Eabha trudged barefoot through the sodden moonlit forest of early Winter, with soot and ash in her dark hair, and a spike of iron hanging on from her waist. Inquisitor Molan of The Black Saint had come to her home after the ill-fated duel with the closet thing she ever had to a brother, Cillian. And Molan had come with torches, and force. The last memory Eabha would ever have of her home was its conflagration.      It had all started when famine came at the hands of rot that took the grain. The village blamed Draoi Righnach, Eabha’s mentor, and whose line had been there in the Ban Forest for longer than it knew that name. So the Tiarna, the lord, called for an Inquisitor of Saint Macsen. Righnach had then soon disappeared searching for the culprit she knew caused the rot and harvest failure.      The issue was, however, that Righnach had vanished the same day Inquisitor Molan had come to The Ban. When Cillian had realized this, he ...

 “Hello caller, you’re on the air…”   "It was a weird time the other night, around Tuesday? I was taking a walk out near Mauricio and 9th, and it was real quiet. Sure, there were the usual tweakers and homeless, but it felt… I don’t know, just really quiet. In a way that it doesn’t really get in the middle of a big city." "I was out walking just because, you know, there’s a lot going on in the world right now and I think staying inside and doom-spiraling isn’t really helping. So, even though Port Astor is shit, I decided to go out. When I moved here from The Bay Area, I was told about ‘a sense of mystery’, and that this was a different hub to grow in—and cheaper than San Francisco to a frankly gross degree. And, sure, I had heard it had problems, but what major city doesn’t? I’m sure we are all aware of apps that track sighting of homeless people pooping back home, and Fox hammering home how it’s a gay den of sin. My point—I thought I was prepared." "Anyway, I ...

      To the west lay the green lands that hug the Seawall Mountains. After the Naxians withdrew, those living here quickly established feudal states and petty kingdoms. Unlike in Thrace, there was never any successful bid for political homogeneity.      These "small kingdoms" view Naxos as a valuable trading partner and most have strong formal ties and relations to the Duchy. Many which rely on sea trade have even allowed permanent garrisons of Naxian Marines to protect shipping.     Those who do not welcome Naxos, however, engage in subtle warfare via assassinations, sabotage, and proxies being weapons of choice. In the Northeast, the Bohun have expressed strong anti-Naxian sentiment in western matters, and have a sizable military of their heavily-armored knights to act on such wills.

      The northern lands of Thrace once made up a sizable portion of The Old Empire, Thrace has long been considered an integral part of the territory of Naxos.     After The Collapse, and subsequent Naxian withdrawal, the Thracians were left to their fate, and no one was left to keep Azraqi influence at bay. Many of the surviving major cities became sovereign city-states, and created a loose federation simply called The Thracian Republics.     After The Reclamation, Naxos returned in force to reclaim what it said was "ancestral territory". The Navy and Marines besieged the Southern Cities, taking some and turning much else to ruin.     Today, Thrace is a land divided by pro-Naxians in held territory, independent partisans, and the Azraqi-aligned states to the north, supported by the Eastern Princes as a buffer state between itself and their ancestral foes.

      Along with the Leoi, the Triton are traditional allies of the Naxians, going all the way back to the days of Poleon. There was a war when the two peoples initially made contact, but have since been bonded by blood when the Naxian founder took a Triton bride.     The Triton live in the seas north and east of the main islands, and claim the isolated isle of Ioh as their by ancient treaty, being purportedly the site of a religious complex. The Triton largely keep to their own affairs, but occasionally assist in pirate hunting or defense in trying times. The largest interaction is every two hundred years, when the Triton Sovereign comes ashore to Naxos to meet the Heir of Poleon, and reaffirm ties of cooperation and alliance.     To the common Naxian, most only know the rare Triton merchant that comes to trade bizarre and exotic treasures from the deep, or strange visitors who come ashore in remote places, leaving only children born with strange powe...

