. A twinkling tine of pale blue light unravels from Lorra’s forehead.

“What was that?!” Lorra exclaims, rubbing the spot, which is now cool to the touch.

“The wizard’s spell, of course. He wouldn’t leave you unprotected.”

The kiss…

Lorra chokes back more tears, unaware that her survival was due to her own agility and Monty’s magic was not triggered. It’s the thought that counts, though.

“Yes, Lorra, he’s always thinking of oth—"

The witch sucker-slings a curse at Lorra, which takes the form of a serpentine shadow speckled with glowing green embers.

Yet again, Lorra’s sword is swathed in golden lustre for a brief pulse. Yet again, she experiences a sudden wardrobe change—this time, wearing a hooded cloak of the darkest silk, embroidered with a lunar motif in silver thread.

The curse hits Lorra and fizzles out of existence.

“You, too?!” Lorra shouts, mostly in anguish.

“No, no child! ‘Twas but a test, you see. I saw your fray from above and the armour conjured by… something. It wasn’t Monty’s gift, it is the sword… magnificent.”

Lorra deflates, giving in to the little trust she has left for anyone.

“I understand.”

“Indeed, testing the mettle of its metal. And you, you! Young Lorra, your attainment of such a boon is the first good thing I’ve seen come from the storm with my own eyes – and there will be more, I’m certain,” the witch assures, with a slight pause, adding “well, to be fair that cheese-infused bannock the strange young man delivered to my hideaway was quite the delight as well…”

“Extra protection. Great. The sword isn’t very sharp, though.”

“Ha! Sharp. Today’s youth! Pretend it’s a cudgel, then! Make do! Crush your enemies.”

Lorra considers this, taking in a long breath and nodding.

“I will not say it thrice, my dear. Depart from here and find your next place in this world. Stay away from the crowned and be safe.”

Before Lorra can protest, the witch shifts back into raven form and flies away.

Lorra is almost swayed until the next round of caterwauling erupts from the upper floors of the manor—and this time, it’s Ol’ Maud.

Chapter 7 ->

The scent of spring’s bloom lingers in the air, far ahead of schedule. The sky is clear, rendered in striking azure with the faintest wisps framing the horizon. You’d never think—

The world ended last night…

A morning yawn. A stretch. The creaking of bones and cracking of joints. Lorra is ready to leave, and she almost leaves the sword behind, having shifted sides in her sleep and released it from her grasp.

Lucky for her, she doesn’t forget it, doubling back and swiping it off the cave floor before exiting with caution.

The golden skull remains outside the cave. She leaves it as-is, mouth stuffed with debris.

All that really did happen. Better get back to the grounds and check on things.

A soft drizzle collects in puddles. The puddles, however, exude a worrying sheen of rippling rainbow colouration. Lorra dips her fingers in, finding it slicker than expected. A sniff of the stuff fills her nose with a cascade of floral essences.

Soap?

She doubles back a few paces to kick the leaves and sticks out of the giant skull’s mouth.

“Oh, thank you for that, how generous of you to de-stifle me!” the skull chides. “Now where was I—”

“What’s with the rain? Is the danger over or what?”

“Danger is never over – but the cleansing rain is a gift from Loreloal, as to—”

“Sorry, did you say gift from—”

“Lor-ehll-oh-ell,” the skull sounds out, as if Lorra’s quandaries are mere matters of pronunciation. “The great trickster. The night of boons hath ended, the blood of which will now be cleansed. Do they not teach this anymore?”

“Well, I don’t know, maybe in some places?”

“Never mind. I see you have a special gift indeed. Use it well, one of the thousand, use it well.”

Lorra furrows her brow. The skull clears its throat (performative; it doesn’t have one) and begins spewing its ‘wisdom’. She’s already ten paces away.

With far less urgency than the night before, Lorra heads through the woods. A tree has fallen across the river, which she takes as a portent of positivity. She traverses it with care, using her new sword for balance.

She retrieves her treasure-stuffed basket, lodges it in a tree hollow and packs leaves and twigs over it for cover.

I’ll come back later.

She takes her time, allowing herself the consolation of a calm commute towards the place she considers home.

***

The manor is in shambles but still standing. Its walls are chipped but not compromised. The roofs will get patched and thatched, the doors will get re-latched and any windows with cracks will, of course, be replaced.

The scattered dead have been pulled away. But to where, and by whom? The place is quiet, to an eerie degree—made even more so by the castile precipitation, lathering the grounds and eliminating bloodstains with its sorcerly suds.

Lorra looks around, mind gearing up for a race, eyes darting about as to catch any danger before she’s caught unaware.

Where to first…

She stretches, dainty, and gives herself a once-over. Her uniform’s pants are torn, stained and, to be honest, were never all that comfortable.

Right. Maybe everyone left for a reason. Or they’re sleeping! Of course! I would be, too, if I wasn’t on a cave floor.

With that snort of hopium infusing her heart with enthusiasm, Lorra heads to the bunkhouse.

***

Damn—

It’s empty. Not only that, most of the footlockers have already been rifled through. Lorra, however, finds hers untouched (she never had covetable items).

More curious is her favourite foraging frock, folded in fastidious fashion on her bed, along with her other garments from the day before.

Already done. Ol’ Maud, you’re something else. I hope you’re okay…

Lorra winces at the thought of her last encounter with the woman, her wild eyes and obsession with those cards—her use of that word—and emits a long sigh. She changes into her foraging bottoms but keeps the guard boots (and everything she shoved into her pockets last night).

Lorra finds her best singlet and changes into that, too, though she puts her guard’s semi-armoured shirt back on over it, buttons undone of course. If this isn’t a day off, what would be?!

I guess I’ll leave the rest of it – nothing comfy to carry it in…

She passes Jomas’ bunk on the way out, heart cracking.

Poor Jommy.

She pauses, looking around as if anything matters anymore, and opens his footlocker.

There’s his whole life in a box. Like any of us, I guess.

There is no rushed rummaging—rather, a review rendered with reverence. His items placed on his bed with care, a stark memorium of a simple life. She’s in tears, the kind that flow without a sound, beyond emotion, even. They just are.

