Space project so far jpg


United States

Self taught freelancer. probably 17.
“Why . . . would a penguin be in a piss pot?
"Wait, seriously, what's a piss pot?”
― Pat Shand, Destiny, NY, Volume One: Who I Used to Be
Write Free

Message from Writer

“Some men will let you down because they get bored with you, or distracted. Or because not letting you down has never been important to them. Some men will let you down and not even realize you were depending on them.”
“A man is better than the worst thing he’s ever done,”
“Deserve is a tricky word.”
- Matthew Colville

“Screw you, I want my final words with you to be indignant and irritated.”
“I have an intelligence of six. I know what I’m doing.”
“You will leave when Burt Reynolds tells you to leave.”
“Life needs things to live.”
“You act as though the laws of the anthill affect the boot that crushes it.”
- Various members of Vox Machina and their enemies

Published Work

July's Enclave Prompt! #Pickthreecards

Hello everybody! This is the first Reviewer’s Enclave writing challenge. This challenge will go for the rest of the month of July 2019 and will end the first day of August 2019.
    So, we all love a good set of characters. They are what gets us to believe that the events in a novel or story are happening. They are the source of our immersion and verisimilitude in reading.
    Here’s the challenge: You have to pick three of the characters below and write a story about them interacting in a believable way. How would they react to each other?
    Each character “card” has information that     must be included in your story. Their backstory doesn’t have to be explained, only referenced, just to make things simple.
    Also! There is a review competition this month! When you write an excellent (and I mean excellent) review, post a link to it in the comments below so others can...

The TV Shows Berlin; The Raven Sees Death

Squeak opened the door slowly, careful not to disturb Peep. His feathered form was nearly invisible in the darkened room. He held a bouquet of colorful flowers in his claws, hoping not to find the worst outcome.
    Peep was still sitting on the fluffy chair, staring at the picture box. The scenes repeated over and over again, the wall, the cheering, the people speaking into strange wands. Peep was like Squeak, a curseborn raven, though she was much older and younger than Squeak.
    “Hey there,” Squeak said, setting the flowers on a side table.
    Peep didn’t respond, her giant eyes glued to the screen. White noise filled the once-dark orbs that were, at one point, like shining opals.
    Squeak gulped nervously. He put his right claw on Peep’s left claw. “Hey little one,” He said. “I’m here, just like you asked. Squeak.”
    Peep shed a tear; a hammer hit the wall on the screen.

Unity: The City Older than Gods

My name’s Corinth Velmont (booing). Yeah, boo at me all you want, but that won’t change my job. For those of you unaware, I am a vampire. I was made this way by my mother Zora Velmont and she was made that way by her mother Y’lana Velmont. I am from a family line that doesn’t love this city, doesn’t care for its people, and only exists here to see it in ruins.
    But that’s not why I’m here. My mentor, Rader Kahn, dragon and head master of the college of Magdora, has asked me to give a speech on why I love the city of Unity.
    Now, you may think that that may be difficult for me, considering my status as an outcast in this city. But it truly isn’t as hard as you may think, because I do love this city.
    Fellow citizens, I love this city more than my mother loves kissing the...

From a (EX)Failed Manuscript: The Best Chapter I've Ever Written (LONG)

“The prince and the princess lived as happy as they met. They lived long, had many children, and ruled their kingdom with peace,” Father said, closing the small story book. After a moment, he asked, “How did you like it, Jasmine?”
    “I loved it!” I shouted, leaping off the couch and onto the stone floor, my bare feet digging into the smooth covering. “I can’t wait until I get older so I can be a princess.” I said, twirling around, and regally bowing.
    Father smiled warmly, and set the book on the side-table. “A good way to end your birthday?”
    “End it? That was only the fourth book! One more, please?” I begged, jumping onto father’s lap.
    “I’m afraid I’m getting quite tired-” 
    “Please!?” I exclaimed, over and over again.
    “Alright, fine.” Father said, finally defeated. “See if you can find a book you like in the study.”

