Bhrastasakti

Self-Mummifying Monks

Rather than seeking enlightenment, bhrastasakti seek annihilation. Rather than the cultivation of rta, the natural order, their practice leads to the cultivation of nirrti, the fundamental force of disorder.

The origins of bhrastasakti are obscure, but many popular legends relate that the first bhrastasakti (simply referred to as Bhrastasakti) was a sincere seeker of enlightenment whose judgment became clouded. As his practice veered more and more from the path of rta, this Bhrastasakti began a process of self-mummification. By denying his worldly existence, the vedas relate, Bhrastasakti believed that he would be released into an eternal bliss of dissolution and non-identification. One result of Bhrastasakti’s practice was a long and protracted death by self-administered poison and willful starvation; the more lasting result was a tangible point of nirtti in Shayakand. In the tomb where Bhrastasakti denied and annihilated his worldly existence, strong energies of disorder converged to spread abominations, hungry ghosts, and undead shadows outward into the natural world.

Several vedas which reference Bhrastasakti place his tomb at differing locations: in an iron temple deep in Goragora; somewhere in the wild countryside outside of Ekagra; below Mihandre, the City of Spices. Some contemporary accounts of Bhrastasakti place his tomb within the City of Spires, and insist that Xirix “crossed his path”, influencing his practice from one of rta to one of nirrti as part of some larger, and mad, cosmic scheme of that servitor of both heaven and abyss.

Occasionally cults of bhrastasakti spring up throughout Shayakand. Librarians, thieves, and monks alike perpetuate rumors of scrolls and books containing instructions for the strict discipline of gradual poison, starvation, and prolonged meditation which the first Bhrastasakti cultivated. Whether or not such terrible manuals exist, the cults certainly do. These cults range widely: from gangs of thugs worshiping a badly-mummified corpse which they claim is a bhrastasakti, to remote and crumbling ruins resting in dying wildernesses where despair hangs almost tangibly in the still air.

Some philosophers theorize that the nirtti generated by a bhrastasakti can develop a willful intelligence of its own. Well-known accounts of adventurers who have become obsessed with obscure or even fictional objects of power, and then undertaken impossible quests from which they never return, lend some credence to these theories of intelligent zones of nirtti.

One such tale has been inscribed in several different versions, which are often included in popular literature anthologies in Shayakand. One short version follows.

In Search of the Nonexistent Tome In the Goragora, a group of adventurers seeks a tome of power. In their pursuit of ancient wisdom, they willfully step into a region of nirrti. They are unprepared.

Through the haze, Kadata saw the outline of an enormous structure. Although seemingly fractured by vines straining upward to gain light, she could tell it was a cluster of large cubes with running sores of rust. In the fading light of sunset, the temple looked ill.

Grashu approached from behind her, sloshing through the mire. The chotaki Apochachi clung to the giant’s back, all the while swiveling his small head this way and that, eyes wide as if to absorb the unusual sights.

Kadata frowned at them both. “Where’s Lila?” she snapped in a sharp whisper.

———-

Lila was lost. A moment ago, she had been following her guide, with the elephantine Grashu shambling and grunting behind her. Now she was suddenly conscious of the absence of Apochachi’s occasional chattering comments and the plodding steps of the lahanasuli who carried him. She turned, looking for her friends. The dusk was thickening. She could only see dim swamp stretching behind her. She turned again, but saw no one.

———-

Kadata’s first indication that something was truly wrong was not Lila’s disappearance. That could have been explained by the ineptitude of the party that had hired her. She had tried to discourage them from this journey by charging them over twice her usual fees. But they had paid, and she had led them here against her better judgment. Or attempted to; it seemed that one of them had gotten lost along the way, despite Kadata repeatedly telling them all to stick close.

No, the absence of one green adventurer was not enough to cause Kadata to panic. It was the blurring of her vision and the sounds of disgust that erupted from the chotaki that caused her alarm.

———-

Apochachi was seized by a wrenching panic as he watched Kadata’s body distort in bloated contortions. Eyes boiled up over the surface of her body, which was swelling in hundreds of directions. Blisters burned and popped. Greasy flesh, coated in wads of mucous, grew in instantaneous tumors. Kadata was swallowed by growth, leaving a monstrous frog in her place.

All the while the curses came unbidden from some horrified wellspring inside Apochachi: “Chootko noolapali imakala! Impalatkalatikba! Chomibofaka! Ifaboskosi taktakaha lapisala hihachi himakaya?! Hiha fayka bonka!” All of which can be roughly translated as: “Horrid filth frog emerging! Hateful hell! Burning anus! Cackling dogs, can you hear me now? Cut my testicles!” Of course, much is lost in the translation.

Having witnessed the transformation of Kadata, Apochachi fell off of Grashu’s back and into the mire.

———-

Grashu hefted his great warhammer and summoned divine power. Their guide had turned into something else entirely, and this thing’s presence made his skin prickle with unease.

He wasted no time and smote it where it crouched. His blow was well-placed. The great hammer sparked with divine electricity, bludgeoning the aberration and seizing it with lightning. The horrid amphibious form bubbled and fried.

Regardless of this, a long tongue shot from the monstrous frog. It wrapped itself around one thick leg of the lahanasuli. Grashu was surprised by this, and it took him a moment to raise the great hammer for a second strike. The tongue constricted around his leg, and it felt to him as if it were barbed, as if his leg was being punctured by hundreds of small spikes. Grunting, he swung the hammer down. The creature collapsed with a belch.

After disentangling himself from the tongue, he swept through the stagnant water with his hands, searching for his chotaki companion. Apochachi’s body was nowhere to be found.

———-

Whispers summoned Lila forward. She entered the great cubes of corroding iron through rusted gates. Overhead, ferrous gargoyles blinked and grinned in the inky, descending night.

———-

Grashu bound his wounded leg, which burned internally, as if infected by some poison. He grimaced and lunged forward, limping through the swamp.

“Apochachi!” he whispered into the thick air of the swamp, which seemed to grow blacker by the minute. “Lila!”

There was no response.

He brought his lantern up. It burnt dimly in the humidity, but provided enough light for him to make out the cubes of the ancient temple. With hesitation and doubt, he strode forward, his bad leg dragging through the muck.

———-

Lila was struck by the great beauty of the corridor. The walls were polished uncannily. They shone in places with an internal light. In others, they reflected like mirrors.

———-

Grashu peered cautiously up at the grotesque statues clinging to the outer walls. He ducked his head low and entered through decaying gates.

———-

Lila watched her reflection as she walked. Mirrors situated on both sides multiplied her image into infinity.

———-

“Lila!” Grashu whispered his friend’s name uneasily into the cramped corridor.

———-

Lila seemed to hear a familiar voice calling her forward.

“Lila!” Ahead, she could make out a small figure in the low light.

“Apochachi?” she asked, quickening her pace.

“Yes, hurry!” came the reply. “I’ve found what we’re looking for! Come see!”

———-

Grashu stopped, struck by the terrible sterility of the interior. Cold iron stretched ahead of him, surrounding him on all sides. The corridor stretched forward as far as he could see.

His leg throbbed.

———-

“Come quickly!” With Apochachi’s voice urging her forward, Lila ran swiftly down the long corridor. On either side of her, thousands of duplications of her kept pace.

Suddenly, Lila saw a tall figure running towards her from the corridor ahead. She gasped and came to an abrupt halt. So did the figure. It was another reflection. The corridor turned at a right angle.

“Lila!” Apochachi’s voice again, from around the corner.

Lila smiled, amused. She turned the corner and continued toward her friend’s voice.

“Are you playing a game with me, Apochi?” she asked. She felt relaxed. She liked this place. She liked this game.

———-

Grashu was having regrets. The book he sought was somewhere within this place, he was certain. Their research had been meticulous and they had hired the guide recommended to them. Although the price charged had been exorbitant, Grashu knew it was money well spent. Yet now that he was this close, the quest seemed vain. Their guide had succumbed to some kind of enchantment or curse surrounding the temple. Apochachi and Lila had both vanished. And he was faced now with this labyrinth.

He lowered himself onto his knees and brought out his prayer rug from his pack.

———-

Apochahi was silly. He had led her to a silly place. Looking at him, she chuckled.

“What happened to you?”

His skin was pale and runny. He looked like swamp water. He looked like the swamp in Apochachi form.

Apochachi grinned. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice suddenly less silly.

And now things weren’t funny anymore.

Apochachi looked terrible. He looked like a terrible shade of himself, watery and lifeless.

“It’s nothing,” the shade repeated. “And now it’s your turn.”

The figure collapsed into running water, which splashed down and ran towards Lila’s feet. It ran like serpents. Snakes climbed her armored legs. She backed down the corridor, trying to throw them off, but there were dozens, and they were quick.

