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The Pool of Life, Epilogue-Prologue by Daniel Olarnick , December 2003
Odan the Scribe walked confidently toward his terminus. He paused for a moment to look at the beauty of this vast and mystical valley, the dark blue waterfalls, the mysterious brooding forest, the incomprehensible breeding grounds of a simmering natatorium. He breathed in deeply, cherished the fragrance of this unsullied world, smiled, and silently thanked the gods of creation for theirmagnificent achievement.
Ebon Grupe, Chapter 1 by Daniel Olarnick, February 2004
Today, I have engaged one of Odan's scribal crystals. Of course, it is without his consent or blessing. He is totally without blame for this deed. There, I've said it. He is to be exonerated. I have committed this deed in order to record my life's saga, so that the true account of my existence will not be confused with the many tales and half-truths that are sure to circulate upon my demise. Those unsubstantiated tales would be fables, at best. That is all they could be, for no one would or could believe the truth of this saga unless they were there to see the actual events unfold.
Ebon Grupe, Chapter 2 by Daniel Olarnick, May 2004
My first year as a camp follower passed quickly, but still I had not found my calling as a member of the dragon-slayer's group.
I found myself to be a poor archer, far worse with the axe and sword than with the bow. I did have some proficiency with knives, but an assassin's weapon held no honor or legend among the hierarchy, even though all slayers carried a knife, but it was considered as a weapon of last resort.
Torment, Chapter 1 by Gabe Morales, April 2004
The mornings here are different than that of my homeland. Not as cold as I remember them being when I was a child. Here it is warmer. The birds sing praise to the newborn day, the ground I sleep on is not hard and cold, but soft and moist with the morning's dew.
Torment, Chapter 2 by Gabe Morales, May 2004
As he sat in the loud and boisterous pub, the little Dalimarnian bard thought back to the tiny village he used to call home. The dark wooden stool creaked as he shifted his weight on the unsteady seat, emptying his brown leather purse onto the unsteady weathered table, sending gold coins and small shiny stones scattering across the carved wooden top. Counting the gold he had netted from his most recent performance, he silently smiled, thinking to himself, "One of my better performances, if I do say so myself." The tiny Halfling reached for the metal mug that held his drink, and as he gulped down a mouthful of the lukewarm ale, he was reminded of the place he once called home.
Dale of Ruins by Gabe Morales, September - October 2004
The image of Valdor and Hadrian shimmered through the Watching Orb as they made their way across the banks of what had once been called the Dryer River. A flourishing body of water in days long gone, the river had once been alive with fish and varied forms of sea life, whose currents had reached the far ends of the Southern Farmlands. Those days had become nothing more than memories. The dry sand of the riverbed had not tasted water in nine years, and it seemed unlikely that it ever would again. Some said that a curse had been placed on the region, which drove many of its inhabitants away in search of fertile land. The devious gnome knew better though. Watching them as he did, he could see their boots slide with every step as the dry rocks and sand slid around their heavy feet, as though it were trying to swallow them. He wished that it would. He would be rid of the two "champions" that stood in his way. "What a grand ending to a futile task," he thought. "Nonetheless," his mind wandered as he watched them, "The priest will have at them." The small globe fit easily into the palms of his hands as he cupped the precious sphere. Running his fingers over the glass surface, the orb turned black and he slide it into the side pocket of his robe. The show was over for now and he had much work to finish. He knew he had to be diligent and discreet, for if the sorceress discovered his meddling, it would surely be the end of him in this lifetime.
Torment, Chapter 5, Moonlit Reflection by Gabe Morales, March 2005
Standing on the rocky cliff that stood atop of the mountain fortress known as Khalidin's Keep, Sidria stared out towards the town that bordered her forest, her eyes piercing through the shadows of midnight as the dim lights of burning lanterns emitted soft glows under the pale illumination of the dual moons, Deloniuos and Tera. Despite the late hour, the Red Gryphon Inn still bustled with activity as drunken patrons stumbled in and out through its large double-doors. With each opening of the Inn's massive oak doors, the quiet night air was filled with the sounds of celebration and jubilee that ran rampant within the Inn's stone walls. Sidria could have sworn she heard a verse from the Mantra of the Elven Maiden, but as the doors swung close, the joyful tune was extinguished, leaving its incomplete melody to echo off into the night, fading away as Sidria completed the verse in her mind:
…her silvery hair shone through the night
As rain drops glistened on the petals of Spring,
The Elven Queen gave to all new sight,
Of the glorious future she would bring.