The Solar's Fall

"And the sun rained down its light like tears from the eyes of a mourning widow."
"Even the darkest of shadows wept when the sword met Daryk's wings. Yet celentria still did not open."
"The time of angels did not come. And the solar fell to the world at rest, his holy mission failed."
"And as the elves grew from his bloody feathers deep in the marshes of Jurindel, the broken titan crawled his way into hiding."
"Thus began the age of devils."

The Mask of Ire and Masochistic Desire

You won’t admit it.
This mask feels good.
But it hurts.
This mask sears a pair of glasses to your face, melting your flesh and twisting your bones.
This mask puts a gag in your mouth, filling it with gauze and your own blood.
But what do you see?
You see everyone around you living a perfect life.
You see everyone around you living without you.
The world turns but you stay stuck where you are.
You watch as everything around you hangs in perfect balance,
And you’re too afraid to upset that.
So you stand there, not interacting at all.
No interaction,
No one to show you that the balance isn’t real.
You become reserved,
Hiding behind your mask of glass and blood.
Your flesh searing,
Your mouth bleeding.

There was a boat,
In the middle of the ocean,
Surrounded by fish, sharks and dolphins.
But they all look the same from the ship.
The fisherman casts his net,...

The Mask of Insomnia and Horrifying Visions

This one keeps your eyes wide open. Hundreds of daggers pulling your eyelids open, dirks searing your flesh and needles in your cheeks.
The sword in your mouth.
The sword in your mouth.
What do you see?
You don’t want to share?
Isn’t it wonderful?
The daggers mean nothing when you see it.
All these potentials,
All these
All of them horrifying.
Get some rest, damn it.
You need it.
It’ll just keep haunting you-
it’s all real.
Then it’ll just haunt you while you sleep.
What do you see?
A bloodbath
All your doing.
In a way
You kind of want it to be real.
This is the mask of insomnia,
But it is filled with.
You can’t look away, else the sword will cut you;
The dirks twisting and turning,
The needles digging.
So you look on
Your mouth too full of steel to scream for help.

The Song of Avernon

The inn was quiet. It was nearly midnight, and most patrons were asleep or leaving for future adventures.
    One group stayed awake during the dark. Made of a human, devule, orc and a gnome, the party calling themselves ‘ratsnappers’ had no such need for sleep as of now. They were waiting for someone; something.
    The human, a man named Willem, stood leaning against the wall, his left boot pressed against the wood. He fiddled with a dull knife as his companions quietly spoke.
    Yarda, the orc, was a strongwoman. She carried a heavy lute on her back as well as a two-handed battle-axe. She yawned as the devvule, a devil man named Borbon, drank from a giant tankard. “Must you drink so gluttonously?” Yarda asked.
    The gnome stayed quiet. He was rifling through his satchel that carried more than was possible. Out from the purse was pulled a five-foot long metal pole, then a large tapestry. ...

Call to Action! Join the #enclave !

In my latest piece, An Open Letter to WtW Users, I talked about a group called the Reviewer’s Enclave. I didn’t go into detail on what that was, but with this piece I hope to describe what I meant when I brought it up.
    First off, the enclave is not an official group. It is something I made up and is more of a way to put a name to an otherwise untitled group of commenters/reviewers. My hope with this is to expand the more critical (but still constructive) side of WtW in order to help aspiring writers (including myself) grow and improve.
    As of late reviews have not been common-place and commenting (to my knowledge) is even rarer. This fact has bothered me ever since joining the site back in May and I firmly believe that these tools could be used to great effect. As I have observed they have not been utilized to their greatest potential. ...

An Open Letter to WtW Users

At times, as writers we can be disappointed. I recently had to give up on writing a story that had no meaning and was going nowhere. The manuscript was 20 chapters and 50,000 words. Not a lot, I know, but quite a bit for my first attempt at writing an ambitious novel.
    Dealing with disappointment in yourself as a creative person is one of the hardest things a writer faces. Falling in and out of love with a story, realizing something you made isn’t great, or just not being recognized by your peers are all hard things to cope with when you spend so much time on your work.
    I face this issue a lot. I write short stories because it doesn’t give me time to fall out of love with them. I write short stories so I can easily revise mistakes. I write so I can express myself.
    I’ve said before that I don’t write for...