———-

Grashu looked up from his prayers. He felt lost. No devas, no gods, no spirits were in this place.

He heard a familiar voice.

“It’s alright now, Grashu,” Lila said. But he knew it wasn’t.

“I found the book we were looking for,” she said. He saw her walk forward, holding an immense tome in her hands.

For a moment, Grashu let himself believe. He looked up at her, at the enchanting movements of her hair.

But Lila’s hair writhed with snakes.

Lila’s gaze met his. To him, she seemed a deva, for a moment. But before his eyes set themselves into stone, a more disturbing sight came to him. As Grashu’s form petrified with a sound like a sigh, a plane of hunger and dust spread itself before him. The book he sought opened, and its pages were a collection of unforgiving deserts and vacuums.

Bixby Quartertail (2)

This is the second part of Bixby Quartertail, a series of speculative fiction written by Daniel Mullen set in the world of Loaerth & Feywyrd. Part One can be found here.

The travelers headed west from the small harbor town into the dense vegetation of the Island. Within minutes, the narrow path along which they traveled disappeared and the two humans relinquished their sense of direction and focused solely on the possum in front of them. Slipping through the underbrush, around moss-covered trees and under low-hanging vines, Bixby said not a single word, nor turned around for the better part of an hour.

“How much further?” asked Henry.

Bixby halted and bolted back toward the two foreigners. He hopped up and grabbed Henry by the collar, bringing his face within inches of his own. “Do not speak. This forest will devour you unless you close your mouth and tread lightly. It hates your kind… as much as I do.”

Speechless, Henry nodded as Bixby released the young man. Fielding let his half-drawn sword fall back into its scabbard. “In half an hour we will rest and eat. At that point you may ask questions, but we must reach the clearing before we do so.” Bixby looked around, sniffed the air, and then resumed his trek through the thick, heavy forest. His pace increased to compensate for the momentary delay.

The young man looked at his traveling companion who gave him an understanding look. They chased after Bixby to prevent the Hodolu from losing them. Henry watched the possum effortlessly weave through the trees and wondered what the Hodolu Fairy within him looked like before it joined with the possum. How did the process work? He had heard of such creatures while studying in Loaerth, but had until that morning never met one.

The group soon came to their resting place, and Bixby sat on a smooth rock. Before the two humans could even sit down, their guide had opened his backpack and spread an enormous feast before himself. As Henry and Fielding watched in disgust, Bixby shoved handful after handful of fruits, vegetables and nuts into his munching mouth.

Henry broke the ice. “If you know where the Shard of Feywyrd is, why haven’t you gotten it and used its power to your own benefit?”

Bixby slowed his consumption rate considerably, though at no point did he actually stop eating. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Shard. It’s an ancient artifact clouded in rumor. I am completely content in my life and have no use of it. I think the only ones who would know how to use it are the Elves.” He let out a small grunt with the mention of elves.

“How did you come to know of its resting place?” queried Fielding.

“Its resting place?” asked Bixby. “You make it sound like a holy relic. It’s a sliver of shiny rock. And if you must know, I won knowledge of its ‘resting place’ in a game of cards. I deal in information, and I hoped at one point that information would prove profitable. Thanks to your 400 gold, that gamble paid off.”

“How much further until we’re there?” Henry’s spirits were not dampened in the least by the beast’s deferential treatment of the young man’s prize.

“Boy you have a lot of questions, eh? Impatient are we? Typical human. I want the shard now; we must expand our borders now; we must pierce the veil now!” Bixby mocked his human employers and quickly spun himself into a fit. He twitched for a moment on his rock and muttered incomprehensibly. His hatred of everything human was evident. “Wait here,” he ordered.

Once the Hodolu had disappeared into the trees, Fielding whispered to Henry, “Sire, I think we should abandon this quest. The possum is obviously unstable, and I fear for your safety.”

“We are close, Jackson, I can feel it. Besides, the trail back to the inn is lost to us. We are completely dependent on our friend there.”

Bixby returned and packed up his meal without saying a word. The two humans followed suit, then resumed their journey through the green, brilliant forest. After only a few minutes, the trees ended and before the party rose a modest hill composed of a smooth, gray rock. At its base was a tall, thin crevice into which Bixby dashed.

“We are here?” asked Henry, confused.

“I don’t like this,” warned Fielding.

The two drew their swords and walked slowly toward the opening.

“Enter,” called Bixby from the darkness. “Your reward awaits you.”

Fielding grabbed a dwarven coal-powered torch from his bag and lit it. There was a brief whirring sound as the torch warmed up. It glowed softly in the dark cave, and once their eyes had adjusted, the two companions lost their breath. Bixby stood in the corner opposite the humans, but towered over the pair, twice as tall as either of them.

“Thank you for the meal, a chance to quickly gain enough strength to attain my full potential,” Bixby said with a rare laugh. “Sire!” called the escort. “Quickly, back out the opening!”

It was too late. Bixby leapt with a screech and swiped at the Prince’s protector. The torch hit the ground, as did the Prince’s lifetime mentor and friend’s lifeless body. “No!” cried out the Prince. “You pugnacious prick!” He lunged at the possum, swiping his sword violently through the air.

Bixby dodged the assault and rapped Lazlo on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious.

*

“What…what happened?” asked the Prince. He looked around, but the cave looked different. He had not noticed an altar before, but there it was in front of him.

“Have a good sleep, little fella?” came a voice from behind the Prince. He whirled around to see…himself. “Haha. Like looking in a mirror, huh?”

Prince Lazlo finally looked down at his hands, his feet, and chest. They were covered in short brown fur. He was a possum. He and Bixby had somehow switched bodies.

“Thanks to your idiocy and the Shard of Feywyrd, I now have your body and will repay your disgusting race for destroying our world. Don’t worry, I’ll say hello to your father for you…before I slit his throat.”

“You ba—“ His cursing was cut short by Bixby slamming the Prince in possum’s body down to the ground, then running the Shard of Feywyrd slowly across the furry neck before him. He watched in contentment until the gurgling and sputtering had ceased and the blood refused even to ooze from the lifeless body.

Bixby stood and wiped the blood from the makeshift blade on his former host body. He turned and set to work moving the heavy rocks from the opening of the cave.

*

The door to the inn swung wide and through it stepped a human in worn, dirty clothes. He breathed heavily, resting against the door until he had regained his strength, then strode confidently toward the bar.

The bartender stuttered, “Uh… sir, where… B-Bixby let you… ?”

“Thomas, it’s me,” said the human Bixby with a sly grin. “Fetch me my gold and call in a favor with someone at the docks. I need a ship. Tonight.”

The bartender shook his head and backed himself against the tall cupboard of mugs and dishes. “What?” Bixby ran and hurdled the bar. With a dagger to the poor bartender’s face, he issued his orders again slowly as he pulled the blade down the man’s cheek, letting dark red blood bead up and run down like tears. Thomas whispered his consent and followed Bixby’s orders.

That night, Bixby would be on a ship. Its’ destination? Loaerth.

---

Written by Daniel Mullen. Editing by Jonathan Jacobs & Cassey Toi. Logo by Rob Torno.

Have any questions? Let us know in the comments!

Bixby Quartertail (1)

This is the first part of Bixby Quartertail, a series of speculative fiction written by Daniel Mullen set in the world of Loaerth & Feywyrd.

The rough waves between the mainland and the island lapped at the sturdy, cedar ship.

“I don’t think we’ll make it before nightfall, sire.”

“Nonsense, Jackson!” called Prince Lazlo as he ran across the waterlogged deck to the bow of the ship, nearly slipping, grasping the rail tight.  “There it is!  Just at the horizon.”  He surveyed the sky with a quick motion of his head, then stared back at the small tuft of land jutting from the water, willing himself upon that mysterious place.  “We should be upon that land within the hour.”

“Sire,” called Jackson, the Prince’s personal escort.  His unfortunate duty was to keep the Prince safe at all costs, which would prove difficult given Lazlo’s current obsession – the Shard of Feywyrd.  “Sire, let’s gather our things.”

“See to it, Jackson.  I want to be right here when we arrive in the harbor.”  The order was clear: leave me alone. Lazlo wanted nothing more that to hide himself in his daydream until they arrived. Fortunately, Jackson was a loyal man who knew how to follow orders.

“Yes, sire.” I don’t know whether the Prince is more captivated by the Shard or by the Island itself, thought Jackson.  The tall, slender man ducked low as he entered the lower cargo hold and left his charge on the wet deck above.

*

“This way, sire…”

The young Prince glared at him for his forgetfulness.

“Er…this way, Henry, my boy,” he corrected himself.  It felt disrespectful to speak so casually to royalty.