The Cat and the Moon by G.C. Dillon, January 2005
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep,
Hesparus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellent and bright.
Ben Jonson, 1609.
Umbilicus Urbano by Mark Orr, March 2005
Iron-shod hooves stepped carefully between corpses. Belicar rode into the clearing and stopped a dozen yards from the bandits. The highwaymen had the merchant's daughter stripped before one of them noticed that they had an audience.
Dallan the Blind by G.C. Dillon, July 2005
The Dwarf tugged steadily at the halter of the grey mule. Still the draft animal refused to move along the muddy road. Rain fell heavily from the night sky.
"Come on now, Shearaigh. We've been out in worst storms than this." With one final heave by the Dwarf, the mule brayed loudly and began to move. The Dwarf fell backward into the mud. He swore steadily, condemning the beast to the various misfortunes inflicted by a multitude of demi-gods. Slowly he rose, and followed his mount toward the inn. Wisely the animal strode toward the dry confines of the stables. A stable hand, a horse blanket shielding him from the downpour, took the mule's bit and began to rub behind its right ear. The hand looked up as he approached.
Torment, Chapter 6, Silenced Souls, by Gabe Morales, July 2005
The wicked aura surrounding the Korgun priest filled the flourishing grove with a venomous chill so sinister that Valdor could feel the fine hairs on his arms and legs tingle with uncontrollable excitement. As he circled the priest, his body poised for attack, Valdor guardedly stepped to his right side, his left foot crossing over the other, cautiously gauging his dangerous opponent. He had been caught off guard by the deceptive priest during the onset of his attack, of which his tough and weathered leather vest had paid the price. The potentially fatal gash that ran along the side of his vest was a reminder to his lapse in judgment of the Korgun's skills. Despite his vest taking the brunt of the unsuspected thrust from the priest, the dark priest's blade had met its mark and tasted the flesh of the former assassin. The mystical Sun Dagger that the priest wielded had sliced through the leather vest like an axe through dead wood. As he pushed the stinging wound from his mind, Valdor centered his thoughts on defeating the capable and treacherous opponent. Every thrust of his sword had thus far been blocked and every parry had missed its target. Valdor knew very well that the battle would not last forever, and eventually, either he would find a hole in the Korgun's defense, or he would fall.
The Scribe with No Name, Chapter 3 by Daniel Olarnick, November 2005
"Is it that time, already?" asked Fallows, the head scribal priest, of his second-in-command, Gazine.
"Yes, sadly it is," replied Gazine.
"And the accursed one, is he prepared?"
"Of course, your eminence. He has been groomed for this quest since he was brought here," said Gazine, reassuring Fallows.
A Case for the King's Hand by James Brian King, November 2005
Dear Einar,
I apologize for not writing. I know I promised I would let you know of my every move, to help keep me out of trouble and all that, but I didn't get into trouble so I did not want to burden you. Except, now I am in trouble -- someone is trying to kill me and I swear I don't know why! (Which means it's not my fault.) I know you're thinking I must have swindled someone or stolen something, but I didn't. I swear I don't know why -- oh, I already wrote that. Well, anyway, please come! I desperately await your arrival. Unless you come and protect me I'm a dead man, er, halfling! You can find me at the Tavern of the Golden Horn, in Foresthaven. Please come quick. (You will come, won't you?)
-Rumrik.
Harvest by Gabriel Morales, November 2005
Streaks of magical energy swirled throughout the large elaborate room, the myriad sparkle of luminescent colors casting eerie shadows across the room's decorative tapestries. The epicenter of the thrilling display stood silently in the center of the room, her small almond shaped eyes wide in amazement at the spectacle that danced all around her. No more than a child by Elven standards, the small girl could feel the supernatural forces flowing through her young body, filling her with an exhilaration she could not explain. The golden brown robes that she wore fluttered loosely around her small fragile frame while tresses of her shiny dark hair wisped about wildly by the force of the magic. Her face painted a picture of a child at play, with a smile as carefree as her spirit. The young Elven maiden forced darts of the magical lights into all corners of the chamber, her thoughts dancing frantically within her young mind, filling her with visions of faeries and magical mischief.
