#isles innkeeper

[wisteriteeth]

some bonus art i made between sessions

[yuriisclumsy]

I'm so excited that more people started taking cale request!!!✧\(>o<)ﾉ✧

Anyway hiii! Can I have an enemy to lovers with cale henituse and fem.reader idk something cliche like a dance scene or one gets protective of the other or maybe a cute "oh shit I'm actually in love moment"

Sorry I'm bursting with ideas rn.~

Love's Dance

Part 1 (You are here) | Part 2 | Part 3

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2,729

Authors note: You ask, and I shall deliver. PS. why did you give me such a good idea? like, I'm at 5k word for the overall thing, and I am not even done yet... (send help)

The streets of Roan Kingdom's Capital were bustling like usual. The vendors selling their goods, children running around carelessly, mothers screaming at them to not get dirty, and the usual underground activity Arm did. 

I strolled through these streets, thinking of nothing and relaxing ‘til I get another mission. 

“That reminds me…Arm has been quiet as of late. Sigh…they are up to no good…” I spoke to no one in particular, walking back to the Quiet Isle lodge. 

Quiet Isle is an inn in an area a little off the center of the Capital. I stayed there for the past three weeks after finishing my last mission. The price to stay is cheap, while still being comfortable. It has comfortable rooms, a clear view, free breakfast, and most importantly, it wasn’t noisy at all! Bonus points for the innkeepers, as they have been nothing but sweethearts.  

All-in-all, a good Inn if you’re looking to get your coins worth. 

I went through the inn’s doors, a sweet aroma of lavender hitting my nostrils as I neared the front desk.  

The Innkeepers were an old couple, and the misses genuinely enjoyed the smell of lavender. That is why, as you walk through the inn, you’ll be met with an influx of light purples from the flowers. 

Reaching the desk, I was greeted by a senior woman whose smile could cure all kinds of child injuries. 

“Oh! Why if it is the youth I’m all too familiar with!” The old granny said, delighted to see me. 

 “Greetings, Granny Fes,” I vowed curtly with a small smile. “Have there been any new guests at the inn?” I asked as she extended her hand to give me a piece of candy. 

Receiving the small candy, I offered a small ‘thank you.’ She said a quick ‘You’re welcome!’ before responding to my question. “Yes, yes! I welcomed a few new guests shortly after you left this morning for a stroll!” she excitedly told me. 

“Two of the five I welcomed are a couple expecting a child! Isn't that exciting? Ouu, to be young again…” 

“Oh, please. I say you are still quite young!” I say to get her head out of that cloud. 

“Fufufu, you are too kind [Name].” Granny Fes pinched my cheek as she got a bit flustered. “I believe one day you’ll meet a handsome young man that is suited just for you.” She added. 

I blushed a little, “Oh no, I don’t think that will happen…” I pause for a second. “Do you really think I’ll get lucky enough to have that...?” I asked, not believing I would get someone special to spend my days with. 

“Don’t give me that!” Granny Fes yelled, as if scolding one of her own. “You are beautiful! Which man wouldn't dream of having a wife such as yourself!?” 

All I could do was smile in response. This is how I want things to always go. Living in a peaceful area, sharing memories with people I meet along the way, even starting a family. Arm is nowhere near that picture. And it will never be. 

But alas. Good things always end. 

“Ah! That reminds me. [Name],” she called my name and handed me an envelope, “You received mail from a young lad. He said it was urgent.”  

Looking at the envelope as Granny Fes left to continue her job, I had an ominous feeling, yet I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.  

I turned it around only to see Arm’s seal stamped on it. Arm only sends letters if it is an important mission, and based on the color of the seal, it is of utmost importance.  

I am already not liking this I thought, refusing to open the letter. Maybe if I were to pretend its existence was nothing but a useless paper, it would disappear. But alas, I needed to open the envelope. With worry present in my face I opened it with the seal. Inside was a letter addressing Agent White Gold.  

That code name. It is the thing I despised most in this world. 