Glancing around him, Lazlo grabbed Jackson’s tunic and brought him close to whisper in his ear.  “I’m sorry, my friend.  I know it must be difficult for you, but discretion is of the utmost importance.  No one must discover the nature of our quest, save Bixby, and even he must not be made aware of our true identities.”

Jackson, a.k.a. Fielding, nodded and the two left the docks with their gear in tote.  “I believe that’s the establishment,” he said, motioning toward a modest inn of four rooms and a drinking area.

“Are you sure this thing is trustworthy?”

“Yes,” said Fielding confidently.  “He’s the best tracker and guide the world has known.  If anyone knows the resting place of the Shard of Feywyrd, it’s Bixby Quartertail.”

The two companions entered the inn and quickly spotted an oversized possum, half the size of a man, sitting at the bar.  Having noticed the newcomers, the possum nodded to the bartender, who set down his bar towel and glass and left the three to their business.

“Bixby Quartertail?” asked the Prince.

The possum slid off the stool and walked casually toward them.  His leather helmet shielded any light from his eyes, making it difficult for the humans to keep track of what the creature was looking at.  “Yes, that is my name,” he said without cracking a smile or extending his hand as a gesture of goodwill.

“You are Hodolu?” asked Fielding.

Allowing his fingers to dance over the hilt of his short sword, Bixby paused.  “Problem?”

“No, no, not at all, sir,” Henry chimed in.  “You have received our request for your services?”

“Yes, though I’m at a loss as to why you want the Shard.  It is useless to humans,” he responded.  “No offense intended, but humans handle magic like a troll handles confined spaces.” There was no humor in his voice.

“That is our concern,” said Henry, not giving Bixby the slightest implication that he wanted to continue the conversation along those lines.  Reaching into his satchel, Henry removed a good sized leather bag and tossed it to Bixby, who caught the bag with ease.

“About 400 gold?” Bixby held the bag at arms length to wiegh it. Any tracker worth their salt could tell if the sum was short by more than a two pence. “We depart now.”  The Hodolu whistled and in walked the bartender.  Bixby flipped the bag of gold to him and walked out the door.  Henry and Fielding followed quickly after him.

The bartender shook his head.  “Poor saps,” he said.  He knew Bixby well and had many times been tossed a bag of gold by the possum.  Never had he seen any human return from an outing with Bixby.  This time, however, the Prince would return, alone, and the whereabouts of Bixby would be the subject of speculation by many for years to come.

*

written by Daniel Mullen, with editing by Jonathan Jacobs and logo by Ron Torno.

Part 2 Bixby Quartertail’s story will arrive at Nevermet Press next week!

Have any questions? Let us know in the comments!

Road to Daayata

Kuvaja began preparations to travel south. The journey would require two or three weeks, even though the road leads directly to Daayata. Kuvaja has originally planned to travel alone with one or two swordsman. The basha [1], however, is quite generous and provided sixty men for his protection. Kuvaja would never complain, not even in secret. However, preparations for all the soldiers and equipment take much longer than preparations for a handful of men.

Working diligently to prepare, yet still fulfilling his duties, the time finally arrived for the trip to Daayata. Kuvaja was eager reach the city and speak to Rohana. The mystic sees very few travellers outside his human disciples. Many seek an audience, but very few are granted one. He had so many questions for the priest that he feared he would embarrass himself and bring dishonor to his basha [2].

As the caravan made their way to the southern gate, the basha himself came to wish them a safe journey.

“You have served me well these many years,”  he said. “It is only fitting that you make a pilgrimage to Daayata.”

The basha smiled broadly and presented Kuvaja with a sword.

“May the gods protect you my faithful servant.”

Kuvaja bowed and accepted the gift. The blade was inscribed with the ancient script bearing the message, the Destroyer of Gnolls [3].

**********

The first few days of travel were uneventful. Kuvaja’s rhino kept a brisk pace just ahead of the caravan. In the quiet of the countryside, Kuvaja thought more and more about the curious scroll that made this trip necessary. The man requesting a copy had no distinguishing characteristics. He was not on a ban list. In fact, he requested copies of religious texts every three weeks. He was a steady customer that seemed to have quite an appetite for the Vedic hymns [4].

Yet on this day almost four months ago, he came in with a thin leather-bound book to copy. He paid his silver and requested a copy of  the book’s first few pages. The raghu-veda [5] quickly produced the roll of rice paper for the patron and created a complete copy of the book in the librarian’s secret compartment. After the man left, Kuvaja eagerly retrieved the large roll of paper and read the first few lines.

It was the Hymn of Creation. This hymn, however, was not the traditional one that spoke of the Sun god bestowing light on the void. It did not speak of Khalu the destroyer creating the night. Instead it spoke of the Mpura, the great mind of the universe. The librarian was giddy with the discovery of this text. The ancient emperors banned the cult of Mpura centuries ago. Any scrolls associated with the cult were destroyed. Kuvaja mused to himself about how this unassuming man with a taste for Vedic hymns could have possibly acquired an ancient heretical text. As far as Kuvaja knew, the songs of Mpura had not been sung since the days before the empire. This book was a rare treasure indeed.

The text also described the Mpura as the one that created order and substance in the universe. Kuvaja had little success with translating large sections of the text. It was written in a very old and unfamiliar dialect. For many days, the librarian struggled to grasp it’s message. Kuvaja found that his need to understand the text grew to be insatiable. He mustered the courage to ask his basha for the time necessary to investigate this prize. The basha was happy to grant his request despite his lack of interest in a “mad religious poem”. He asked only that the librarian seek more magic treatises in Daayata. The basha implied that there would be a healthy reward for anything written by Rohana, himself. Kuvaja understood all too well that this was not a ‘request’ but a demand for something to justify the expense of parting with so many soldiers.

After the caravan traveled for two more days, it began to rain. Without the rain, the caravan would have reached Daayata by the next morning. The rain would make progress slower and invite bandits to attack the caravan. Kuvaja and the captain of the soldiers ordered the caravan to stay close together. The men drew their weapons. Kuvaja gave the sword to the captain of the soldiers. He had no real training with this type broad-bladed sword. The captain offered other weapons, but Kuvaja reassured him that there was no need. Presuming the librarian to be some kind of sorcerer, the captain did not question further.

The rain continued throughout the afternoon. As dusk approached, it became more difficult to see. The rain interfered with the soldiers’ magical devices that allowed them to see in the dark. Despite their numbers, the soldiers grew restless. The caravan painfully inched forward. The only sounds were the heavy fall of the rain and the rhinos feet sloshing through the water on the concrete road.

As the caravan came out of a turn in the road, Kuvaja heard a disembodied voice whisper “NOW.”

In one motion, he unwrapped the urumi from his waist and swung its three blades to full extension. He struck the lead gnoll while it was still in the air. It was dead before it hit the ground. As the other gnolls rushed in on his rhino, Kuvaja continued to whirl the blades to keep them at a distance. Some of the soldiers rushed to the front to help Kuvaja. Others soldiers desperately scanned the land on both sides of the road hoping to intercept any other marauders.

Kuvaja heard the shout “KA-HEE!” and tried to warn the captain of the soldiers. A huge ball of fire obliterated a cart near the front of the caravan. Five of the soldiers nearby were thrown from the road by the force of the blast. “ONI attack!” shouted the captain of the soldiers. As practiced, the soldiers shot a wave of arrows into the darkness hoping to hit the oni and prevent another attack.

Kuvaja dispatched two more gnolls before jumping back to the charred remains of the cart. “Why would the oni attack us? This doesn’t make sense,” he thought to himself. From the cart, he could see the soldiers were engaged with other gnolls or launching a volley of arrows. Peering into the darkness, Kuvaja heard the shout of “KA-HEE!” again and concentrated on the source of the sound. The oni managed to shout half the incantation but was unable to complete the spell. A ball of fire erupted near the end of the caravan not far from the road. “Attack the fire!” shouted Kuvaja and the oni was soon felled by a wave of arrows. The gnolls were growling about ogres and grunting to each other that they would arrive soon. Kuvaja peered again into the darkness and knew that the ogres would not fight. Once the oni was killed, they retreated back into the darkness to regroup.

Realizing that the ogres and oni were no longer fighting, the remaining gnolls leaped back into the darkness. Five of their comrades had fallen. One of the soldiers, a foreigner, had a sword to the throat of an injured gnoll on the ground. She was barking at it asking about the location of the others. The captain of the soldiers shoved her off the gnoll and ran the gnoll through.

“Gnolls recover from their wounds while they touch the ground. The only way to kill them is if they are in the air,” the captain shifted his gaze to look at Kuvaja, “or with this,” he said brandishing the sword. Looking back to the foreigner, he shouted to the rest of the soldiers, “Do not question a gnoll!” He took a breath and exhaled slowly into the cold rain. Looking to the soldiers, he spat, “Destroy them or let them flee.”