      Along with the Satyr, the Centaur are one of the native peoples of the islands. They arrived from the Fey with the Satyr, and often have a vaguely paternal relation to them, much to the irritation of the Satyr.     The Centaur joined the Tauromachy initially on the side of the Minotaur, but later allied with the Naxians when their former allies fell to dark gods. When the war ended, however, they were not given any rewards and only received a "pardon". In outrage, the Centaur refused and retreated into the jungles.     Today, Centaurs live in fugitive herds, and serve as the majority of Ta Ktini leadership; leading raids against those who violate natural lands and sacred ground. They are also frequent target Satyr for recruitment. Many Naxians fear Centaurs as rebels and bandits.     That said, some Centaur believe in avoiding conflict, and attempt to find the harmony they've lost. While no less fugitive than their militant kin in the e...

      The Satyr are one of the four indigenous peoples of the archipelago, along with the Leoi, Centaur, and the Minotaur. Their ancestors came from the Fey, and still carry on many of their pagan customs.     During the Tauromachy, they joined the side of the Minotaur to fight their ancient Leonin foes, but switched sides when the Minotaur fell to dark gods. The Naxians never forgot they were once enemies, however.     After the war, the Satyr were forgiven by Poleon, but were not rewarded with land or titles. Some attempted to mesh with the Naxians since they were there to stay, while many others retreated to remote places to try and live in separate peace.      Urban Satyrs tend to live in confined "neighborhoods" and often have unique designs to accommodate their history and physiology; platforms most Naxians couldn't reach, lots of plant growth. These Satyr often deal with discriminations and harassments, particularly from members o...

       When the Tauromachy was won, the Leoi were rewarded with their own island and home rule. Even after the Collapse the Leoi were respected with their own autonomy. When Basileus was crowned Duke, he honored them once again as their own Barony and a seat on the Despot Council. Today they continue their tradition of self-rule within the Duchy.     The Leoi largely live amongst themselves on the island of Mykonos, with most living as part of semi-nomadic bands roaming their respective territories. Many rely on herding, fishing, and hunting, having little interest or need of farming. Each band is led by a leaina , and matters that involve the whole island are decided in annual meetings of all the bands. The Baron of the Leoi is actually elected by the leaina, who choose one for life. The Baron's role is largely to convey the wishes of the leaina.     Outside of Mykonos, their warriors are seen roaming the islands hunting dangerous beasts as part ...

This is the third part and finale of this year's October series! Please go read part two if you have not already!       The golden light of morning shone through to paned window, and in front of you a fine breakfast. Your wife, a reporter for a local newspaper. You look upon your love, and she begins to speak, but her words are a mumble, almost underwater. You look into her eyes, the green eyes you loved so much, searching for her light, but... nothing. Then, like knives through a curtain, words.     " How long did you wait? "     " How long did you really feel that way about me? "     " How long did you pretend to miss me? "     " How long did you pretend to love me? "     You reel, your wife just sits there, beaming the same brilliant smile that she always had, looking up at you, eyes that devoured the light.     It comes back to you now. She disappeared last year, you remember the biting, haunting sorrow for h...

This is part two of the annual October series. Read part one if you haven't already! GHOST SHIP! By Valerie Kimpton     A long-missing vessel, THE EASTERN GLOAM , has resurfaced in Port Astor Harbor. While the city is under quarantine, few but the Coast Guard were able to try and dissuade this revenant from landing here in our plague-stricken city. Our official source, Lt. Boyle, said no one was left aboard after the boarding team explored the derelict from bow to stern. Out of abundant caution, Lt. Boyle said that the ship was to be towed out of the harbor, and eventually scuttled.     When we asked residents near the Astor Docks, however, we learned that there might be more to this story. One resident, under a condition of anonymity and speaking only through a closed window said that she spied a lone soul leaping from the drifting ship, then swimming to shore. Once upon land, our source continued, he simply vanished. Did our "valiant" serviceman lie to us when he c...