To Agent White Gold, 

Play time is up, White Gold. You have been assigned a mission in the Henituse Territory. We have discovered the traces of the leader of the organization known as ‘True Arm.’ Your mission is to go there and find out who the leader of the organization is, dead or alive. It is your choice which one you pick.  

A carriage will come to pick you up at sunrise, so don’t miss it.  

Once you arrive at your destination one of our men will greet you and guide you to your resting location and hand you an envelope. Inside, you will find descriptions of the one we are looking for, alongside a list of individuals that we found to match the description of our target. 

Remember, Agent, we are counting on your success. 

Don’t disappoint us, 

Arm 

Dammit… The moment I receive some peace after working for them like a slave…! I angrily store the letter to shreds, as if it were them instead of the letter. All I wanted was to disappear from the eyes of those bastards. They took me from my home, changed me to fit in an identity they made…they just can’t leave me alone, can they? 

 

I wanted to say no. To be able to run away to a far corner of the world so they would never be able to find me. But it is impossible. No one leaves. Rather, they die. Dying was the only way out. 

Yet, I want to live. 

I looked at Granny Fes as she talked with a few guests that were checking out. At that moment I knew that if I tried to escape, they would get everyone I was surrounded by. She doesn't deserve that. Neither does her husband, or her children and grandchildren. 

It is best I comply. 

“Sigh…Once you're in, there is no escaping their grasp…”  

The sky was tainted in hues of blues, purples, and oranges. The sun was rising from the nap it took, and fully ready to greet us. 

A carriage arrived early at the Quiet Isle Inn. Inside stood Granny Fes and Gramps Liy right next to me. Their eyes expressed sadness when looking at me. 

“Why so sad?” I asked the couple. 

“Oh, it’s just…it’s just that we’re both sad you’re leaving so soon.” Granny Fes confessed. Her husband, a bit more stubborn, only scuffed. Granny Fes elbowed him hard with a smile still shooting at me, gaining a small scowl from Gramps Liy. 

“AGHEM,” he raised one hand to fake a cough, “I guess you will be missed.” 

I laugh at his antics. Deep down he cares, he just has an unconventional way of expressing his feelings. 

“I’ll miss the two of you.” I looked at them with a small hinge of sadness but kept a smile to reassure them. I looked outside to see the coachman wave his hand signaling that he was ready for departure. “It seems I must go,” I turned to them, “see you later?” 

“Yes, yes. Goodbye little lady.” Gramps Liy ‘shud’ me to the carriage as he and his wife stared at me opening the door of the carriage. 

“Farewell, sweetheart. Make sure to take good care of yourself. And remember to look out for good lads while you’re traveling!” Granny Fes nagged me like I was about to never come back. Although, she was right about that. I don’t think I will be able to come back if I want to protect them. 

I laughed and said a small ‘I will!’ as I climbed into the carriage. Closing the door the carriage started moving. I waved to the couple one last time before I could not see them anymore. 

Sighting, I took out the map I packed. Looking at my destination, it was a few days from the capital. “This is going to be a loong trip…” I commented, making myself comfortable for the journey ahead. 

I hope I get this mission done quickly, so I can get another vacation from Arm. I looked up at the ceiling. I mean…how hard could it be to find this ‘leader’ anyways? 

… 

An old butler walks dutifully around the state halls. In hand, he holds a tray with a fancy tea set with a steel dome keeping the food inside warm; its aroma could be smelled by the passing housekeepers with wet laundry. 

The butler knocked at a door, he did not have to wait long, as he got an immediate response from the person inside. Opening the door he says his greetings. 

“Good morning, young master. I brought breakfast along with your favorite drink.” He says as he places down the tray on the table close to the window. 

“Ah, thank you, Ron.” A male voice thanked the butler. 

“It is my pleasure, young master Cale.” The butler, Ron, bowed. 

The man, who is now identified as Cale, sat down on the table to enjoy his breakfast. 

“Young master, if I may…” Ron waited for permission to continue speaking. 