Eight of the soldiers were injured from the attack. Two of them died from their wounds shortly after the fighting stopped. The captain of the soldiers took cold consolation that his men would be buried in a city of priests. Kuvaja remounted his rhino and tried to regain a sense of calm. Listening to the sound of the falling rain, he took a deep breath and thought about meeting Rohana late tomorrow.

********************

The rain stopped later that night, so the caravan made camp. Kuvaja gave the soldiers a double portion of meat and asked the cook to make an Ekagra sauce with coconut milk. The spicy stew warmed the members of the caravan as the moon shone its eye from behind the clouds.

When the sun rose the next day, the caravan began again. The rest of the journey was uneventful and they arrived in Daayata late in the afternoon. The gates of the town were a welcome sight to the travellers. To Kuvaja’s surprise, Rohana stood atop the main gate talking with the guards. Already more than head-and-shoulders taller than the guards, Rohana appeared all the more impressive atop the high walls. He waved his trunk from side to side as he spoke. His hands rested on a war hammer that appeared larger than the guards. The hammer’s head was a thick as a man and ornately decorated with a scene from one of the later Vedic hymns. Kuvaja smiled in anticipation and led the caravan into Daayata.

Footnotes

1. A basha is a wealthy landowner that serves as a patron for hundreds (even thousands) or individuals in Shayakandi society. He or she is a feudal lord that receives goods and services from those that use his land. This would include merchants and librarians, not just farmers.
2. As a member of the Librarian social class, it would be considered childish and rude to pester someone with too many questions.
3. 
4. Vedic hymns are popular texts because of their value in mental discipline and raising consciousness.
5. The raghu-veda is a magical device that produces a copy of any written material. It can produce copies of the entire text or selected portions of the text. Many librarians make secret copies of every new document visitors bring to have copied. All copies, regardless of the original, are produced on one long scroll of rice paper.

This article contains content for Shayakand, Nevermet Press’ fantasy setting inspired by sources from southeast Asia. Feel free to comment here, write about it on your site, or contact the Lead Designer, John Payne, at sycarion [at] gmail {dot} com. Nevermet Press is all about community driven content, so don’t be shy!

Written by John Payne

Edited by Cassey Toi

“The Girl From Brussels”

This article contains content for Schattenkrieg, Nevermet Press’ alternate World War II pulp setting. Our content is community driven so we want feedback from you. Please leave a comment here, write about it on your own blog, or contact the Lead Designer, Michael Brewer, if you would like to contribute directly.

Written by Daniel Mullen

Edited by Cassey Toi

“You want to see who?” asked the dirty barkeep behind the counter, his back turned to the equally grubby woman.

Audrey spoke louder, but her voice remained barely audible, somewhere between a whisper and complete silence.  “I said, I’m looking for the Shade.”

“Never heard of him.”

The bartender heard a sigh, a thud, and a click, the unmistakable click the hammer of a handgun makes as it’s being brought back into place. He turned to discover an alien-converted, semi-automatic pistol resting on the sticky wooden counter, pointed directly at his chest.

“Believe me, this gun is the least of your worries if you refuse to help me.”

“Ok, ok, so maybe I’ve heard of him,” he chuckled.  “Calm down.  No need to get crazy.  Why don’t you put that down before you hurt yourself?”  The bartender relaxed as the stranger slouched towards him and returned the hammer to its original resting place, but kept the pistol on the table and pointed at him.  She looked around at the other patrons of the dingy hole in the wall.  None of them paid her any attention.  This sort of thing must happen frequently, she thought.  Perhaps she had come to the right place.

“Where is he?”

“Why would you want to get a hold of that guy?  The normal psychos lurking around here not frightening enough for you?” he asked.

“I thought this was Erie City, where no one asks, especially if there’s the potential of profit.”

She was right.  If you could guarantee a cut of the profits with a minimal amount of risk, 95% of the citizens in Erie City would help someone smuggle, recover or eliminate just about anything…or anyone.  “So, you’re telling me I’m getting a cut if I tell you where he’s at?”

“Maybe…” she answered, “If the info proves to be worth half a shit.”

“Found your voice, huh?”  The bartender winked at her.  “I know just about everything in this town.  Information gets passed around faster than a $10 whore at a bachelor party…er…sorry about that,” the bartender’s small sense of propriety squeaked out in a half-hearted apology for his vulgarity.

“Swear all you want.  I don’t care.  I’m a big girl.”

“Alright,” he continued.  “There are a few groups who have had contracts with Von Ostheim’s merc squad, MAUL, so let’s start with them.”

“Who’s Von Ostheim and what’s MAUL?” she asked.

“You’re kidding me.  Anyone who knows the Shade knows he works for Ostheim.  MAUL is the brainchild of Ostheim and another scientist named McHenry, but no one’s seen him in forever.  I can’t believe you haven’t heard of them.  Mutation and Alien Utilization Labs?  Nothing?”

Getting impatient, Audrey tapped the gun on the counter and said, “All I know is that I have a drop to make.  A very close friend of mine died because of this piece of junk in my bag and I intend to see this delivery through.  The deal was set to go down here in Erie City this Friday, but our gang got busted.”

“Alright.  Well, let me catch you up to speed.  Before you find this guy, you should see what you’re getting yourself into.  The best way to understand the Shade is to use a Viewer.  I just so happen to have one, so for 10%, I’ll give you a peek.”  The bartender let a crooked smile spread across his face despite the deadly weapon pointed at his chest.

“Five and we have a deal,” countered the scrappy teen.

“Good choice.  Stay put,” he said.  “I’ll go get it.”

Within five minutes, the bartender returned with a metallic object no bigger than a basketball.  It glowed from within with a soft green light and was lighter than it appeared.

“Damned aliens. Only thing they’re good for is their tech.”

“I’ll take it to the corner table.”

“Fine.  Just put your face into the opening there,” the owner of the small pub said.  “You’ll see the entire scene, it’ll only take a few seconds.  By the way, what is it you’re trying to sell to him?”

“None of your damned business.”

Audrey took the device to a booth with one naked bulb several feet above the table in the corner of the small establishment and put her face into the machine.  When she opened her eyes, she aware of being in another body, yet being unable to control it, as if she were watching life through the eyes of someone else; this someone else was a burly soldier with a slight German accent.  She could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins.  The only other person near the soldier was a man cloaked in dark robes.  Robes so dark he appeared to be the shadow of a shadow.

“I don’t trust you,” said the soldier.  Audrey was a girl raised in street gangs, so she caught on quickly.  In Brussels, you either adapt or die.  She figuratively sat back and let the soldier do all the moving and talking while she observed.

“Well, you’ll have to eventually, Frank,” came a voice from beneath the hood of the man in black.  “If this cockamamie team is ever going to work, you’ll have to.”

“No I won’t, and stop calling me Frank.  I hate when you call me Frank.”

“No problem…partner,” assured the other man.  “Frank” heard a wink and a smile tucked into that last word…partner…and it unsettled him.

Static popped in over their radios and a rough voice crackled through.  “Hey, boys.  Quit arguing.  Let’s get this thing done.”  It was the brains behind the whole operation, Dr. McHenry.  Colonel McHenry to be exact, but he was more scientist than warrior.  “Listen, it’s taken six months to get the artillery and air support to fall on this facility.  The Nazis will be quick to transport their experiments to another complex, so tonight’s our only opportunity.  Eliminate any guards you find and retrieve the experiment in Room 17.”

“Roger,” said the soldier.  “Jenkins out.”

Turning to the Shade, Major Jenkins ran through the plan once more.  “At sundown, shift changes, and we head down this hill by way of that drainage ditch, make our way past the fence one way or another, then into the complex until we find room 17.”

“Sounds about right,” said the mysterious man.

As the sun set, the teammates set out down the hill, crouching to eliminate as much of a silhouette as possible.  It wouldn’t do any good to get shot before even reaching their target.

“Two goose-steppers headed this way,” said Jenkins to his partner.  “I’ll take the one on the left; you can have the short one.”

Laughing, the Shade shot back, “It’s the little ones that pack the biggest punch, Frank.”

Shaking his head, Jenkins waited behind a moss-covered boulder until the two guards were upon them.  “Now!”

The two MAUL mercenaries leapt from behind their cover and knocked the two Nazi soldiers to the ground.  Jenkins began pounding the German’s face with his fists and elbows, bloodying them quite thoroughly.  He glanced over at the Shade who had his prey on the ground, his hood hovering a few inches over the poor soldier’s face.

“Jesus, it freaks me out every time you do that,” said the Major.