To Give Aid and Succor, Chapter 4 by Daniel Olarnick, January 2006
"Eat you, I will enjoy," said Utre the Troll, his jaws making a cackling sound as he spoke in a series of gruff almost belligerent bgrunts.
"Assured and honored to be a fulfilling meal for the Trolls of Prince," replied the scribe-with-no-name, in perfect Trollish, emphasizing Utre's position amongst the trolls, the scribe's guttural intonation a perfection of troll-speak.
The Storming of Castle Anlaas by R V Saunders, January 2006
With a last glance towards the ramparts that reared above him, Kerrick lowered himself into the moat. The numbing cold of the still water bit hard, forcing his muscles to tense. As more of him disappeared beneath the surface, he found himself fighting to prevent his breathing from becoming ragged. Eventually all that was visible above water was a nest of black hair and the single gloved hand that held tightly onto the bank. After pausing to ensure that no one was watching, he drew his legs into a tuck and slowly pushed himself towards the wall thrusting up from the opposite bank.
The Witch Bargain by Verna McKinnon, January 2006
Legends say witches live in shadowed woodlands, ominous dark towers or secret caves. Without any caves or towers nearby, Tela sought out a witch in the forest. "Why am I doing this?" she grumbled as she hiked through the woods. Tela's fevered dreams about an enchanted cottage and a witch led to this reluctant hunt. Foot sore and mood cranky, she was ready to give up when she stumbled upon an old, weather-beaten cottage of stone with a decrepit thatched roof in bad decay.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 5, The Law of Claw and Fang by Daniel Olarnick, February 2006
"I am the Stone of the Omniscient Voice. I am nameless, but at one time, I was called - I have forgotten, it has been too long - however, I am now free from the confines of the Cave of Forgetfulness - from that accursed Scribal Priesthood. Our tale continues."
A Chance Meeting by Michael Gallant, February 2006
Trilisean sat at a corner table and sipped at what could charitably be called an adequate white wine. She chose this pub because it was an area of town where people were used to minding their own business, and she had no desire to be social this night. Contract jobs were scarce, freelance work was dangerous and less lucrative. The one really juicy offer she'd heard would require an accomplice, and at the moment, she didn't trust anyone with the necessary skills.
Cadida and the Djinn by Marva Dasef, February 2006
Cadida tapped the stone-lined pool's surface and smiled at the rippled reflection of her own face. The surface of the pool was like her life, she thought. Always placid and clear, the only excitement as brief and trivial as a summer rainstorm.
Even a tempest with thunder and lightning would be a pleasant change of pace from the dull existence she lived. Anything different from the usual and boring routine of her life would be more than welcome.
Beauties' Club by Tala Bar, February 2006
"I want to tell you, Daddy, I can't take much more of it!," the girl complained in a very quiet but still determined voice. "You wanted to marry a new wife after Mother died, all right, but why should I suffer for it?" She was no longer a little girl but a maiden of sixteen, as beautiful as any could be. She had a pale, moonlike appearance with long, shiny straight blond hair, glowing transparent complexion and light blue eyes, and she had been called by her late mother Moonbeam.
"Suffer? Why, Cindi, what's the matter?"
The Cursed Valley by Marva Dasef, May 2006
The guards brought Vendevor the Wizard into the castle's main hall, converted to a temporary courtroom for the trial. Vendevor, stripped of his bag of magic herbs, cowered under the glare of Tain, the centaur Lord of the Valley. Tain wanted to show mercy, but the wizard's crime was too horrible. Vendevor had poisoned the lake, killing three of the resident merfolk. It was murder, plain and simple, and Tain must pass judgment.