The Aphasis Interrogation

Aphasis sat backwards in her chair, her cloak of stained glass impossibly glistening in the darkness. She lowered the floating globe of light to be just above her head, and she smirked at the man in chains. He was still asleep from the spell, as he had been for the past two hundred years. He would awaken sometime soon.
    The blue light of the orb was dim, and illuminated only Aphasis’ long flowing red hair and portions of her cloak. The light on the walls was practically unseeable, due to the magical wards put into place on them.
    Stirring, the man began to awake. He slowly opened his eyes and let out a yawn. This man was not at rest anymore. His skin had the pattern of dried leaves, and his hair was like dead grass. He smelled faintly of walnuts.
    “Oh Galtrion,” He muttered. “What year is it?” he asked calmly.
    “Sometime in the seven...

Masks. What Kinds do You See?

So as some of you may know I recently started writing a series called Masks.
I really like this idea and will probably continue writing many of them.
But I want to read the kinds of masks you've seen people wear.
These masks are not literal, but rather figurative representations of mental disorders and hardship.

This isn't a contest, just a game to play.
If you feel so inclined, write your own mask story! I think that'd be rad.

Here's how I usually title my Mask stories:
The Mask of ___ and ___  ___

The writing style is a little strange
-Short paragraphs, sometimes only a few words.
-Important or sarcastic comments are italicized.
-Very important comments are BOLDED, CAPS AND ITALICIZED

If you want to, go ahead and forgo any of these parameters and be creative. Just be careful with how dark you can get. These Masks are not meant to be good things, but if you want to...


“The sooner we get this done, the sooner you get your mead,” Zarkananorthontax said as he and his troupe walked towards the capital building of the Jurindel Theocracy. It was an honor to be here. His companions didn’t seem to understand that. The gnome had been here only once, and that was nearly a century ago. He was eager to see how the building had changed.
    “Geh,” Borbon said, drunkenly walking behind Zarkananorthontax. The ram horned devule had been hungover for nearly a tenday. “Send dwarves and their alcohols to the seven hells. Dark gods slay them and turn them to cricks.”
    “Cool it, Borbon,” Yarda said, her orcish voice gruff and deep. “Lest I rip out your horns.”
    “Besides,” Zarkananorthontax said. “Technically they would become draugr.”
    “You’re all idiots, anyways.” Willem said. The human was getting annoyed. “Just be respectful, we’re guests here. Not every ratcatcher gets to see a gloria, so let’s just obey...

The Mask of Terror and Suffocating Grasps

It’s terrifying, isn’t it?
This one hurts the most.
Not a lot of people wear this mask.
But those that do,
But those that do,
Wear it all the time.
This mask is your terror. Your fears of what your reality will do and is doing.
This is the mask of thousands of hands, each one grasping for your mouth. The fingers worm their way in, they pull at your tongue and teeth. Poke your eyes, and plug your ears.
Your senses are leaving.
All you get is terror
They won’t stop. You’re drowning in their flesh.
You try to scream but the fingers only dig deeper.
How do you get out?
How do you get out?
You can tear at the hands all you want, they won’t stop coming and clawing.

With this mask
The only way out may seem inevitable
The only...

The Mask of Trust and Charred Love v2

You thought you finally found a good mask.
Maybe you didn’t even think it was a mask.
Just a feeling.
But you wore it regardless.
I know this one.
The mask that burns like a cloud of stars on your face.
The cloud of stars.
But you can’t wear this mask alone.
Someone has to put it on you first.
Someone you trust.
Someone you love.
At first it’s warm, welcoming.
Maybe even enjoyable.
But then they start pressing it into your flesh.
That devilish hand
Presses it into your cheeks, your chin and mouth.
It didn’t hurt before.
But now it does.
And they were the ones who made it that way.
It’s still on you.
You could’ve stopped them.
But you didn’t.
You trusted them.
You loved them.
You didn’t think of yourself.
They told you it’s what they wanted.
You wanted them to be happy.