“Be thankful no one cares enough about you to hire my services against you,” chuckled the dark man.  The soldier on the ground began whimpering, then convulsing and throwing up.  His cries of fear and anguish spluttered through the vomit spilling from his mouth.  The Shade stood up and let his latest victim wallow in despair by himself.  The effects of the Shade’s hypnosis were only temporary; though he did enough damage in that short amount of time to mess up someone’s mind for years.

The two slipped past the barbed wire and made their way to the research complex, using the rocky landscape to their tactical advantage.  “What did you do to him?” asked Jenkins.

“He was afraid of heights.  It was written all over his face, so I showed him the world from the viewpoint of a bird.  He freaked out so much I thought he was going to shit himself.”

“Why didn’t you just make him forget who he was?  Why torture him like that?”

“You do your job your way and I’ll do mine my way,” retorted the Shade.

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust you.  There’s no accountability.  How do I know you’ve never erased my memory?”

“That’s where the trust comes in…comrade.”  If Jenkins could have seen the Shade’s face, he would have seen secrecy shrouded in doubt.  No one who’s seen the Shade’s face has survived, however.  It’s said to instill the gazer with such fear that the person’s heart simply stops out of fright.

Jenkins and his partner snuck around a corner and saw four German soldiers guarding a bombed-out section of the lab.  This was the Major’s specialty.  He withdrew his sniper rifle and took up position behind a large chunk of concrete.  With four quick shots, Jenkins had eliminated all four guards, but had broken the veil of silence they had until then enjoyed.  The two looked at each other and nodded, then turned toward the research facility.

They clambered into the building and hurried down the long, dark corridor.  As Jenkins observed the room numbers getting higher and higher, he also heard the stampeding of several German soldiers.  “Room 15…room 16…here it is.  Room 17.”

Jenkins kicked the door in and rushed headlong into a large, open room with a giant monstrosity chained to the wall.  In fact, he was chained to two different walls.  The beast had several extra appendages and metal grafted onto his body.  “Say hi to your grandpa, Frank,” commented the Shade.

“Eat me,” said the Major.  Just then, six Nazi soldiers burst into the room and the genetically mutated, alien-influenced man-creature roared in rage.  “I think we may have a friend here.”

The Shade pulled from his cloak a rifle, modified with Tesla coils and alien ammunition.  He aimed the weapon at the chains holding back the brute and fired.  The chains disintegrated wherever the charge from the weapon hit.  The two mercenaries dove behind desks as the creature ripped the remaining restraints from the wall.

“Mein Gott,” whispered one German soldier before the creature’s bio-mechanical arm spat a slimy substance at him.  He screamed in agony as the acid-like gel ate away at the soldier’s flesh, large chunks slipping off his bones and splattering onto the floor.

“Holy shit, did you see that?” asked Jenkins.  During his moment of awe, the Major lost situational awareness and remained standing, taking several rounds in his left shoulder from a German k98 rifle.  Jenkins whirled toward his assailant and pumped a dozen rounds into the confused Nazi.  Jenkins had been shot, but the wounds weren’t bleeding.  Within a matter of minutes, the creature had torn apart every German soldier in the room.  The Shade snuck up behind the man-like monster and timed his jump perfectly, landing on his back.  He jerked the thing’s head back and positioned his hood directly over it.  The beast went limp.  After a few seconds, the Shade slid off his new pet and walked casually to Major Jenkins.

“I’m going to call him Spot,” remarked the hypno-master.

“What did you do to that thing?” asked the amazed soldier.

“I convinced him he was our pet, and that he should destroy any more German soldiers we find on our way out.”

“That’s really creepy,” his partner said.

“How’s your shoulder?” asked the cloaked man.  “How long in the tank will that take to heal?”

Briefly contemplating his answer, Jenkins responded, “It’s fine.  Should be about 6 hours in the tank tonight.  He got me pretty good.  Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t make any plans.”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The threesome bounded their way out of the lab and toward the safety of the forest, where they would rendezvous with transport out of Germany.  A civilian scavenger tucked a bundle under his arm and scampered away.  The locals were held under such tight control that none of them dared touch anything military in nature for fear of being held for treason.  Those who did take their chances selling some stolen weapon or piece of equipment had good reasons that defied the threat of death.  That, or they were discovered and never heard from again.  Some believed the looters were killed.  Others believed the Nazis did much more gruesome things with those caught stealing.  The three ignored him and continued toward their rally point.

Audrey Philips removed her face from the Viewer and blinked her eyes a few times to adjust to her surroundings.  The bartender and everyone else in the bar were in almost the exact positions they had been when she had placed her forehead against the thin leather strap of the device only a few seconds earlier.

The bartender waved and walked toward the young girl.  Sitting down, he explained, that was MAUL, well, the beginning of it anyway.

“Why didn’t time pass the same?” asked Audrey.  “And the soldier, Jenkins?  What’s his story?  What tank were they talking about?”

“I’m not sure,” he explained.  “The alien tech really messes with your senses.  I guess it messes with your sense of time, too.  Some people think Jenkins, The Major, died long ago, but the government brought him back.  Others think that he never had blood to begin with.  Whatever the case, I wouldn’t want to mess with him.  I hear he has a special tank that regenerates his organs and all that.  That pretty much sums up my knowledge of The Major.  So, about that 10%.”

“5%, jerk-off.”  She squinted her eyes at him.

“Ok, sorry, 5%.”

“What’s your name anyway?” asked the curious teen.

“No questions asked, remember?”

“Fair enough.”

The bartender extended his hand to shake the girl’s, but she only looked at it, then her own hand.  “Better not,” she said without elaborating.

“Ok.  You’d better come back here after you finish the deal.  A girl like you wouldn’t be hard to find, especially since I know all the right people.”

Audrey looked at the man as she slid from behind the table and walked toward the door.  Audrey would indeed seek out the bartender after her transaction was concluded, though you don’t really have to pay a dead man, do you?

Operation Omniscience

This article contains content for Schattenkrieg, Nevermet Press’ alternate World War II pulp setting. Our content is community driven so we want feedback from you. Please leave a comment here, write about it on your own blog, or contact the Lead Designer, Michael Brewer, if you would like to contribute directly.

Stuttgart, 01:15, 12Mar42

“Ich hab’s gefunden!” the soldier whispered to himself as he stuffed the fluorescently glowing canister into his satchel.

Wilmot Schröder hurried along and heaved himself up and over what used to be the outer wall of Stuttgart’s most infamous Nazi research lab. It was now just a blackened mass of crushed concrete and twisted metal.  The night air carried with it no sound, nor smell, nor scent of life.  Putting out of commission Das Schloss, as the facility had come to be known by the Allied Forces, was no small challenge to the Allies or the Merc Squads that had assaulted it. Finally, a well-timed bombing raid proved successful in destroying the stronghold.

Schröder felt his bag to ensure that the canister was still there. It was the final component to his Dr. Merken’s masterpiece.  He thanked the Almighty he hadn’t had to use his pistol this time and disappeared into the night.

Ulm, 06:53, 12Mar42

“Where in the hell is that bastard?  He should have been here well over an hour ago!”  Professor Merken tapped his reading glasses against the instrument-laden table as he cursed his Vaterland-loving assistant in English.  Tomorrow it would most likely be French.  Merken appreciated the Nazis’ sense of scientific exploration, but didn’t give a damn about Greater Germany, the 3rd Reich or anything outside of his current legacy-in-the-making…The Viewer.

The door burst open and an exhausted Wilmot Schröder stumbled in, collapsing on the floor.  “Was ist passiert??” Merken demanded to know what had happened, though did not wish to waste any time with the boy’s pathetic English.

The boy, no more than 17, coughed up bright red blood onto the floor.  Between spats of blood and bile, he mouthed the word “Amerikaner”.

“Did you bring the battery?  Die Batterie.  Hast du die Batterie mitgebracht?” Professor Merken watched as Schröder’s life fled from his broken body.  There was little chance that Americans had actually wasted a bullet on his assistant.  Most likely it was a hunting party, little more than a band of thieves lurking in the dark forest between the Grand Research Facility and the small, private lab Merken called home.  He dug through the torn backpack, hoping to hell the battery hadn’t gotten lost or stolen.

“Yes.”  Merken felt the warmth of the alien device as he withdrew it and tossed the grungy bag aside.  “All this trouble for such a small piece of space rock.”  The professor looked at the metallic object, briefly forgetting the urgency of the moment.  The loud bell of the antique Swiss clock in the corner striking 7:00 am snapped him out of the hypnotic sway the object had held over him.  “Scheiße.”

The door opened and in stepped a highly decorated Gruppenführer of the SS.  “Heil Hitler,” he began, stepping over the dead assistant’s body without so much as a courtesy glance.  This guy was a real son-of-a-bitch.