Mixed into his possessions are boyish treasures: shiny stones, a stick in the vague shape of a dagger, a scrap of parchment with the lord’s seal in crimson coating, a lost tooth—perhaps saved for some dreamed-of magical dental work (he’d never have been able to afford it).

Mingling with his clothing are the prizes of a young man, too: a few copper coins, a whittling blade, a drinking glass stolen from the manor proper (warranting a gasp from Lorra), a corkscrew and, for some reason she can’t suss out, one of Lorra’s long-lost socks?

Mired at the bottom of it all is a true prize—a pack made of waxed canvas and leather. Lorra holds it up in triumph.

Oh Jomas! I remember this, you won it at the lord’s holiday games a few years back… it must have meant so much to you, to keep it safe and untouched this whole time.

Lorra fills the pack with a few of Jomas’ items, spare undergarments of her own and the brass nametag from her bunk. She exits through the laundry, snatching up a few wares on the way, as to cleanse her apparel later.

Maybe everyone went to the winter palace. Safer than here, to be sure. I should see if there’s any stock left before I join them…

***

Lorra approaches the cookhouse, the chimneys of which are cleaner than she’s ever seen them, thanks to the soap-infused rain.

“Lorra? Lorra, dear, is that you?” the voice of Riles calls from behind; soft, familiar and, as to wrench her heart, somehow wilted.

“Mister Riles!” Lorra exclaims, rushing over. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, for the most part – better off for seeing you. That… thing on the eastern wall. The gibbering golden skull. Seems it landed on, well, someone, I suppose. You, I feared,” he sighs.

“That was Jomas.”

“Oh… still tragic. A bit less, though?” he says with a shrug.

Lorra gives a disjointed diagonal nod in half agreement (the first half), eyes moist.

“And the winter palace! From the northern wall. You should see it… the king… I wonder…” Riles trails off.

“Mister Riles, where is everyone?” Lorra questions, reaching out to hold the old man’s shoulder, hoping to steady him out of shock.

“Most have left. The storm lifted the stone, so to speak, the stone of their lives, if you get my meaning – and bared their souls to the world. Just like bugs, they scattered.”

“Everyone… left?”

“Not everyone. Just many. Most. They think they’re rich now. All that treasure! Troves upon troves. But if everyone is rich, no-one is. At least that’s what one of those giant skulls told me,” Riles states with a quiver.

A flash of realisation—her basket. Full of glittering, gem-encrusted items. Most of which she didn’t even look at, now lodged in that tree hollow near the river.

“Mister Riles, what will you—”

Lorra is cut off by a scream so loud and desperate she can hear that it’s also bloody. It sounds wet. She’s both terrified and revolted. Riles, on the other hand, is calm as anything.

“What’s going on in there?!” Lorra asks, grabbing the old man’s arms with her hands and his eyes with her own.

Riles holds her gaze, his own expression curious.

“Don’t you know? The estate has a new proprietor. A queen! Thanks to her, I’m now retired,” Riles replies, beaming. “And I can stay. I can stay in my room as always! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“A queen?”

“Yes, a queen. She is generous – but firm. She is to be respected! She is to be rev—”

Riles is cut off by a series of terrified wails, each ending so abrupt that their punctuation can only be death.

Riles leans in, emitting a hoarse whisper. “Ol’ Maud is cleaning house.”

Lorra stares at the old codger in disbelief. He adds a slow wink, not timed well with his statement, making the entire situation all the more unhinged.

Is he in shock, or is this just his actual personality when he isn’t attending to his duties?

Lorra, more confused than frightened—and more curious than brave—gives Riles a swift hug and heads towards the manor. She’s no more than three steps away when a series of sounds halts her progress: a cocked crossbow, a bolt’s ballad and dear old Riles, falling in a heap.

Lorra turns to find the stable hand who called her out the night before, cranking the next bolt in place. The first is lodged in the back of Riles’ skull.

“What have you done?! Why?” Lorra shouts.

“Maven Maud told him he didn’t have to work anymore. She didn’t say he’d be alive.”

Before Lorra can protest, the next bolt is fired—on a sixteen-hundred metre-per-second trajectory straight towards her heart.

Chapter 6 ->

Get to the cave and live. Go. Go. GO!

She passes another large golden skull, embedded in the path, spewing its wisdom to whoever draws near.

“You’re not a loser – you’re just poor!”

She avoids its gaze, manoeuvering around, though this does not void its message, which inspires her to snag more strewn treasure—provided its placement is opportune, of course.

Through the guard’s port, skewing her path just in case the storm has any sort of sentience and is aiming at her (who would be surprised at this point?), she puts the eastern gate behind her.

The open field between the manor and forest is both a relief and worry. Lorra slows, cooling down to prep for her next sprint, wary of the sky above and watching for its ‘gifts’.

“Hey! I need your help!” a man’s voice calls out.

Lorra stops and turns with caution. It’s the odd person she saw materialise earlier. He rides towards her on his unfortunate contraption, which seems to sputter and choke beneath his modest weight.

“Hi! Thanks, ma’am. I just need to know,” he begins, checking a thin glowing rectangular artifact in his hand, “… which way is ‘Murr’?”

“Murr?!” Lorra blurts, “Why are you going to Murr, of all places?”

“To deliver a pizza…” the man replies, offering a puzzled expression as if Lorra is the one who’s out of place.

“Oh… okay…” Lorra says, sniffing the air—the scent of whatever he carries is, to be fair, enticing. “Murr is to the west, so in the direction of the wall opposite this side of the manor… but it’s several weeks of travel by horse!”

“Fuck!” the man shouts. “My scooter is probably slower than a horse, ugh!”

“Excuse me but that word… is it a bad word?”

“Scooter?”

“No, what you shouted…”

“Yes, sorry ma’am! That wasn’t respectful. Please accept this coupon as an apology,” he states, digging into his pockets and handing over a strange slip of paper. It’s printed with bold colours, depicting a circular, cheese-covered flatbread.

The man revs the scooter’s engine, his expression shifting to one of determination as it lurches towards the eastern gate.

“Wait! What does that word mean?!” Lorra shouts after him.