The Mask of Death, Revised

It burns. The bright light fills your eyes like water down a hose. It is awe-inspiring. It is more beautiful than anything else you've ever seen; ever felt.
Then you feel it. The expanding sensation in your eyes. A crackling and popping and buzzing that at first you pay no mind.
And then you go blind.
One mushroom,
Two mushrooms.
A blighting fungus begins to fill your eyes, draining them of any fluids. They are rotting, decomposing and melting in the heat of the light and acid touch of the blight.
You puke and fuzz comes out. It's blue and smoldering. You look down with tears in your eyes, with what little vision you have left. Inside the mucus and acids of your own flesh you swear you can see a face. A face that is still. Not moving.
It's your face.
It looks peaceful. Not a single welt or blemish is seen in this dead face.
You long for...

A Recommendation


_blue makes some of the best writing I've ever seen. Their piece Why Do we Write is probably one of the better pieces I've ever read. I strongly recommend checking their pieces out if you haven't yet.

That is all. Have a good day.

The Mask of Death and Blighted Silence

You don't even try to hide it.
Or maybe you do.
I dunno
Do you?
I can see it. I can't hear it.
All your cries for help are blighted behind your jokes, your laughter and feigned indifference.
No one's looking and they can't hear you.
Not that they would care anyways.
Or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.
At least every other person wears this mask, or still has the scars from it. They’re almost blind from the intense light that once or does shine in their eyes.
The light is blinding
It isn’t a good light. It’s like the red sky in the morning, except much more intense and constantly growing.
It is a blight
A blight
A fungus growing in your eyes, rotting them out, warping your perception. It hurts like nothing else but you can’t scream. The silence is uncanny....

The Mask of Wrath & Baleful Ice

It’s not invisible.
I can see it at least. On about every three people I see a mask of frozen heat and heated ice. A mask of hate, of wrath. A loathsome mask of terror.
It’s not invisible.
Is that what they really look like? A big grin on their face? I don’t see a smile. I see a demonic frown that has warped mortal perception to see the falling angel. Little do most know that the rising devil can look like it falls when it hangs you upside-down.
It’s not invisible.
You just have to look closely. It makes a sound too, though it’s like the hum of a refrigerator. You don’t notice it at first, but once you do, it never stops filling your ears. It sounds like the crackling of strained wood. The popping of a cold soda. The expanding of a Baleful Ice.
The Expanding of Baleful Ice. ...

Death, Insanity, and Repetition

A vicious cackling filled my mind once again. What once sounded like a soft song drowned in the endless waves of the sea, of which was once inviting and calming, was no longer drowned in the silence of eternity.
“Her ears are bleeding.” The lieutenant said. “Where in the seven did you find her?”
    The commander, a bold and bald human man clad in platinum plate armor, didn’t respond. He was examining the naked form of the young child with an ire that contested the Fortold’s own vengeful anger.
    “Commander this child is insane.” The lieutenant said. Her features were indistinguishable underneath the heavy armor and helm she wore. Her voice was rugged and speaking seemed almost burdensome to her. “It would be best to put her out of her misery.”
    Once more, the commander didn’t say anything. The red tattoos that lined the child’s screaming and writhing form pulsed with an aura of pure madness....

No Sarcasm Included

“Nothing I do matters anyways.” or “It’ll all be over soon.”
What do you want me to say to that? Do you want a gold star? A certification? A round of applause? That’s what it sounds like you want. Do me a favor and leave me alone until you’re ready to stop poisoning your mind with such thoughts.
    Although physically your mind might not ‘rot’ with such thoughts, are you really going to let yourself become a poison to those around you with such things? I could’ve been more morbid with those two statements, so allow me to delve a little deeper.
“Nothing I do matters anyways, not as long as everyone hates me as much as I do myself.” or “It’ll all be over soon, after I'm dead."
Yeah. I wish I could tell you to shut up.
    But that’s not how the world works, is it? Hell, I’m being toxic right now, aren’t I? Whoops, I...

The Gloria of the World at Rest

The gloria of joy, Hypnotica
The elf was dressed in loose robes. The genderless form floated just above the ground, its moth-like wings flapping gently, not even stirring the air around them. Looking at its skin was like standing inside of a rainbow. It was all colors and none. Its hair was cut short, like a bob around its tall skull, which also reflected all colors. Its ears were curved like the horns of a ram and pointed at the ends.
    And the eyes. Oh, looking into the eyes was like feeling your first kiss, or an embrace from a long-gone companion. It was like staring into your own soul with a satisfaction unmatched. The eyes burned away any worries with the flames of its own, perfect soul.