Merken let a quiet Heil Hitler escape his throat.  “Good morning, Herr Schultz.”

“Is it ready?”  Straight to business.

“Almost.  My aide there brought the final piece to this puzzle just a few minutes ago,” Professor Merken explained as he nodded his head in Schröder’s general direction.

“Finish the assembly so I can get the hell out of this shithole you call a lab.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the frustrated and pressured scientist.  If everything wasn’t aligned perfectly, the device wouldn’t work.  “It’ll only take me a few minutes, then I’ll make sure my theories are correct…which they are.” Merken let that last sentence trail off into silence.

“Will this thing really do what you say?  Will it really open a portal to another dimension or are you just full of shit?”  Schultz had mastered the English curse words early in his studies, as he found English the perfect language in which to degrade someone.

Quite irritated now, Merken ran through the instructions to the obtuse officer who couldn’t see past the tip of his patriotic nose.  “No, it doesn’t open a portal…sir.  The Viewer allows the operator to instantaneously observe events as they unfold in parallel universes.  It’s the most perfect piece of reconnaissance equipment ever imagined.”

Merken tightened the final bolt and stepped back to enjoy the beauty of his new masterpiece.  He then placed his forehead against the leather strap designed exactly for that purpose and flipped on the machine.

“Scheiss—!” he screamed before falling completely silent and motionless for several seconds.  The SS Officer hurried to the machine and grasped the scientist’s shoulder but was shocked violently by a buildup of electric charge around the man.

Merken regained use of his motor skills and awareness as he removed his head from the device.

“You’re as white as my grandfather’s hair.  What’s wrong?” asked Schultz.  “Does it work?”

Merken stumbled slowly backward toward his fallen comrade lying on the floor of the modest lab, oozing what little blood remained in him.  “Yes…in a manner of speaking,” began the distracted man.

“What did you see?” Schultz demanded.

“I saw…well, that…” Merken grabbed the assistant’s Luger and quickly pointed it at the officer’s head.  “I saw that this is the only way I’m getting out of here alive.  In those few seconds I observed 14 different universes.  This is the only way I’m getting out of here.  You could have had this device to monitor Allied troop movements, figure out how to end this stalemate, get rid of those fucking aliens…anything…but you were going to kill me.”

“That’s the way things are done, Merken.  You can kill me, but there are many more of us than there are of you.  I can find a hundred assholes on the street that can do your job.  Why do you think we made you work in this rubble heap of a lab?  You’re nothing.”

“Fuck you.” He squeezed, and the Luger made a small pop. Five grams of lead flew into the waiting head of the German officer.  The bullet ripped the man’s eye apart and turned the right half of his brain to mush before bursting through the back of his skull, letting gray matter and blood splash against the floor and wall of the tiny work space.  Merken dropped the gun and grabbed his invention, rushing headlong into the night.

Algeria, 15:44, 08May42

“Sir, something’s cresting the hill.”

“I see it.  Looks like some sort of machine.  Sergeant, take a squad and flank it from the south.  I’ll stay here and confront it head on.”

As Staff Sergeant Young rounded up bravo section, Captain Trent and his soldiers took position behind some trashed mud huts.  They watched as a mechanic exosuit smoothly made its way down the hill and towards the waiting ambush.  In the middle of the battlefield the suit stopped and remained motionless for a few seconds, then animated again as a crackling spark of blue light traveled quickly from the suit into the ground.

“What the hell was that?” asked Corporal Jeffries.

Captain Trent shook his head, “No idea.”

The exosuit bolted toward the waiting soldiers and let loose a flurry of rocket-propelled grenades to the south from the launcher attached to its left arm.  As the grenades landed, Captain Trent heard cries of agony over the radio.

“How the hell did he know they were there?” asked Jeffries as the squad relinquished their hiding places and leapt into the open, releasing a barrage of gunfire at the mechanical monster.  Whoever was operating the suit knew exactly where to run and when to duck.

“This isn’t working, sir,” cried a private seconds before a bullet found its way through his neck.

“My God.  It must be one of the Fox’s new super soldiers,” said Trent.  “It doesn’t have any Nazi markings, though.”  He dodged the gunfire and falling soldiers as he a bee-line for the radio operator, who had gotten separated from the officer at the onset of the battle.  Reaching for the radio, Trent switched frequencies and managed to utter one sentence before his life ended.

“Germans have super soldier able to see the future…

A Brief Introduction to Schattenkrieg

This article contains content for Schattenkrieg, Nevermet Press’ alternate World War II pulp setting. Our content is community driven so we want feedback from you. Please leave a comment here, write about it on your own blog, or contact the Lead Designer, Michael Brewer, if you would like to contribute directly.

Edited by Cassey Toi

“Jesus Christ! What kind of sick fuck did that?” I spit the words past teeth clenched on one end of the tourniquet I’m applying to my shredded left arm. My forearm looked like hamburger and my blood was flowing freely. It would heal soon enough on its own, but I still wasn’t used to my new regenerative abilities.

Tying off the compression wrap, I kneel down to inspect the carcass of the hideous creature that had caused my injury. “Lieutenant, this is definitely the work of Fremder,” Zora informed me. Zora Skerrit was a biologist attached to my unit by the OSS. Her Slavic accent was more pronounced when she was frightened. “The mutations resemble similar specimens found in a laboratory in Argentina we believe he was operating. It also shares traits with the Parisian Marauders.”

Parisian Marauder MKII by Rob Torno

The creature was once human, or rather, several humans. It had been hanging from the ceiling in the passageway of the underground bunker we were searching, when it surprised us and pounced on me. It was disgusting. It scampered around on six arms… where six hands used to have fingers and thumbs, there were four razor sharp talons.

The arms were elongated, with an extra segment, effectively giving each arm two elbows. These arms protruded from three torsos conjoined at the waist, almost as if their flesh has been kneaded together like clay. The creature had obviously been formed out of two men and one woman. The mutant has no legs, but the other end of each torso terminates with a head in which resides a giant, impossibly large, needle-toothed maw. Each head sits atop a long rubbery neck.

One of those maws had minced my left forearm before my team had been able to react. It had continued to chew on my arm even after Sergeant Burgess had lit the other two heads on fire with his pyrokinetic blasts. I had to resort to my trusty sidearm to spray the mutant’s grey matter on the wall. Burgess’ fire did nothing to improve the smell of the beast either.

“Nazi bastards must have realized they were wasting a precious commodity by killing Jews and instead decided to turn them into beasts of war,” Private Jasinski, our scout, muttered as he turned over an arm with several digits tattooed along the forearm.

“We’re burnin’ daylight kids,” said Burgess. “Let’s get the shit we came for so we can get the hell out of here.”

I looked down at my arm, the wounds had already closed. I untied the tourniquet and used it to mop up the blood which was the only trace that an injury had ever occurred. I threw the blood soaked compression wrap onto the floor beside the mutant and nodded my head in agreement with Burgess, “You’re right, Sergeant. Men, check your weapons then move out. Continue down the corridor, don’t bunch up. Maintain a five yard distance with the man in front of you.”

Jasinski turned to me and said, “You know sir, you shouldn’t waste our medical supplies, some of us don’t recover from injuries as well as you do.”

I looked up at Jasinski, “I tend to forget I’m so resilient when my arm’s being chewed on by a mutant monster. Jasinski, I want you to take point.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jasinski responded as his form faded from sight. I couldn’t even hear the footfalls of combat boots as he moved ahead of the unit to keep anymore mutant nasties from surprising us. Privates Marcone and Campbell ensured their Thompsons were good to go before stepping off down the corridor at a brisk, but cautious pace. Zora and I followed while Burgess brought up the rear.

It’s early September, 1945, though I can’t quite remember the exact date; the days all run together after a while. We’ve been tracking and eliminating German insurgents that had been wreaking havoc behind the Paris front-lines for the past month. The local units had dubbed them the Parisian Marauders. Only these insurgents were not your average krauts; they were mutant terrors very similar to the beast we just put down. Except the ones tearing apart GIs in Paris were still single monstrosities instead of the macabre amalgamation we just encountered.

My squad is a special team of commandos assembled by the O.S.S., the Office of Strategic Services. Each of us had a unique gift that set us apart from regulars, even other highly trained commandos. Though people like us were becoming popularized on radio programs, newspapers, and even on the silver screen, I suspect people possessing powers beyond the capabilities of average humans have always existed. It sort of lends new credence to Greek myths like Hercules or even more recent legends and folktales like John Henry. Only, modern marvels like the television are making the world a smaller place along with radio and telephones. So information travels faster and is becoming easier to validate.

