Zerathur can hear them downstairs. The clattering of kitchen utensils being washed by the automata; The chatter of daughter and mother as Spore and Astria idle by the fireplace; Erian hammering away at some new wacky invention down in the basement. An unchanging reality, a long awaited and well deserved dream come true. Everything he wished for, the return of all he once loved and the life that was robbed from his very grasp.  He reaches upwards with his mind, his consciousness slips through...

She had done as she was told. The doors and windows were closed and locked, the curtains had been shut and all of the lights in the house had been turned off. All of the lights, except that of her room; She could not sleep, no matter how much she tried, for the sound of the woods outside of her house were too weird and haunting. The eerie feeling of being watched crept into her mind whenever she closed her eyes, it was simply impossible. A light flickered outside her window, flashing briefly ...

Dr. Lindsley's Report 29th entry. 04/05/1056 A.N. 08:00 PM ...

Dr. Lindsley's Report 28th entry. 02/05/1056 A.N. 04:35 PM ...

Dr. Lindsley's Report 26th entry. 26/04/1056 A.N. 05:22 AM ...

Alone, the Chloromancer roamed the dark sea. Were those seconds, or were they entire eons passing right before his eyes? Waves crashed upon the cold hull of the steerless metallic ship, yet no matter how much it rocked, the ship would never sink. No matter how often he tried, he could not jump into the dark waters below. With his book of memories held close against his chest, Zerathur hummed songs of old, and another voice joined his chorus. Sat upon the taffrail, The Traveler examined the o...

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. ...

Eadil is a Necromancer. It is common in his kind's folklore for healers and medics to arrive too late to save the heroes who've fallen in the great battles of old, those born with the natural affinity of healing often mocked as 'healers of the dead': A pejorative term turned official with the consolidation of the Velgraviran Empire. As he stares at the skulls piled upon his desk, he curses the irony. He wasn't here to help those who needed it when they were hurt, much like the 'Necromancers' of ...

Waves crash upon the golden sands of the Southern Shores. Seagulls fly above, silent fireworks explode in the distance. His shoes sink into the damp sand, and the maritime breeze of the early evening fills his lungs. "Zera?" A feminine voice calls out, prompting him to turn his head to look over to its source. Even though she was heavier than him, the changeling mare skips next to him with unparalleled grace, not leaving a single mark where she stepped. Her purple mane flows along the win...

Ever since they moved to the proximity of the Whispering Woods, Frost Tear's parents warned her of the dangers of the forest. Never explicitly so, keep in mind, for legends and myths are perhaps one of the best ways to elicit a child's imagination. Tales of trees that walk on their own, that snatch up lost children, and poof, they are gone. On her eighth autumn, she found that trees were the least of her worries. Instead, it was they who shielded her from Fletcher's eyes. Her father took her...

Bellowing roars and guttural screeching from below marked the entrance of this cave as the only way into their Hive. And yet, despite the stench of blood and bone, the corruption that spreads through air and land, there was no one at the door. Not a single insectoid guarded the area, only the carpet of flesh that pulsated with a heart and mind of its own. As he trudged through the snow and stepped into this revolving putrid mass, its tendrils latched onto his hooves but were not able to stop his...

The Archmage sits alone in his kitchen, pale blue eyes focused entirely on the grimoire before him. No matter how he weaved and twisted the words and glyphs, it felt like he could never finish this spell without the proper components. And those would be simply impossible to gather! How on Khas' sacred lands could one find crystals of such magnitude so far North? A knocking at his front door briefly distracts him from the empty parchment. He eyes the kitchen's doorway and holds still for a cou...