“Everything!” he replies, speed increasing.

“I’ll never say it,” Lorra mutters to herself.

***

Lorra, three-fourths of the way between the manor and the forest’s edge, is overtaken by a dark golden streak above. For a moment, she’s bathed in its light and, for a shorter moment, given hope that the next rays to wash over her will be the sun’s.

The plummeting mass—we’d think it was a shooting star if we didn’t know better—arcs into the wood, followed by a boom and minor quake.

She buckles down and takes pause. Is the forest safe?

Doesn’t matter. The cave’s still stronger than any roof nearby.

Lorra resolves her thoughts and emotions and runs to the wood. Sore, operating only on adrenaline and the will to live, she pumps her legs—watching her way as best she can, guided by the storm’s light.

Stray brambles and bush-branches tear at her uniform, threatening to carve into the young woman beneath. Lightning continues to strike yet, by some mystical means, does not cause the underbrush to erupt. Her basket, having grown too heavy to manage, is cast into a bush. It might be the first responsible thing she’s done in her entire life.

She passes, and ignores, yet another giant golden skull, its ramblings indistinguishable due to her focus.

“Oh blah, blah, blah!” she yells, before covering her mouth, shocked at her indiscretion.

I’m losing my mind…

Lorra nears the river and despair takes hold. The bridge is gone. The river also sounds ‘off’, rushing as always, yet with an overtone of even faster motion. She slows as she approaches its banks.

The squall’s light is dim, with intermittent flashes of crackling bright, made even more nightclub-esque by the lingering smoke and far-off clinking sounds of its precipitation. Still, Lorra can see that an object has fallen into the river and is somehow parting its waters. Edging closer still, it appears to be a crude disk, embedded in a shallow stretch of riverbed.

It’s far smaller than the blockage it’s creating… some sort of magic?

The river has bifurcated at the object’s position, splitting into two streams that realign a dozen metres beyond its placement. The streams, however, appear to be widening at a gradual pace.

Or magic IMPACT – this invisible dam might be gone in moments!

She’s right, in a sense—the river is being split by whatever magical aura protected the artifact from atmospheric burnout… and that ward is fading fast.

Lorra leaps over the split stream and lands on the riverbed, its mud spraying up and splattering her uniform. She treads to the disc and rubs her hands together.

Looks like some sort of shield? Well, at least I know how to swim if this doesn’t work.

Lorra pushes her body against the shield and, with the little strength she’s retained, grabs its handle and turns it like a wheel—moving it closer to the other side without dislodging it.

It works. The river is no longer split, now arcing around her.

Lorra, re-energised by this victory, scurries to and up the other side, grabbing roots and stones and climbing up to see—

~ The Sword ~

Stuck in the remains of a tree stump, which surely exploded when it struck, is a sword. Simple of shape, with a wide blade, diminutive guard and spherical pommel—all fashioned out of a single material (at least that’s what it looks like in this light).

Lorra approaches, curious, so locked in on the sword that she ignores the lightning and rest of the storm.

Sure, it fell from the sky during a cursed apocalypse. Yes, it’s been forged by a deity whose long slumber was the primary subject of not one, and not two, but three holidays. And, yeah, it might be super hot from its descent. But…

Why not? Why shouldn’t I take it? My own sword is still on the eastern wall—no, under my bunk—after all. Lorra muses, with a wince.

She’s tempted to say ‘fuck it’ but resists, instead taking the ten-thousandth sharp breath of the night and snatching the thing.

It has a nice heft when swung yet feels light in her hand at rest. Odd.

This is pretty nice, at least I got someth—

Lorra’s thoughts are disrupted by an oversized golden anchor landing a few dozen metres to her left. Reality returns, as unreal as it’s been on this night, and so does her impulse to run.

***

Lorra approaches the cave, finding it guarded by the unfortunate placement of yet another golden skull. Having reached her breaking point, she tosses and kicks a heap of leaves and branches into its mouth. It still speaks, though muffled well enough to ignore.

“Hello!” Lorra shouts, venturing inside. “It’s just me – Lorra!”

Lightning makes the cave bright for a moment. It’s empty. She’s disheartened, having hoped—and expected—to find other survivors.

“There’s always tomorrow…” she says aloud, echoing a favoured phrase of her late father. Lips trembling, eyes watering, she curls up and allows emotion to take hold.

Fear, confusion, despair, grief, worry, pain… and yet, also, gratitude. She made it. A cave carved into the bottom of a foothill, itself more like a toe of a larger mountain. She’s never felt such relief.

Poor Jomas. And Maud, I left Maud! I hope she makes it through this…

She imagines what her first kiss could have been, blushed cheeks pressed against Jomas’ square jaw. Perhaps he’d bring her flowers at the wall, or they’d look at the map together, chat about seeing new places, their dreams for life colliding, coalescing, becoming stronger in both their hands.

Instead, he is now a crêpe made of bone and brawn.

Hot streaks down her cheeks, she hugs the sword, not so much cradling it as being cradled by it. If the cave wasn’t so dark, we’d see her wallow in one of her worst moments. Covered in blood, mud and crud, with her ability to fall into despair honed by time and all the tragic strokes of its brush—there is no better artist of grief and hardship.

And yet, if art is defined (by some, at least!) to be that which stirs us, either by provocation or evocation or something beyond the two, then is it not also the crafter of our courage? The architect of resolve? How else is the strength of our heart trained, if not by difficulty and loss?

Time is, perhaps, the most double-edged of swords, which we both wield and are struck by—sometimes in the same motion.

Of course, none of that is going through Lorra’s mind at the moment. She’s basically replaying the most horrific hours of her life. I won’t say worse than when she lost her parents and brother, but we can be certain it was far weirder.

With tears on her cheeks and uncertainty in her heart, she slips into sleep—this time, deep and devoid of dreams.

Chapter 5 ->

Clouds a’roil, flashes of purple against black and grey, glints of gold and silver raining to the world below alongside much larger objects, the nature of which Lorra cannot discern.

“Get up!” Jomas shouts, his words a whisper over the storm’s din, a platinum-plated chandelier crashing down to the wall from the sky, around ten metres behind him.