The governments of the world mostly ignored Extraordinaries, the label the papers have officially pinned on them, or treated them as threats. Them. I guess I mean us. Well, at least until the Great War. That’s when they began instituting programs to recruit them for use in clandestine missions. But they found it difficult to command what amounted to a bunch of hot shots with powers beyond the government’s limited imagination. So they turned to programs to develop Extraordinaries in-house, so to speak. Most of those programs failed too; Jasinski being one of a handful of recent successes from some project called Wraith. The rest of us were born Extraordinary or, like myself, gained that status through mishap.

I see Pvt. Jasinski’s form waver as if looking at a mirage as he and his equipment turns invisible so he can scout ahead of the squad. Hopefully we can secure this bunker without anymore surprises and shut down Fremder and his vile operation before anyone else falls victim to his experiments. I hear our boys in white lab coats back stateside are real close to finishing some super weapon to end this war; it could not end soon enough.

---

The D-Day invasion of Normandy by the Allies was not as successful as they had hoped. They had surprised the Germans, but Hitler’s war machine quickly recovered. The Allies were able to strike into Paris before the Wehrmacht was able to counter attack. The city is currently under the control of the Allies, but has switched hands twice since Operation Overlord. The war effort has devoured the resources of both the Allies and Axis in Europe which has resulted in what amounts to be a stalemate in the European theater. Hot spots still flare up along the front lines as the Axis and Allied powers test defenses, new tactics, and technologies.

America is still fighting a war of attrition in the Pacific and the atomic weapons that could end it have yet to be deployed. The Manhattan Project, which was tasked with creating the first functioning atomic bombs, has suffered several major setbacks from Axis agents who sabotaged their plutonium enrichment program. The African theater was secured as planned, but the Germans are using guerrilla warfare tactics against the occupying Allies in Egypt and proving difficult to root out.

The Soviets were routed during the German offensive of Operation Barbarossa. The winter was not as harsh as normal, and there are some intelligence reports that indicate some sort of Italian weather device guaranteed the Axis victory against the unprepared Red Army. The remnants of the Soviet military withdrew into the harsh expanse of Siberia after the destruction of Moscow, but have recently made contact with Allies and are planning a massive counter offensive against the Eastern Front of the Third Reich.

But this war is far from conventional.

As the second World War trudges on, both the Allied and Axis powers begin to look for alternative resources to secure the final victory. Thus the Shadow War, the Schattenkrieg has begun. UFOs have begun supplementing the Luftwaffe over Parisian skies. Dead soldiers are rising to eat their comrades. Strange electrical storms roll out from Siberia. Extraordinary people begin to make their presence known and are answering the call to arms. Become a part of Schattenkrieg and stop the Nazis and their evil agenda.

Interview with Felix Sundown (Part 2)

Edited by Cassey Toi

Hello again!

Finally, we  have time to sit down and discuss Loaerth & Feywyrd again. What a pleasure! I’m glad to see you again, and this time around lets chat some more about the Fey. Some of you had some questions, and hopefully we’ll get them answered.

Who are the Fey you ask? Well, for one, feytrolls aren’t all of them. There is fey blood running through the veins of creatures other than my own kind. Our brothers and sisters in magic, whose very flesh is made or tainted with the stuff of the Feywyrd, include elves, hodolu faerys, giants, myrmidons and many others which I have not even had the chance to meet.

Some, like the elves, were in the World since the dawning of history, they are not true natives of the World. Looking back eons, myth speaks of the elves fleeing from another world into our own. They fled, as an entire race, from things so dark and unspeakable that the names were eventually either lost or stricken from their history. They stayed and made a home here. It’s also thought that the elves brought my people, the feytrolls, with them as servants, watchers, and scholars. And, they brought with them Magic.

The humans at the time were probably living as tribal nomads, or in rudimentary villages when Magic was first taught to them. The World’s primitive dwarf and troll peoples are believed to have been unable to learn its secrets or refused it at the outset. Nonetheless, the humans learned about magic from these elven newcomers and, within a few generations, boasted formidable sorcerers and ritualists in their own right. Eventually, the dwarves and trollkind also fostered traditions of Magic that were unique to each of their racial heritages.

In time, the elves prospered and eventually became the dominant race of the world. They eventually built vast civilizations on the backs of trolls and dwarves. Humans, for the most part, escaped this fate and were able to live in relative peace with their elven counterparts. But only the men and women of Loaerth managed to carve out an independent existence. These people, and perhaps a few more in other pockets of the World, escaped subjugation at the hands of the elves through careful negotiation and strong military might.

What is Loaerth? Just look out the window! Loaerth is a coastal city state that sits on the edge of the Degra Sea. Loaerth has a long, and deep rooted, history of independence. It’s a city of merchants and scholars, soldiers and sailors, artists and thieves. Loaerth is a flickering light, struggling to stay lit even as the winds of change try to blow it out. It is and has been the center of the world for five centuries, ever since the Helfay left the world a vacant place. All the non-Fey, the races of Man, have grown to call Loaerth home. They have also ventured far out into the wild to explore the empty frontier – empty because there are whole cities that were suddenly devoid of anyone living there after the Helfay.

What are the people of Loaerth like? Considering you are no doubt new here, I’ll take a bit more care in answering that. Well, for one, the humans of Loaerth for the most part keep to traditional, plain dress. All too often you will see a man or woman dressed decidedly boorishly, only to be sporting the latest clockwork or coal-work gizmo, bauble, or trinket. “The more it whirls, the more it twirls.” they say. I’m still not sure what in the gods name that means, but you’ll hear them say it all the time

The dwarves of Loaerth are staunchy folk. Quick to anger, but dependable. Clever too. Most of the new gizmos and “wonders of the world” that have been made in the last century or so were invented by dwarven machinists. As you would expect, most dwarves love to drink ale and eat hearty meals that would send many a grown man to a physician. The interesting thing about dwarves is the way they live. Their homes are dense, I mean 10 to 20 families to a house. They prefer these deep basements where they all lay about in tight quarters. I’ve heard them say it makes them feel “safe” while they sleep. Baths? Forget about it. They do take dust baths in the summer, but I have yet to see a dwarf with a bar of soap. Not that they are averse to water, but soap for some reason is taboo.

The trolls of Loaerth are few and far between. Most trollkind moved out of the city a century or so ago after a great fire burned the Troll Ghetto to the ground. They have a few scattered communities , so I’ve heard, hidden away in valleys rarely traveled by city folk. They are more commonly seen along the frontier. Trolls are a quiet, thoughtful folk. Slow to anger and gentle with their hands, even for their great size. You will often see trolls in the employ of merchants looking to travel, or in the company of explorers venturing out to the frontier in the hopes of finding lost riches. Trolls, unlike dwarves, have a unique language that has never gone out of use. It is said that they do not write down their own history, but that it is part of their language so by using trollspeak, “Gua’Fig Na”, they are keeping their history alive as well.

There’s so much more to tell. I’m just at a lost on where to start or to continue from. What else would you like to know? Please ask me anything! Leave a comment after this interview is done, or send me question via tweeting birds.

Until next time, I’ll leave you with a common nighttime blessing for children:

“May the gods wrap me in copper and coal. Protect me from harm, and heat my soul. May my dreams spark the light keeps hodolu away, and may I wake with my heart free from the Fey” – Blessing For a Child’s Night

Interview with Felix Sundown (Part 1)

I am not really sure why I have agreed to do this interview. Perhaps I’m worried that, once I do eventually die, there will not otherwise be anyone else to tell my story. Or, perhaps its because, given the recent discovery of the Feywyrd, I am now finally able to speak about things that I’ve been forced to be quiet about for over four hundred years. Whatever the reason, consider yourself fortunate to be the one to hear it first, before things get twisted by history’s lens. There is so much to tell though, I guess I might as well get started at the beginning. You asked me to introduce myself? Fair enough.

My name is Felix Sundown. In a children’s book, I might be called a gnome or perhaps a troll, but these terms are in truth derogatory names that have replaced the proper name for my kind: Fey. I have lived for more than six hundred years, with the last four centuries confined within the walls of Loaerth, the city of my captor and once teacher, The Archivist. Recently, I finally managed to escape the cursed bonds that have kept me silent for so long. How? I can only guess, but I suspect that it is because someone else discovered the fate of the Feywyrd, and thus unwittingly released me from my bonds. Allow me to explain…

When I first arrived in Loaerth the world was a place full of colorful and fantastical creatures of all sorts. Mythic demihumans, fey beasts and strange magic were commonplace. It was a world of abundance and diversity, where imagination was the only limit on possibility. I was a student of this magic, a Steward of Aram Court in fact. I had come to Loaerth to further my training under the tutelage of the Archivist Eurig Talfrun. He accepted me as his last student and bonded me into service. The bond was one from the Old Ways, a curse really. At the time I felt it was worth the sacrifice: a little of my freedom to be the sole pupil of one of the most influential archivists in all the realms. Little did I know of Talfrun’s ambitions, and it took decades before I eventually regarded my bond to him as a curse.