The gloria of pride, Theorzadun
Like an egg cracking open, the book split in half and two beautiful golden arms extended out through the top of the star. The hands of...

The ForgeMartyr's Daughter, Chapter Three

“Lord Bezenlocke,” The human accountant said. “Our scouts have picked up something you might be interested in.”
    “Well,” The dragul said. “What is it?”
    “Group seven-four-C, sir. They found this.” The human turned to the wall-mounted safe behind the counter. “I’ve been keeping it safe until you returned.”
    “What is it?” Bezenlocke asked.
    “This, m’lord.” Out from the small safe was pulled what appeared to be half of a crown, dented and scorched. It had many jewels decorating the dull golden half-ring that remained of whatever once-great treasure it was a part of. “I believe you already know what it is.”
    Bezenlocke’s mouth fell open for a moment before he tightly shut his jaw again. Water vapor came from his nose as the steam engine in his metal heart released itself of its pressure. The dragul’s scales shifted as he lifted his arm and took the shattered crown from the accountant. “Where did the scouts...

Blood and Ire

Here lies a god
Of blood and ire.
Just under sod;
Dirt and the fire.

We built his keep
With tears and sweat.
We tore it down
With sweat and blood.

The hammer falls;
The hammer falls;
And the throne comes
Crashing down.

Here lies a god
Of blood and ire.

We built his keep;
We tore it down.

We built his throne;
We tore it down.

We built his keep;
Its ghost still stands.

We built his keep;
And gods don’t die.

We built his keep;
But gods don’t die.

We built his keep;

They only sleep,
To wake another

A day of Blood,
A day of Ire.

A day of Blood and Ire.

Fantasy Writing Competition


“Occupation.” The guild hand asked.
    “Farmer,” Alec said, nervously holding his hat.
    The hand looked down. The human was covered in sand, as was everything else on the land lakes. “Farmer? Ha! That’s a good one. Occupation.” He said dryly.
    “I wasn’t joking.” Alec, the stout and small midge said. “Farmer.” His floppy brown hair billowed in the light wind.
    The human scowled. He wrote down a few words. “Alright, then, Mr. Gartherbon. You are now part of the race. Have fun with that… raft of yours.”
    Alec sighed a sigh of relief. He waddled over to his ‘raft’ of a sand sail, which was hovering slightly above the sand. Reaching up for the rope, he heard two sailors entering the race talking about his ship.
    “Can’t wait to see that hunk of junk blasted to smithereens!” One said.
    “Which one? The midge or the raft?” The two sailors laughed and walked off...

The ForgeMartyr's Daughter, Chapter Two

I stoked the flames with the end of my hammer. Without my gauntlets on, the handle rubbed against my burnt skin, causing it to hurt like the original pain that first took it. I grunted as the leather rubbed on the soft, dysfunctional flesh that covered my once muscled hand.
    “Who was the dwarf?" The sprite asked.
    "A Talus member. Rift Talus." I replied, dropping my hammer again after mixing the coals. I noticed that my hand was bleeding again. I sighed. "These burns will never cease to pain me," I said plainly, getting out a bandage and tightly wrapping my hand. "But they aren't the most painful thing I endure now."
    The sprite ignored my comment. “The Rift Talus are a myth," It said. "No one's ever actually seen 'em." It paused. "And lived." Another pause. "The stories are that way, at least."
    "Well, what are stories compared to truth?" I asked. "All stories embellish...

Wings (The Sheriff of Cloverville Excerpt)

That man from the train, Willem. I’ve seen him only rarely since then. He’s always with his ratcatcher friends. He’s told me that he doesn’t use his true name anymore, but something about him has always bothered me.
    One of the first things he said to me was that he’s killed a god before, and ever since he has denied saying it. His companions have never made comments. Everywhere I look no one seems to remember them, either. Even people I’ve found to have known them in the past, thanks to blessings from the Knowing One, have said that the name doesn’t ring a bell.
    Whoever that man was, he saved my life. And the Knowing One, though she cannot reveal who he is or what he did, has said that he plays a key role in the balance of the world.
    That balance is very precarious.
I looked out the window of the train, looking out...