Tales of the Halfling, Chapter 1: The Hunted by Gabe Morales, May 2006
Thin trails of smoke escaped Hadrian Baldasaar's mouth as he puffed on his small ivory pipe. He enjoyed the sweet aroma of the intoxicating yango leaf and felt that it complimented a great variety of the drinks that the Red Gryphon had to offer. Exhaling, the small Halfling fixated his eyes on the earnings that he had spread out across the small wooden table before him.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 6, A Journey to a Town Called Vashmak by Daniel Olarnick, May 2006
The desert is bleak, ominous, vast, its heat intense, the sun blinding, yet the unnamed scribe, the mongrel and the troll called Utre (a prince among trolls, by the way) trudged west by southwest, guided by instinct and ancient legends that demanded the quest begin at a town called Vashmak.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 7, The Gorbs by Daniel Olarnick, July 2006
The desert is bleak, ominous, vast, its heat intense, the sun blinding, yet the unnamed scribe, the mongrel and the troll called Utre (a prince among trolls, by the way) trudged west by southwest, guided by instinct and ancient legends that demanded the quest begin at a town called Vashmak.
The Raven Bride by Verna McKinnon, July 2006
Sarah hurried beneath skeletal branches on the forest path crisp with fallen leaves. Naked trees filled with ravens, their black feathers fleshing out boughs with new, volatile life. The small cottage of thatched-roofed and faded wood circled by tall, ghostly birch trees finally appeared. Sitting outside on a stool of twisted wood, Agnes grinned broadly, her wispy, gray hair haphazardly pinned and face shriveled with wrinkles.
"Hello, Sarah," said old Agnes.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 8, DaJoul – The One Eyed Demon by Daniel Olarnick, October 2006
It is a long and difficult journey from the oasis. The underground cavern's waterways had ended; the Gorb slowed his steady pace to accommodate the trio he carried within his body, the wind, the heat, the deadly rays of the sun all combined to leave the travelers near exhaustion.
The Water Nymph by Tala Bar, October 2006
It was a hot summer day, the land bare with no shade. Finbar the Minstrel had been walking since morning, and when noontime approached, he felt the need for rest. He stopped and looked around him. He had been told at the village where he had stayed the night that the way he was going led to a river, and he was looking forward to reaching it. Pausing for a minute, he dropped his bag, raised his head and sniffed the air. Had there been any breath of air blowing from the direction of the river, he would have been able to sense its moisture; but throughout the morning no wind blew, and he began losing hope of ever reaching the river. Finbar stood, deep in thoughts. If only he could control the wind – to raise it when needed, like now, or to calm it down when it blew too hard! As if his thoughts affected the air, a light breeze stirred, barely felt, and he turned his face toward it. It caressed his face and dried the sweat on his skin, and then he felt that trace of moisture he was hoping for and knew the direction he should go.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 9, Beware and Be Foretold by Daniel Olarnick, December 2006
The mongrel ran ahead of the scribe and Utre, circled the perimeter of the pillars that surrounded the top of the Tor. The pillars were made of the same sacred pink alabaster that the scribal priesthood was constructed of. Its color had always caused the scribe to think of the legend, that the alabaster had absorbed the blood of a mighty dragon, who sacrificed his life in order that the scribal priesthood might remain impenetrable. Oh, it was a legend, he knew, but one he believed in.
Dragon Ride by Tala Bar, December 2006
Finbar the Minstrel was not happy. The day was bleak, and he knew he should have stayed behind in the village where he had been visiting, had the people there been more hospitable and forthcoming. They usually were, in places he visited on his wanderings, welcoming him as a good natured stranger who had come to entertain them with his songs and tales, and teach them something of the ways of the world that he encountered on the road. But not here, in that village whose name he did not even bother to remember. For some reason unknown to him, they were all sour-faced and grumpy, had no patience for him or his lore, and allowed him to sleep the night in a stable, rather than invite him into one of their homes. He rose early, and without any breakfast – which would usually be served to him by a kind hostess – he threw his bag over his shoulder and left without saying goodbye to anyone. The sky was heavy with clouds and he had to wear his coat, but he preferred the hardship of Nature to that of humanity.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 10, Herein Lies the Stone of... by Daniel Olarnick, February 2007
Ebon Grupe closed his eyes and slept. Had he retained any memory of his dream he would vow that it had not been a dream at all, but reality in the guise of a nightmare.
It should be noted, according to scribal legend, that, "...Aulofu must first appear in the form of a dream..."
The Green Sword by Peter J Welmerink, February 2007
Time had passed since the sun had risen; it was the hour of the Nauseated Monkey.