Lorra remembers the marauder shouting the same in her dream, winces, shakes her head and stands.

‘Jomas’ is a respectable name in Lorra’s country but this young man does look like the sort whose parents misspelled the more traditional Thomas, and then made several thousand additional mistakes while raising him. Still, frazzled though he is—bed head, semi-untucked clothing, mismatched boots—he holds a certain degree of charm.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you sick?” Lorra yells in reply.

“Yes, but I knew you were up here – and figured you might be sleeping through, well, this!”

A solid sterling silver bathtub (the fancy kind with tiny, clawed feet) smashes down from above, destroying the crenelation on the wall’s edge.

“You – you came for me?”

Lorra is taken aback; someone thought to look after her rather than take cover and mind their own skin?

“Or course! I wouldn’t let anything happen to you!”

“Why?!”

“Lorra, haven’t you noticed?! I have a huge crush—”

Jomas is cut off by the careening scream of an oversized golden skull—twice larger than a barrel and thrice as wide—coming fast from above, landing right where he stands.

The cobbled floor where Jomas stood is now sunken in, cracks radiating, the young man reduced to some manner of paste between skull and stone.

Lorra, spattered with sanguine viscera, screams, eyes wide. The skull shifts, purple sparks of light twinkling in its sockets.

“This is not the end. It is another beginning. Well, I suppose it’s ‘the end’ if you die?” the skull begins. “Anyway. They say a bird in the hand is worth a few in the bush but consider this: a boon in the hand is worth a few in the land – so stop fouling around with fowl and get yours!”

Lorra furrows her brow and quickens her breath, fear and confusion entwined into a single impulse.

“Get yours, girl! FUCK YEAH!”

Lorra grabs her basket and breaks into a run, leaving the prophetic golden skull behind. She zig-zags, purple, pink and teal lightning striking all around her, towards the ladder and down it, through the upper storey’s halls. She rushes about, flickering lights and dust puffing from every crevice, and stops at an arrow loop to peer out, trembling.

The rain is glimmering death, solid objects and strange emissions from a sundered sky. The metallic precipitation is joined by dark silhouettes, which appear within the clouds, gigantic, then shrink to obscurity before they, too, seem to rain down to the world below.

Magic… but what sorcery could do this? Lorra thinks to herself, desperate to grasp onto any fragment of understanding possible.

A comet-like streak engulfed in the storm’s light shoots towards the manor’s outer grounds. Lorra watches it, bracing for an explosion, yet it slows down as it reaches the meadow. The light radiates out, accompanied by a puff of white smoke.

The smoke clears, a strange young man resolving within. His bizarre manner of dress is matched by the machination upon which he stands; a contraption with two small wheels, placed one after another the long way, an uncomfortable cushioned seat and mere bars jutting out of its front as a steering mechanism.

He holds a covered container, square and far wider than it is tall. He appears confused. He shrugs and, as if a sudden awareness of his surroundings takes hold, rides away.

Just a person? Of… some sort?

The more Lorra looks, the more baffled she becomes. Narrowing her eyes, she’s sure that some of what’s raining down are literal gold coins… but how could that be? She remembers Ol’ Maud’s words:

“… the old wizard’s been up all night, each night, for days… he’s fussing over something, so stay alert tonight!”

Right! He’ll know what this is! Lorra thinks to herself, changing course and erupting into a run once more.

***

“I’ve not the faintest idea of what this is, little Lorra,” the Wizard laments. “I was only staying up late to advise the Murrian Emporate by way of crystal ball conference calling.”

Now, you might not know this but any magic user explaining their side hustle to a mere servant indicates a high degree of trust and goodwill.

“Perhaps Elder Ezma will have a sense of all this, wily witch that she is…”

“Oh… well, that’s okay, just figured you’re the smartest person around,” Lorra replies.

The Wizard’s quarters are impressive; three floors in the estate’s observatory—of which the penthouse is occupied by one of his housemates, the astronomer… who, as a matter of current mystery and misalignment, is missing.

The Wizard (Taer Monty is his name) is elder and gray, with pale eyes and stale breath. He wears dark blue vestments embroidered with what appear to be arcane symbols but are, in fact, mere branding. He’s old but he drips like that.

His nose is large, his whiskers are long and his spread is lavish. Books floating within innumerable shelves, potions mixing themselves, a dog that can talk if it wants to, all that sort of thing.

“Wiz Monty,” Lorra cautions (yes, she calls him that), “the skull said the strangest thing – ‘fuck yeah!’ – do you know what that means?”

“No, my dear, I do not. Some manner of demonic speech, perhaps. Troubling indeed, as the betwixting of bewitching and banal language indicates non-mortal magical interference…”

The Wizard ponders this, raising a hand and twirling a finger, slow, as if it’s submerged in honey. A thick tome floats off a shelf and flaps itself over.

The pages turn as if on their own volition, though of course Monty is moving them via eye motion alone.

“Ahh… of course…” he mutters, followed by a series of ‘hmms’ that could pass for jazz.

Lorra watches the epiphany with wonder, happy to feel protected; welcome in a space safe enough to ride the storm out.

“Well, you need to leave!” Monty states as the book snaps shuts and retreats.

“What?! Why?” Lorra gasps.

“Because, my dear, this is a life – no, world – changing event. It’s likely that the great trickster has been awoken. I should have known! Who else would usher storms of death and delights?”

“The world is changing? Not ending?” Lorra asks, hopeful.

“Depends, really, on who you are. It ended for Jomas, by the sound of it.”

“Can I at least stay here until the storm passes?”

“No, you must depart. Nothing personal, I need to leave, too – and that means packing all this stuff up into my best robe’s magic pockets. If you stay, you’ll enter a vortex of my belongings and be torn apart.”

“Take me with you?”

Monty sighs, his heart heavy.

“You’d need to know how to metamorphose into an avian form. I’m afraid there’s no time to teach you – even if you possessed the mindfire necessary to do magic.”

“But where will I go?”

“There comes a time when life’s wending ways are ours to warrant from within. For you, that time has come.”