Fantasy Writing Competition


“Occupation.” The guild hand asked.
    “Farmer,” Alec said, nervously holding his hat.
    The hand looked down. The human was covered in sand, as was everything else on the land lakes. “Farmer? Ha! That’s a good one. Occupation.” He said dryly.
    “I wasn’t joking.” Alec, the stout and small midge said. “Farmer.” His floppy brown hair billowed in the light wind.
    The human scowled. He wrote down a few words. “Alright, then, Mr. Gartherbon. You are now part of the race. Have fun with that… raft of yours.”
    Alec sighed a sigh of relief. He waddled over to his ‘raft’ of a sand sail, which was hovering slightly above the sand. Reaching up for the rope, he heard two sailors entering the race talking about his ship.
    “Can’t wait to see that hunk of junk blasted to smithereens!” One said.
    “Which one? The midge or the raft?” The two sailors laughed and walked off...

The Constitution and Importance of Morality in the Human Mind

What constitutes morality, and why is it important? That is a genuine question I’ve learned quite a few people have. This question may come in many different forms, but ultimately the trillions of ways it can be asked can be narrowed down to the one I opened with. Hopefully, if I play my cards right, I can answer a fraction of that question with a biased opinion.
    One of my favorite scenes from Star Trek: The Next Generation involves Captain Picard demonstrating morality to a rather… scientific race of alien humanoids (link in the footnotes). This scene describes and demonstrates a very important part of morality, and I what I believe to be the best description of its function and role in sentient beings. This scene starts with the aliens laughing at Picard’s ‘morals’ and ends with them fleeing in terror once they understand his point. The aliens scoff at the captain’s verbal attempts to plead for respect of...

To be a Saint, Revised

Asmogol wasn’t one for family history. Which was why it pained him to be at the statue of Saint Gorvicha, his grandmother and liberator of the city of Unity of which he lived. With his left arm in a sling and his neck still in pain from the bite, he planted his forehead on the knee of the saint’s statue and sighed.
    “Asmo, are you okay?” Sare asked from behind him. “The celebration is just getting started again.”
    “Yeah,” Asmo said. “I’m okay, just tired.”
    “Well, Cori has been looking for you, so don’t dally too long.”
    “I won’t. Can I have a minute alone though? I need a break for a bit.”
    “Of--” Sare said. “Of course.” The blonde human walked off at a brisk pace.
    Asmogol Gorvicha, vampire. Grandson of the saint. Neither of those names sounded appealing to him. “I’m sorry I failed you, grandmother.” He said, sitting down at the foot...

Chuthian Minds

“It’s like there’s a million voices inside my head at once,” The little girl said. She had clammy gray skin and red tattoos that covered her entire body. She was bald, and what little hair there was seemed to be made of a stringy and wet material similar to unwound yarn.
    “And how do you deal with it?” The Grand Songnote asked. Her devilish features reflected the light of the candle.
    “I don’t.” The girl said. “They tell me such wondrous things. Such amazing things.”
    Jasmine D’ligh, Grand Songnote, said nothing about the girl’s prior murders and homicides.
    “All they ask is that I prick my tongue with a needle and then it’s like waking up from a dream.”
    Jasmine turned the lights up, revealing the rest of the room so she could examine the girl. She was completely restrained in a straight jacket, inside a cage that was magically warded. The girl had four...

To be a Saint Part One

Asmogol looked up at the statue to his grandmother, Saint Gorvicha. It depicted her clad in half-plate armor, war axe in hand and the shield of Sir Gaide in the other. She had comparably English features with a hint of Asian in her face, though on Esquinor those ethnicities* had different names.
    He planted his hand on the foot of the statue and rubbed it for good luck. The pain in his neck was still strong and his left arm was still in its sling.
    “Asmo?” Sare asked as she came around the corner. “The celebration is in district five. Cori has been waiting for you.”
    Holding back tears, Asmo let go of the statue. “Right, I’ll be there soon.”
    “Are you alrigh--”
    “I’ll be there, Sare.” Asmogol said scoldingly. He didn’t watch as Sare nodded and walked away quickly. He sighed and sat at the foot of the statue.
    “I’m sorry I failed,...