      During the lockdown, a ghost ship came into the harbor of Port Astor. With so much of the city in chaos or silence, few at the time even noticed its arrival. More did bother to pay attention, however, when word got out that an entire Coast Guard  boarding team vanished after boarding the vessel. When they sent the second team, no traces of the original crew of the ship, or the first boarding team were found.      The name of the ship was The Eastern Gloam, which was seen over a decade ago leaving for the Far East, with a crew of scholars and academics. And the only trace of anything they found aboard the ship was a carved phrase on a bulkhead: "LOAMY GLOAM".     Fearing another illness, the ship was towed out and eventually scuttled. Since then, however, a number of disappearances have been tied to the return of the ship, with the phrase "RETURN TO REST WITHIN  THE LOAMY GLOAM" showing up again and again over the years, and then us...

 " Hello caller, you're on the air... "      "Look, a lot has gone down, but I need you to focus. We came here to do a job, and we've done pretty good given the circumstances! The others, well, they weren't as lucky, but we were! What happened? Lemme thing. We came in, all five of us, or was it four? Doesn't matter. We'd all been hired separately, and told to show up at the old place to 'turn it off'. Whatever the hell that means. The place was part of the old shipyards used in World War Two, but looked like some sort of animal on life support; a body of concrete with a thousand needles and tubes of steel coming out of it.       The money was worth it, though. I just ran, and ran-- I had to. I saw a light up ahead, and just had to go for it. As soon as I cleared it, I heard it close behind me-- was there someone else there? It doesn't matter. I just got in my car, and fuckin' got the hell outta there. The money was worth it. It was....

    I went on a walk through the old woods some time ago. After returning from my time abroad, I thought it a good idea to reacquaint myself with the lands of my birth and youth. I had traveled as far as I could from home for my education, to rid myself of the simpleness of my upbringing, and to bring myself closer to an enlightened civility. But, even with that said, I could not pull myself away from the feelings of relish I knew I would surely encounter by simply... escaping into the forests of my fathers.     And surely these old trees agreed with me! I felt the warm welcome of their canopy o'er me as I cross over the threshold of the forests edge. It felt strange in a pleasantly peculiar way, but I did not reject the feeling. After years of feeling out of place as a traveler, I only then realized how much I had yearned for this.     As I moved deeper and deeper into the undergrowth, the patch I walked became narrower and narrower and the spindly green f...

    Biscuits are an important part of any dish, and can really tie a meal together! Whether you put a sweet spread on them, dip them, or smother them, no one can doubt their versatility. This recipe comes from my grandmother, who told me that she got it from hers!     When I was a little girl, I spent many Summer nights helping my grandmother cook supper, often making biscuits, and she'd tell me about so many things. For all the times I saw her, I never saw my grandfather. I remember asking about him once, and all I was told was that he was very faraway, but "he would always be in the blood". I thought that it was a weird way to say it, but she was raised in Europe after the war, so I thought that explained it.     It's been a long time since I have thought about my grandmother. She loved the color red, and most of her clothes were a striking red. I remember one dress she had, a deep crimson one that had stars on it. It always struck me as a church dress, a...

    Raquel's old sedan shuddered and shook in protest as she put it in reverse, and slid from her assigned spot at the apartment complex in which she lived. Her car was just as vocal in its seemed displeasure as she put it into drive, and set off. Raquel was on her way to Port Astor State University, to participate in a paid study. She had come up several-hundred dollars short on rent, and had felt saved when she saw the ad in the paper for the study. It was at one of the post-grad schools at the university-- something about philosophy? Religion? She couldn't recall, although it didn't really matter what was what. If she had to sit through several hours of students taking themselves entirely too seriously, and ask her overly vague questions, so be it.     And perhaps, she needed to talk to some of those types. Recently, she had had some problems enter her life, and she had no idea how to address them. Specifically, vivid dreams of church, of all things, and aversion ...