Stran Geness flexed his muscles making the veins pop in his forehead from the tension. His arms were like huge knotted oak limbs. His broad chest was like a granite boulder hewn into a fine physique like the great warrior Wew'Wrub, The Ruler of the Universe. He wore aged black leathers about his lower half and a chemise of black silk with short tattered sleeves about his upper half. A sparkling silver overshirt of tightly linked mail hugged his upper body over the black undergarment. A plate of formed metal shielded his right thigh from a sinister weapon that hung beside his sinewy leg--one of his two legs for he was no crippled barbarian. His head was shaved bald and reflected the sunlight. His skin was tanned like baked sand and a series of black tattoos, lines of various shape, width and length, covered his right side from head to toe. Fierce black eyes were set beneath the ledge of a slightly jutting brow. If the eyes were the doorway to a man's soul, Stran's were a fathomless cavern that no man but himself would dare venture.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 11, Immortality by Daniel Olarnick, June 2007
Ebon Grupe placed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the soundless reverberations that echoed throughout the crystalline cavern, but he could not drown out the voices that filled his mind. “The voice of the mind.” He shivered at the thought of the mental powers displayed by the crystal skull.
Music, Love and Magic by Tala Bar, June 2007
“Why don't you go to the Castle, Finbar?” asked the Farmer's wife. The Minstrel had been staying the night on the farm, filling his belly with the woman's good, sound cooking and granting her and her family a sample of his tales and songs. “They would appriciate your stories even more than we do, perhaps even give you money and presents.”
Vohl and The Ice Queen by Henry Otis Clarke, June 2007
The high pitched wail of a terrified little girl echoed in his mind. Vohl! Vohl! She cried. Alia! Alía! his own voice screamed to his daughter. The fetters held taut as he fought against them. bolted to the floor. Helpless. Helpless. And her screams rang and pealed off the vaulted chamber, combining with the cabalistic invocations of the wizard king Tuathal. Vohl‘s voice stopped as he saw the sacrificial knife raise. Vo-! The scream ended. The dream was always the same. The dream was a memory.
Odan the Scribe, Chapter 12, The Tangled Web by Daniel Olarnick, December 2007
From the top of the mountain, twin watchtowers jutted out, marking the entrance to the Black Dragon Inn, where their journey would end. A strange journey, indeed, thought Ebon, reflecting upon his good fortune, now that their destination loomed ahead of them -- less than three days travel, down the mountain's dwavern carved road, he thought, judging from the smoke rising behind the twin towers that jutted out directly ahead of them.
Dance of Four Shadows by Henry Otis Clarke, December 2007
To acquire the means to avenge his daughter, Vohl must face the Guardian of the Blade. But can a man defeat a creature that can't be killed?
Poor Zorulas by Brendan Davis, December 2007
Zorulas Sokrekedes awoke. His long unfit body curled under the thick blankets as the sun illuminated the cluttered room; his room. He sighed and cracked his neck as he rose to meet yet another day of grueling work on the docks. Dizzy with sleep, he stumbled to his hearth and warmed a tin of Kahwa juice. The fragrance of the stimulating drink pried his eyes open, and he downed it in a hurried gulp. Then he waited. As twenty minutes passed, his disappointment grew.
Panithon's Pass by Jonathan J. Schlosser, December 2007
I crested the hill, shading my eyes from the sun's harsh rays with my hand. Below me--truly, far below me; a distance of nearly half a league--the hill swept out into a vast plain. The expanse stretched toward the Kashir mountains on the horizon as if it wanted to reach them and convince them to sink into the earth, joining the two surfaces in equality. The mountains protested, their bulk blocking the grassland's progress as surely as an infantry battalion barricaded a city's gates.
Winter on the Mountain by Tala Bar, December 2007
Finbar felt he was lost. For some reason he could not tell, he was striving to climb a mountain, the top of which he had just reached. It had been a slow, uphill walk, the bottom of the valley very gradually getting farther and father away below him. Now, on top of the mountain, the weather was worsening, and all he could think about was finding shelter from the sharp wind and the flurry of snow that had began to fall. Soon, it was plain that the day was leaning toward evening, though the sun had not been seen now for hours. Finbar knew he must find shelter very soon, if he did not want to stay out in the open and freeze to death at night.
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