Fantasy Writing Competition


“Occupation.” The guild hand asked.
    “Farmer,” Alec said, nervously holding his hat.
    The hand looked down. The human was covered in sand, as was everything else on the land lakes. “Farmer? Ha! That’s a good one. Occupation.” He said dryly.
    “I wasn’t joking.” Alec said. “Farmer.”
    The human scowled. He wrote down a few words. “Alright, then, Mr. Gartherbon. You are now part of the race. Have fun with that… raft of yours.”
    Alec sighed a sigh of relief. He waddled over to his ‘raft’ of a sand sail, which was hovering slightly above the sand. Reaching up for the rope, he heard two sailors entering the race talking about his ship.
    “Can’t wait to see that hunk of junk blasted to smithereens!” One said.
    “Which one? The halfling or the raft?” The two sailors laughed and walked off towards their vessel, which was a titanic warship, one that had an engine on...


“Chancellor,” The short, ancient gnome asked in a high-pitched voice. “If I may, I--”
    “You may not.” The chancellor said. The elder, copper dragul’s* cogs and gears twisted and turned as he wrote in his binders. His draconic nostrils blew small clouds of steam.
    “No buts, Mr. Fornalakalinentarnan.” The chancellor said. “Kaldo** has laws to be obeyed. If those laws are not followed, the system falls apart.”
    “Chancellor, I was merely--”
    “Worshiping a heathen god,” Chancellor Copus interrupted. “And caught reading dark scripture.”
    The gnome wilted under the weight of the Chancellor’s words. “That is correct, chancellor.”
    “Yes, though we already knew that, didn’t we, Mr. Fornalakalinentarnan? Didn’t we all know that?” The crowd cheered as the chancellor made a fool of the gnome. “You have committed crimes against Zepherheim and its people. The crime, according to our first law, was worshiping the heathen god known as the Death Shaper, god of...

It's Probably Nothing

I can see the words on the page, but do I really read them? I mean, don't get me wrong, I can still comprehend and understand, but do I really know ​what the words say? Like, think of it this way: Language didn't come with us naturally. It was something we made. Something that didn't exist for a long time. It confuses me a little bit, just a tiny bit. We supposedly come from the same source. Whether it you believe it to be of God or of the brine-filled depths of the oceans isn't what I'm here to debate, though. 
   It is astounding to me that somehow, despite our similarities, we can come up with so many different ​meanings from the same words, or different ones. There's even some who've invented words to convey meaning. It's kind of funny, how we link sounds and syllables together in the ways that we do. To many, the words of another...

The ForgeMartyr's Daughter, Chapter One

I was no older than four at the time. I clutched my medallion of the Foretold and listened to mother sing to me. It was a beautiful song, one that I’ll never forget. One I’ll never share, it was hers and mine.
    Father opened the door and walked in, holding his hammer in one hand and a bag of bread in the other. “Is Morgan asleep?” He asked, setting his hammer down quietly. Mother shook her head as she sang, never changing the melody.
    “She’s been teaching herself to read.” Mother said after finishing the song. She pulled the covers over my body and I pretended to close my eyes, leaving a slit open so I could still see.
    Father opened the bread bag and tore off a piece. Handed it to mother. He tore off a second piece and inspected it. He grunted and bit into it, letting crumbs fall into his beard.
    “Foran,” Mother...

The ForgeMartyr's Daughter, Prologue v2

“A martyr, that’s what he was.” I said, setting my war hammer on the dirt. I extended my short dwarvish arms out towards the fire, warming them in the heat. My armor was still dented and busted from the previous fight. I kept my eyes wide open still, preparing for an eventual attack from the forces of the Silverwood. I coughed as the wind shifted and the smoke from the fire flew into my face.
    The small sprite fluttered around the campsite. “Draugr, you said? Those haven’t left the Undar for over a century.”
    I smirked sadly. “Apparently not.”
    “And your father was a good man?” The sprite asked.
    I nodded. “He was the head priest of the Foretold.”
    The sprite whistled. “So you’re some sort of royalty?”
    I shrugged and shifted my weight around on the log. As I did, my holy symbol, my pendant of worship, came off its chain and tumbled...