      Hello Dr. Zann,     I hope that this missive reaches you in good health in these trying times. It has come to my attention that you still fully intend to commit to your planned procedure regarding certain properties of physical translocationality, despite our spirited conversation held previously in happier times.      I implore to once again: reconsider .     As was covered in that conversation, and repeated again here for emphasis, what you plan to do will react poorly with at least several other goings-on, which will in turn affect certain aspects of material resonance of our vaunted Stone Hall. As such, we cannot know or even pretend to know what would come of your sundering of the local environs, no matter how "mitigated " or " contained ".  To put in even more stark terms; should you do this, we would have no idea where you would even go, and there would be no rescue. Just as well, this is to say nothing of the suspect...

      Port Astor State University is the premier higher education facility in the State of Jefferson, and every year, tens of thousands flock to the City of Secrets to "begin their futures". Most prestigious of all is the post-graduate program, the Doctorate of Applied Metaphysics & Philosophy, which is by invitation only. While many openly desire to enter the program, few could even begin to explain what the exact criteria of admittance are, let alone what is actually taught within.     The program itself traces its lineage back to the university founders, who ran a small college out of the original university building, The Old Stone Hall. It began as an almost chapel-like structure of rustic cobble, but over its life grew into a bizarre and sprawling web of eclectic neo-gothic stonework, contemporary wood and cement, and other, harder to describe styles not seen before by any of its students.     This was the heart of Port Astor Academia, until t...

                      A flash, a scream, and just the moldering steam that hung in the cold Winter morning air as the arcane flame died down upon the rapidly-charred remains of the regular soldier. Lieutenant Matthew Regin had stood atop his barricade all night, the day before, and now was looking at another sunset and rise. After the retreat of the Colchis, it all went to shit . It fell apart when royal orders came down for the regular and drafted forces to pursue the “fleeing” invaders, which were at best ignored, or at worst, the messenger was attacked and murdered in outrage. What remained of the regulars, and many draftees, then revolted, and the Royal Knights were sent in to “restore loyalty and order”. For their part, the Parliamentary forces, namely the Arcane and the Engineering & Grenadier Corps, fell back to defend parts of the city from the fighting factions. For this, the other camps labelled them as an e...

      All thunder and manic fervor, the scrawny, filthy man fell upon Cornet Laurent, the terrified boy. In the trench, hastily half-dug and now equally a river of muddy blood, the filthy man pressed his weight upon the broken spear, attempting to end Laurent with the jagged and splintered wooden end. Screaming and crying, the cornet with hands so already slickened, tried to press back against his enemy. And just as suddenly as this scene began, a shell blasted just above the two, and the scrawny filthy man from Colchis was now as much shredded ribbon as he had been a soldier.     But, truly, he was no soldier; no more than Cornet Laurent was. What had he been? A farmer? A serf? A brother? Lover? A teller of tales or jokes? Now only shot and roaring silence could be the answer; he was dead. And the "cornet"? A boy of 16, who, tragically, was literate and had been in school. Enough for King Alphonse IV to have him commissioned, as a cavalry officer no less. In th...

    In the eastern part of the land once called the United Kingdom of Alleghany, a dry grassland stretches as far as the eye can see, and as everyone knows, anything you can see over but not the other side of may as well be infinite. These old rolling hills have seen the dawn of the Old Kingdoms, the wars of unification, with their knights and lords, as well as the recent modern conflicts with mechanized tanks and orderly regiments of an industrialized nation. Few people have ever called this land home, but for those who do, they know that their proximity to the borderlands lend to their generally precarious life.     It is here that lies the township of Munro Ford, upon the humble banks of an eponymous river, which permitted such a town existing in the first place. The folks here live a simple country life in their town and surrounding hills, where the sea of amber grass hits the mighty walls of ancient craggy brown stone that marks the edges of the old dominio...