Taer Monty leans down, grandfather-like, and gives Lorra a kiss on the forehead. It’s not even weird or anything, though it is sad (for her).

“Do take care…” the wizard sighs, his belongings already shifting about in preparation for his departure.

Dejected, Lorra nods, slinking down the swaying spiral stair and back into the night’s mayhem.

***

Lorra’s evasion of the storm is an impressive blur of panicked sprints and careful stalking-of-halls within the estate’s structures—though without the wizard’s protective magic, it’s not quite safe indoors.

Within the manor itself, Lorra pauses for a rest in a dark antechamber. A golden goblet crashes through the ceiling and lands right at her feet. A quarter metre closer and she’d be reunited with Jomas.

At least if I’m outside I can see the big ones coming… but I need to find somewhere safe!

Lorra makes her way to the cloisters that frame the manor’s inner courtyard. Again, she stops to catch her breath, transfixed by the barrage of aqua and violet fulmination.

A thick bolt pounds into the centre of the yard, causing a magical eruption of what appears to be small, thin rectangles of some unknown material. One slaps right onto Lorra’s forehead—it’s mere piece parchment, thank goodness!—and, due to the storm’s moisture, sticks there (the sensation, however, is not unpleasant).

Still alive, struck by something soft enough to leave her skull intact, Lorra descends into a fit of relieved laughter. Turmoil, terror and trauma having pushed her to a place she’s never been before… even during the sacking of her hometown.

Lorra peels the thick paper rectangle off and sidesteps to an oil lamp jutting from the cloister wall. It’s a playing card of some kind, with an illustration depicting an imposing obelisk-like figure with pale skin and a widow’s peak. Strange icons and symbols are scattered about the card, along with numbers rendered in a thick typeform.

She turns the card over in her hand, regarding the intricate pattern on the back, which features an inhuman eye framed by flames in the storm’s colours. She regards the illustration once more, squinting to read the card’s title:

Fuckin’ Dracula, Y’all

Huh? There’s that word again!

Perplexed and perturbed, Lorra slips the card into a pocket right as a golden piano falls from the sky, obliterating the courtyard’s main fountain.

Anywhere would be better than this – the whole manor could cave in on itself! Wait… cave in… that’s it!

Lorra takes a sharp breath, eyes popped like corn in a kettle. She huffs, preparing for her next swift movements, when Ol’ Maud’s whistling hits the air.

Ol’ Maud saunters into the courtyard, not a care about her. She carries a gleaming crown in her hand which, for some reason, unsettles Lorra.

“Maud! What are you doing?!” Lorra shouts.

Ignored. Ol’ Maud bends down, peeling more of those curious cards from the ground.

“Maud! I have an idea – the cave beyond the river in the eastern wood!” Lorra pleads. “We’ll be safe there!”

Ol’ Maud, bending for another card, cranes her neck to give Lorra a glance—her eyes alight with an uncanny teal and purple glow.

“I’m safe right here, Lorra! We’re all fine! And if you had any sense about you, you’d have sorted out that the bigger bolts can conjure cards!” Maud explains.

“I don’t want cards, I want to live to see tomorrow morning!” Lorra replies.

Ol’ Maud shrugs and continues on, around the giant golden piano, oblivious to the bolts of lightning and random heavy trinkets assailing the manor around her.

Lorra follows, determined to save the old woman, who has always been kind to her—I wouldn’t go so far as to say she was a surrogate mother, more like an endearing neighbour you’d call ‘aunt’ but never really mean it. Still…

“Maud, please! You’re not yoursel—”

“Fuck off!” Ol’ Maud snaps, turning to shoot one of those scrunched up faces that adds ‘you idiot’ to any phrase.

“You don’t even know what that means!” Lorra fires back, hurt, before stepping backwards, turning on her heel and jetting away.

Chapter 4 ->

She’s running towards the manor, giving a glance at her basket to find it’s full of beetles instead of berries.

“That won’t do – you lot ought to be free!” she shouts, tossing the basket into the air. The beetles erupt in a cloud, iridescent wings whipping. She laughs with glee.

Nearing the manor, she turns to view the bramble valley and finds herself staring down a humble dirt path. At its end is her home. Her real home. She glances back to where the manor should be and it’s gone—replaced by her hometown’s modest groves.

Her eyes go wide. She bolts towards the house.

“Mother! Father! I’m home! I’m here!”

“Mum?!” she continues, bursting through the door.

Empty. Covered in dust. Water stains and mold. Cracked ceramics. Blood, long since dried, faded like a stranger’s memory.

“Mum?!” she gasps, deflated, remembering that—

“She’s dead,” a stern voice utters.

“Father?! Aren’t you, also…” Lorra says, choking on her emotions.

Tall, proud, thick black hair and moustache. Simple clothes, toolbelt, worn boots. The scent of every dust mingling together—from wood, stone, bone and the road itself.

“Aren’t you…” Lorra repeats, confused.

“YES!” he replies, eyes going wide with manic merriment. “YES, I AM!”

A flash of white and the sound of a blade being drawn and swiped. She covers her eyes against the bright, only for a moment, and he is gone… but fresh blood now arcs the walls.

Panic. Dread. She runs out of the little house and again sees her father, now down the road where she started. He turns and waves and there it is again—a flash of white, the sound of a sharp sword now punctuated by the thud of his body falling to the ground.

She can see him scattered, in pieces, and issues a complex scream—so loud and wavered you can hear the grief and horror as separate entities within the wail.

“You’ll forget him,” a smooth voice whispers. “Come, now, get up here.”

She turns to see a marauder, standing atop a wide wagon platform attached to six horses. His leather vest is spattered with gore, caught in clumps on its fur collar. Feathers, charms and pouches overflowing with stolen goods hang from his belt.

Townsfolk sit shackled behind the raider, alongside barrels of stolen goods. Lorra’s attention darts about and she spots her brother, so small, eyes blank with shock.

“I said GET. UP!” he shouts, grabbing and dragging and tossing Lorra with the others. Her little brother tilts his held, slight, not looking at her but, perhaps, sensing her.

Lorra, however, stares at the boy with intent.