You may have heard a story of something the Helfay that happened an eon ago. It is often used as the reason humankind can lay claim to all the world and why Loaerth can expand the boundaries of its empire unopposed. But the Helfay is not a myth – it happened. The whole world was as I described it: a fantastical place full of strange and magical things. Then, in an instant, poof! On one mid-winter night all the world’s strange and mythical creatures, the Feywyrd as they were called, vanished in a silent icy moment. From wizards and students sleeping in Aram Court, to dwarves deep in Forgeholme. From dragons sailing on the winds of the Faertwins, to myrmidons a thousand leagues under the Degra Sea. Their lights just went out as they vanished like fireflies in the twilight. Whole kingdoms vanished in fact. I expect all the world’s Feywyrd vanished, save for one: me. You see, the Helfay was not an act of the gods, but an act of greed and hubris by a man, my master Eurig. It was the result of an ancient ritual he believed would return the Feywyrd the world he believed they came from. But he failed, and the failure carried with it the instant annihilation of not just the Feywyrd, but every other creature beyond the horizons of Loaerth.

Since I unknowingly participated in this ritual, I was fortunately protected by it, and soon found myself to be the last of the Fey. Eurig also allowed me to live on as his assistant and pupil. I was now a curiosity to him. He was the last of the Archivists, the only remaining practitioner of the Old Ways, and having the last of the Fey as his personal thrall was too great a prize to ignore. He bonded me to him again, only this time his bond would last until the Feywyrd returned, something he believed would never happen.

It was no coincidence that, after the Helfay, the people of Loaerth soon discovered the King and the royal family had vanished as well. They soon appointed Eurig Talfrun as Regent of Loaerth, and in time he became the leader of the world’s only remaining civilization: the Empire of Loaerth.

What else would you like to know?

The Binding of Mnemysyx

Written by Paul King

The demon’s iron grip closed around the halfling, crushing his lungs and stifling his scream of agony. Turning to face the remaining invaders of its profane temple, it tossed the tiny, limp form over its shoulder where it landed beside the charred remains of one comrade and betwixt the sundered limbs of another.

Now only two remained – a wizard and a warrior. A wicked grin full of sharp teeth split a face that might have been disturbingly handsome, had it not been covered in gore. A voice as smooth as silk and sweet as honey drifted forth as it took a step forward.

“Poor insects, you’ve rushed headlong to your deaths. But it need not be so. Bow to me, and be spared; worship me, and be filled with power beyond comprehension.”

“Never trust a demon!” Brogan spat and raised his enchanted sword before him. While the sword was capable of wounding the demon, it could not kill him. Behind him, the wizard Zuric worked feverishly to complete the ritual that would finally banish the demon back to the foul pit from which it had crawled and free the kingdom from the corrupting influence it had spread and drawn power from.

“How much longer, wizard?” The warrior called over his shoulder. He feinted to the right and suddenly reversed direction. As the demon raked the empty air where his head was a split-second before, he drew from it an inhuman scream of pain and anger along with the slash he landed on its left side. A kick from the demon sent him flying backwards, nearly taking out the wizard and ruining the ritual on which they had placed any hope of victory. The warrior crashed into a stone pillar, stars exploding across his field of vision as his head struck the hard granite.

“Fool!” The demon stopped and looked down at the gash, one that would have killed a mortal man. It was already beginning to mend. “You cannot deny the inevitable. I have ruled the infernal realms and now I will rule this world!”

Brogan crawled to the sword he had dropped and staggered to his weary feet, dizzy and sore. He managed to shake off enough of the daze he was in to see that the demon had now taken an interest in Zauric, kneeling directly between them and chanting from the mysterious scroll he had picked up during their investigation of the demon and his growing influence. The sounds his friend were making were gibberish to his admittedly uneducated ears, but seemed to alarm the demon, now that the din of battle had lessened and he could hear them.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!?” it roared and started to lean into a charge against the defenseless wizard. Brogan, his world still spinning, managed to get a couple of steps in before launching himself at the rushing demon. The armor he wore gave him just enough weight and momentum to carry his much larger, heavier opponent wide of his target. They tumbled to the bloodstained floor, a tangle of limbs and talons. Finally getting his bearings, Brogan was horrified to discover that the demon had ended up on top of him. He struggled to bring his weapon up, only to have his sword arm pinned under a large bony knee. The demon, leering evilly, wrapped his hands around the warrior’s helmet and ignited them. The hardened warrior started to scream as the metal heated.

The demon’s leer suddenly turned to a look of shock. The fire left its hands as it began to seize violently. His helmet still trapped in the demon’s unholy clutches, Brogan managed to squirm out of it and out from under the rigid, twitching form of his foe. Tendrils of brilliant white light lanced into the body of the demon from a crystal held by the unflappable Zauric.

“Now, while the demon is bound – strike!”

Brogan raised his sword over his head, “Back to fires of hell, monster.”

To his shock, the demon managed a tiny agonized smile, the smallest of movements a struggle. “Ignorant fools,” it spat. The sword descended, splitting the demon’s horned skull right down the middle. A high keening wail echoed in the chamber. The crystal held by the wizard flared once and exploded, knocking the two heroes off their feet. They were dimly aware of a rushing wind and the odor of brimstone and burning flesh which lasted but a moment. By the time they were upright and oriented, it was over.

There, like a statue out of some twisted sculptor’s nightmare, knelt the grey, lifeless form of the demon, still clutching Brogan’s scorched helmet, his sword embedded in its skull. As they watched, the figure began to break and collapse in on itself. Soon it was nothing more than a pile of ashes.

Brogan retried his sword and helmet and made his way to a pile of rubble, setting himself down on one of the larger pieces.

“Blasted demons,” he spat. “Be sure and thank whoever it is gave that spell, ‘Ric”

Zauric surveyed the scene as one who had just woken up from a dream, his face scratched and bleeding in several places where fragments of the exploding crystal had struck him, “I’m not eager to see them again, or ever.”

Brogan, having taken a scrap of clothing from one of the cultists who had come between his party and the demon, began to clean his sword. “Why? Was it stolen?”

“Not stolen. The individual who provided the ritual was a former acquaintance of our vanquished foe.”

The warrior looked up, “You mean a cultist? Or . . . ?”

Zauric turned to his remaining companion. “It was a demon, Brogan. To kill a demon, I summoned a demon.”

“Oh ‘Ric, you can’t trust those things! It might have just as easily given you a spell to open up an infernal portal or some such!”

The wizard shook his head, “No, you see, Mnemysyx was banished here by his own kind. Once upon a time, he tried to conquer the infernal realms – nearly succeeded, too. The other demon lords banded together and overthrew him. No, he has few – if any – friends back home. Besides, from what I studied of the ritual, there were clearly binding elements to it. You don’t use those for portals. Shame about the crystal, though. I would have liked to keep it.”

Brogan shook the soot from his helmet and inspected it. He placed it on his head. It was still warm – which unnerved him a little, after nearly having his brain boiled inside it – but undamaged, aside from a few minor scorch marks. He exhaled. Having purchased his armor as a matching set after their last adventure, he was loathe to replace even a single part of it. As he looked around the room, he realized that he could see into even the deepest shadows – and there were many shadows in the foul temple – as if the sun was falling directly upon them.

“Hey Zauric, I think that spell enchanted my helmet! I can see in the shadows!”

“A fortuitous side-effect of the ritual. Some of the demon’s abilities may have been transferred into the items it was in contact with. Such effects often dissipate over time, however, so don’t get too attached.” Zauric walked over to the remains of their companions and sighed. “Tiff just needs a visit to the temple; Kent and Jaquio, on the other hand, will need some more work. Let’s load them up and get our reward.”

A sudden shove and a burning sensation began to spread through the wizard’s body. He looked down to see the tip of an enchanted sword sticking out of his chest.

“I think not,” the voice of his longtime friend, smooth as silk and sweet as honey, whispered in his ear, “you see, there was only one survivor of the epic battle with mighty Mnemesyx – and it isn’t you. Sadly, the rest of the party was beyond saving.”

Zauric managed to stagger around to face his betrayer. “H-how?”

The warrior sneered, “Ignorant wizard, those accursed weaklings went to such great effort to kick me out, what made you think they’d help send me back?”

Brogan withdrew the sword from the wizard and wiped it clean on his robes before turning to walk away. As he sank to the floor to join the bodies of his friends, the last thing Zauric heard was, “Never trust a demon.”

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