“Jake!” she hiss-whispers, “…everything is going to be okay,” she lies, tears welling.

Lorra’s captor shouts ahead to the driver. The wagon jerks forward, then halts. Too much plunder.

“On second thought…” Lorra’s captor growls.

The brute gives Lorra a firm kick, knocking her off the wagon. The left side of her body takes the impact. The world goes dark. Muffled. The sound of several elders being ejected from the wagon is distant. Muffled. She can feel weight on top of her.

“I should move…” she thinks to herself, “… I should…”

The world fades away and so does her pain, a sudden burst of comfort shaking her awake. She’s in her old bed, the scent of her mother’s cooking coaxing her out of her room. There she is, stirring and humming, long blonde braids swaying, turning with those pale blue eyes and a smile warmer than any hearth.

“Mum! You’re back!”

“Yes, dear, though I have to say,” Lorra’s mother begins, “I was surprised you let all that happen. Do you even know where your brother is these days?”

Lorra deflates. Her dream-heart is a vessel bloated with guilt and pain.

“I couldn’t do anything, mum, I’m so sorry,” she replies, tearing up. “I didn’t even know how to fight back then! How to swing a sword… I was too young; I didn’t have a chance to—”

“Oh, stop that now! You know I hate excuses, and you’re still full of them,” her mother retorts, snapping her ladle down, smile shifting to a wicked scowl. “A responsible woman has no time for excuses!” she continues, snarling.

“I know but I—”

That bright flash again. The sword’s song joined by her mother’s final shriek of sorrow.

The world resolves, her mother now splayed across the tiles. Lorra runs over, falls to her knees, grasping at red-drenched clothes.

Lorra is desperate to find a wound to close but the garments themselves shift and swim in her hands. They’re now a violent violet hue and are hers—stained with the berries favoured by the manor’s Lord and his kin.

“Give me those, darling, you’ll never get the stains out on your own,” Ol’ Maud whispers, patting Lorra on the back.

Lorra hands the bundle to the old washer, who extends a hand down. Lorra takes it and rises, now in the bunkhouse. All the bunks are upside-down.

“What happened to the bunks?” Lorra questions.

Ol’ Maud shrugs.

“Should we fix—”

Lorra is interrupted by a boom of thunder great enough to tear the sky in half. She looks up to see the roof of the bunkhouse being ripped apart in slow motion, splintering beams rising and floating away.

The clouds crackle with indigo, pink and blueish-green lightning. The wind wails deeper than it ought to be able to. Thunder cracks again. The ground shakes—as if the world itself is taken by fright. Lorra stumbles backwards towards the bunkhouse wall, looking up.

The sky is a roiling sea of shadow and pulsing purple light.

Another boom of thunder, the ground beneath her quivering. She loses balance, her back hitting the wall, guiding her to the floor as her heart and mind are spellbound by the tumultuous turmoil above.

“Lorra!” a familiar voice shouts. “Lorra! Hey!”

She looks around and finds herself alone.

“Lorra!”

She snaps awake, jostled back to reality by none other than Jomas, whose shift she’s covering.

“Hey!” he continues, sputtering. “We need to take cover!”

Lorra looks up at the sky and gasps—it’s the exact chaos of her dream.

Chapter 3 ->

She’s lithe and petite with short, sandy hair—no, shorter than you imagine, think: pixie cut with natural spikiness, like a burr that catches onto the world instead of someone’s pantaloons. That’s how she carries herself, too, bobbing through life as if pushed by the wind, grasping at anything solid, succumbing to fate, nature or what have you.

For example, the imposing fortified manor she’s running towards? Well, it’s not hers, though her manner of dress—plain, pocked and patched—would give that away to anyone.

The manor stands tall, a grand gesture of wealth, power and privilege. More of a minor palace, truth be told. And the young woman? One of many you’d call ‘the help’… yet she rushes towards it with all the enthusiasm of ‘home’.

She doesn’t only lack a deed to the place, she doesn’t even sleep inside it! She bunks in a long wooden barracks separated from the main part of the estate by an impressive (in size and scent) cabbage field.

Her lot in life is bare yet, still, her hazel eyes glimmer over a wide, toothy smile. I have no doubt that you’re regarding her expression as that of a simpleton—judgemental elitist that you are—but you’re so wrong!

It’s the sort of smile that covers pain. The outward display of a young woman who has become adept at facing away from the bad and towards the good. Beyond bravado, it’s an innate ability to magnify life’s smallest joys, giving them the best chance to eclipse the myriad miseries that haunt her.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking “oh, she’s dead inside lol,” but you’ve made that face, too—don’t even try to deny it.

Running, hopping, swaying, back-and-forth, bouncing between boulder and briar. She vaults over a thick bramble vine, thorns like dragon teeth, and, for a moment, hangs in the air, drawing a deep breath that’s returned to the world as a peel of silvery laughter. She jolts to a jovial jog as she nears the western wall.

“Lorra! Hey! Hey there!” a guard calls from above. “Open up! Lorra’s back!”

“Hi!” she shouts in return, slowing her roll to avoid any last-minute basket fails.

As the gate opens, another voice calls her name.

“Lorra! Lor-ra! Heya, Lor!” old and raspy, the manor’s steward shuffles from the shadows. “Hurry, now, Jomas has fallen ill! You’re to take his shift on the eastern wall until the fifth bell—provided you have the energy, of course.”

The steward is more wizened than wise, wrinkled as a scarecrow that’s lost its stuffing and about twice as light in appearance.

“Yes, Mister Riles,” Lorra says, all soft as to not blow him away with her breath, punctuated by a respectful curtsy. She deposits the basket of berries at his feet. “Do bring that to the cookhouse,” she adds, with a cheeky smile.

“As you wish,” Riles chuckles. “Just suit up and get your bum to the wall when the next bell rings.”

Lorra returns a mock salute and continues on, prompting Riles to bring his palm up to his face; unbeknownst to her, she gave the same salute used by the ghouls and skeletons of Entropia’s evil undead army.

***

The bunkhouse is a tall, long building. Great barn doors stay open during the day, revealing a secondary wooden façade and saloon-style swinging slats for entry.

Inside, the narrow yet vast space is bifurcated by a massive curtain—made of all types of cloth patched together. Not for privacy but for insulation during the cold months, and to direct air in the warmer ones.

It’s a sacred place of respite, providing unyielding recourse to the day’s (and/or night’s) toil. A shrine of wood, wool and burlap. As such, Lorra slinks about its brown and beige expanse with reverence.

Amber beams lend glamour to dust trapped within, and the snores of night-shifters pair well with the scent of stew, ever simmering.

Lorra undresses as she makes way to her bunk. She slips into her guard’s garb, a uniform that’s become one of her favourite outfits. It makes her feel safe, with bits of chainmail and danksteel bands in strategic points, hardened leather pauldrons and a built-in belt of useful tools: scope, whistle, flare, sewing kit and a pouch of healing herbs.

“Hey – Lorra,” a warm voice whispers.

Lorra looks up as she fastens the final latch of her uniform, replying to Ol’ Maud, the head of laundry, with a smile. Ol’ Maud raises an eyebrow and extends an arm. Lorra complies with the gesture’s demand, handing over her bundle of berry-stained clothing.

“Jomas is ill,” Lorra explains, all hushed, “I’m covering his guard shift.”

“Be safe,” Maud replies.

Lorra chokes down a giggle. “Oh, Maud, nothing ever happens around here!”

“True, true, and yet…” Maud trails off, then steps towards Lorra with a conspiratorial air about her, looking to-and-fro, “… the old wizard’s been up all night, each night, for days… he’s fussing over something, so stay alert tonight!”

“Alert? Yeah, right! I’ve been out foraging berries all day – you know how picky the chef is!”

“Only the purest indigo, larger than your thumbnail and NOT. BRUISED.” the women say in unison—both now stifling laughter.

“I’m so tired,” Lorra furthers. “But we’ll see. I’ll do my best.”

Ol’ Maud sighs and shrugs, shuffling off to continue her tasks. Lorra, now in heavy boots, tiptoes off, so as not to clomp any of her peers from slumber.

***

Running through the cabbage field is not discouraged—provided the runner in question isn’t destructive—especially to expedite the fulfillment of one’s duties. Lorra tugs up her pants to facilitate skips, hops and vaults (the uniform is a bit loose).

She clears the final row of leafy green fare, her finesse the result of repeated cabbage patch laps throughout the years.

Past the storehouse, stables and sauna barn. Beyond the boat builder’s shed and bakehouse. Yes, there it is—the estate’s humble archives.

Lorra quiets her steps, achieving dainty diligence as she crosses the threshold. A place of silent study, though it’s no library. There’s no borrowing of materials, you can be sure of that (just as the archivist is sure nothing will ever get ‘lost’).

If you’re expecting her to fill the time between shifts with deep dives or even light reading—or, to be honest, even perusing the illuminations of some holy book or another to ease her boredom—you’re going to be disappointed.

It’s not that she can’t read. More a matter of time. To be precise, the little slivers she can grasp of it for her own use. There’s a large map pinned to a wall in the back. It’s the eastern quadrant of her country’s continent. She often comes to sit and stare, even if she can’t stay long.

Lorra runs her eyes over the map, peering at the northern border. Her own hometown is a blip between the manor and the most northern of the kingdom’s outposts. Beyond that, a great wilderness sprawls upwards towards distant territories.

“Lorra,” the archivist whispers, shuffling over due to eccentricity, not age; he’s wearing slippers as always, to ‘prevent scuffs’, though most think he does it to show off.

Lorra nods and smiles in reply.

“I thought you’d like this,” he continues, hushed, producing a small, folded piece of parchment.

Lorra unfolds it with care, finding a small mirror image of a map. It’s their kingdom, in fine detail, only reversed.

“We received a number of rubbings from the royal cartographer’s newest plates,” he explains. “The ink is dried by way of sorcery – this one is a defect. Which proves they’ve relegated critical cartographical tasks to apprentices, by the way! Still… better in your hands than in the bonfire.”

Lorra grins, staring at the thing, and the archivist swishes off before she can say ‘thank you’. She folds the map and stores it in a pocket.

I’ll probably never have a greater treasure – what a gift, just for me?! I’ll need to arrange a thank-you treat with the cooks.

Lorra returns her attention to the larger map, travelling its roads, rivers and ridges with her eyes while counting upwards. When she hits three hundred, she departs.

***

The cookhouse is on the other side of the estate, closer to the main building. Lorra arrives to find her basket of berries on the sunning rack, already emptied and rinsed.

Inside, a landscape of ovens, stoves and surfaces used for preparing food are attended by the head chef’s staff. His sergeant, a rotund woman with thick gray hair pulled into a bun, beams with pride at all the hustling and bustling happening under her watch.

“Ah Lorra! Today we’re cooking a special sauce for the lord and lady’s anniversary dinner – do be careful, all of our stoves are in use!”

“It smells delicious!”

“It does, doesn’t it! Some ingredients are cooked by flame, some by magic, some between… and don’t worry, I’ll save you a taste!”

“Thank you! That’s sort of why I came today.”

“Oh? You heard about our anniversary menu? Who spilled the secret?!”

“No, no! Your secrets are safe. I’m just wondering if I can arrange for a surprise as a thank-you to the archivist, who has been so kind to me lately. A small plate of something special.”

“Ah, I see,” the portly maven says, with a satisfied sigh, “one of our arrangements, hmm?”

Lorra nods as the head cook runs a finger across the veritable landscape of her thick neck and jaw.

“If you’ll do our washing after your guard shift, I’ll make sure he gets a plate of tonight’s fare – a meal so far above his station, he’d be pressed to find word of a similar delicacies in any of his dusty old books.”

Lorra looks around, gauging the workload despite already knowing she must say ‘yes’, lest appear ungrateful to both the archivist and the head cook.

Six hours of work, I bet. Eight at most for one person. At least the cooks will get a rest? Eh… future me problem.

“Of course!”

Both women fire off one of those half-blink nods that serve as a remote handshake and Lorra departs, snatching her basket on the way to the wall.

***

“Hey, idiot! Your pauldron is missing its fringe!” an obnoxious voice calls out.

Lorra turns to see one of the stable hands staring at her with a grin so smug, you’d swear it wasn’t on a bow-legged, buck-toothed, unkempt miscreant who shovels horse manure to earn his keep.

“It got torn in training – you’d know that if you ever swung a sword!” Lorra fires back.

“Well, uh… I don’t have time to train much, too busy—”

The stable hand is cut off by the bell’s metallic song, echoing across the estate’s grounds.

“Speaking of too busy – bye!” Lorra says with a satisfied smile, sprinting off to her post.

***

The inner estate’s cozy collection of structures includes a few impressive amenities, though none as stunning as the manor itself. Yet it’s the walls that are, perhaps, its second-grandest feature. Higher than most, and staffed by guards at all times, they ensure any sort of guests (welcome or not) are noted well in advance.

The northern wall looks out over hills that roll towards the King’s winter palace, which is framed by a range of mountains capped by snow and storms.

Some have said that the height and strength of the manor’s walls are due to its proximity to this palace. A mark of grandiosity befitting of the estate closest to the monarch’s retreat. It just wouldn’t do for visiting nobles and emissaries to pass an estate without such fortifications.

It’s winter now, too. Lights from within the palace’s grand spires twinkle beside the first stars to nudge twilight away and beckon nightfall.

The lightest of flurries hangs in the air, reflecting moonlight to present its own celestial expanse in the here and now.

Nightbirds caress the wind with their gentle warble, flying overhead with grace, trying their best to shit on the northern wall’s guards.

A beautiful view indeed.

Lorra, however, is assigned to the eastern wall, which overlooks dense woodland. A vast clump of browns and greens coalescing into a unified mass of shadows as evening saunters in. Worst wall of all but—

“Great spot for a nap,” Lorra mutters to herself, hoisting up from a rickety ladder, through the floor-port’s tight passage.

She huffs in the crisp air and exhales through a wry smile. Facing east, into the thickest of thickets—of which there’s no easy ticket (of passage), all those branches and thorns and puffing poison fungi… not to mention the menagerie of menacing critters, creatures and cryptids.

Invading through that would be problematic at best. Huge nope energy.

To be fair, who could stare into that all night? Unlike some sort of philosopher’s sentiment, this abyss is staring back at you. Creepy.

And so, Lorra does what she does best—casts responsibility aside. She leans back, stretches and yawns. Berry-stained hands folded on her lap, back propped up on a rack of spears—just a few minutes of rest, promise!!!—and she slips into slumber.

Chapter 2 ->

As a question (if you’re into that)

Can an irresponsible young woman find her purpose, right her wrongs and learn to trust the world—and herself?

As a statement

A young woman is ejected from the comfort of a simple life by a magical apocalypse—and learns that sometimes, your greatest responsibilities choose you.

Teasing the tale

Lorra juggles multiple roles at a fortified manor—forager, guard, sweeper, veggie peeler, undies washer… a horrible life to most, a safe haven from past trauma and the dangerous world beyond the estate’s walls for her.

She loses it all in a single night of mystical, magical, madness-infused mayhem. Yet what she gains might change everything.

Now on a mission to find her long-lost brother, Lorra assembles a party of classic archetypes that have all achieved something rare and impressive: each is even more of a fuckup than Lorra herself.

And so, the irresponsible layabout must try, fail, learn and grow into the most responsible sort of person there is: a hero.

The World

TAM&DWWDCAAT is one of many stories in a setting I describe as:

Postmodern fantasy inspired by tabletop, trading card and massively multiplayer role-playing games—and the people who play them

What does that mean??

There are other stories in this setting. A lot of them. This is a serial novel to immerse readers in the world of these tales. If you dig it, there will be more to come!

Wizards are People, Too

Many of the characters are inspired by the types of people you meet around the gaming table, at your local card shop during a pre-release tournament or in an MMO.

They might be rogues, warriors or wizards but they’re also… individuals.

And we all know what that means. Quirks. Flaws. Motives that might not align with, for example, the needs of a village being pillaged by a fire-breathing behemoth.

Power Creep

Myriad classes. Meddling deities. Mechanics and systems from games but they’re in canon. Realm hopping. Fey Fae, hey! Dwarves and shit.

Whatever you love, it’s in here. Want to be sure of that? HMU! You might even get a cameo (might be a death, though).

The Writing

Death Cards is written in Australian English.

That means the letter ‘u’ is all over the place, there’s a distinct absence of Oxford commas and, due to the narrator being cheeky, a bit of Aussie slang here and there.

Unspaced em dashes are used in the prose – but spaced en dashes are used in dialogue.

Yes, this is on purpose.

Games of Chance

Beyond the first handful of chapters, the use of hand-made tools inspired by tabletop, card and board games to drive the story will increase. I might even stream some of it.

Don’t worry, I have a loose sense of the major points. How we get there will (sometimes) be subject to fate, though.

Chapter 1 ->

You read this far… have some LORE

Caution: spoilers!

You may want to read the first seven chapters before proceeding.

Imagine a post-apocalyptic fantasy world where all the manic, addictive trappings of a PvP trading card game are real.

Among hundreds of classes and subclasses, the Rulers arise as one of the most dangerous and unpredictable of all.

Before the storm of death and delights, they were normal people. With one of the trickster deity’s cursed crowns, they’re madcap monarchs who can’t seem to stay dead.

And worst of all, each one believes they’re legit in charge.

Their cards allow them to manifest all manner of support from multiple realms—including the mad god’s grimoire, a sketchbook of unlikely creatures, characters and cataclysmic sorcery that’s been dumped out into the world.

The cards ensure plenty of cool weapons, antiques and consumables are always on hand, too.

All up, they’re OP af.

But that’s not all!

While Rulers roam the lands, adding loads of terror to any would-be hero’s journey, there are many more challenges to overcome. Death Cards kicks off with ‘the end of the world’—the cursed crowns being a mere fragment of the great trickster’s gifts and grifts.

The world was always dangerous. There’s just… more of it now.

Thanks for reading 💖

—JB Vale