“*Sight* Just spit it out.” Cale said in an uninterested voice. This is another one of his tangents. Drinking the lemonade that Ron made as he thinks of Ron’s earlier endeavors. 

Ron smiled, “I have detected Arm activity within the city.” 

“PFF–” spilling all the lemonade on the cup, he looked at Ron with widened eyes.

What is Arm doing here?! They have more pressing issues to deal with! Like, figuring out who Real Arm is! Cale’s thought went haywire.

 

Ron took his handkerchief out and gave it to Cale to use. 

“What do you mean there is Arm activity in the city? Is it more bombs?” He asked while using the cloth given to him to clean the mess he made. 

He shook his head, “no, at least not yet. I have seen them snoop around the city for information. It would seem we left them a small lead.” 

“Not good…” 

“If you’d prefer, young master, I could go rabbit hunting.” 

Looking at Ron with a drop of sweat evident in his forehead, he reluctantly answered. “...do whatever you want.”  

“Hehe. Then I will take my leave.” He bowed before leaving the room without making a sound. 

Scary old man. He looked outside pouring more lemonade in his cup. It’s not a good sign if Arm is here. I need to prepare in case they strike. 

… 

“Hey, wake up! We’re almost there!” 

“WHAT? HUH–huh?” I got up from my seat at lightning speed, looking around in a daze. As I scoot closer to the window, I see the giant walls looming overhead. On top of one of the towers built in the wall was a flag. It was the Henituse’s family crest imprinted on it.  

I’m already in the Henituse territory! 

Getting closer at the entrance door of the city, the carriage stopped, as they had to do a check before letting anyone in. 

“Execute me, m’lady. May I have your identification paper?” A soldier asked me. 

Security check? When I traveled to other places, they didn’t ask for my identification but the coachman’s. 

I handed him the paper without complaint, receiving it right after he checked that everything was good. The other soldiers gave him a thumbs up after checking the carriage and the coachman. Without further interruption they let us through, wishing us a happy stay. 

“That was…something.” 

The coach man dropped me off at a tavern near the city square. Going upstairs to the second floor of the establishment, I sat down at a table near the edge of the balcony. Waiting for the man that was supposed to give me the information mentioned in the letter I looked out into the streets, I could see the liveliness of the people.  

They were too lively in my opinion. 

Hearing footsteps approaching my table I diverted my attention to them. I was greeted with a man wearing a hat with fancy clothing. 

“Hello, m’lady,” the man greeted by taking his hat off and vowing curtly. 

Didn’t know Arm also had rich allies. I thought, seeing the man's mannerisms. 

“Good evening,” I vowed slightly, “are you the one mentioned in the letter?” 

“Eager now, are we?” He sat down in front of me with a smug smile. He placed his hat down before taking out an envelope. He slid it across the table. As I grabbed it, I took out its content.  

It was a list of suspects. They all had red hair and were male. And that was it. No underground activities, no records, nothing. 

“That’s…it?”  

This is the only information they managed to find…seriously? I thought. Was someone able to sneak past Arm’s noses? How is that even possible? 

“Unfortunately, it is.” 

“Ha...!” I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. I looked up at the man after reviewing the list of suspects.  

“This is the only description we managed to find,” the smile on his face dropped into a frown, “only at the low cost of our scouts: a single spy was able to escape long enough to hide a piece of paper in a tree trunk…” he said. 

“....” I looked down at the list.  

To be able to kill all of our scouts…this is no meek foe. Just thinking of how strong they are sends shivers down my spine…  

“I have arranged a small room at an Inn close by here. I have left some equipment at your disposal. The location is on one of the papers in the envelope.” The man stood up and put his hat on, adjusting his suit a little before looking at me.  

“If you need anything else, I left a card at your place with instructions as to how you can contact me. Remember I’m at your service m’lady, Tata! ~” 

“I will keep that in mind.” 

Watching as he disappeared behind the doors of the second floor, I decided to order something to eat before heading to my fixed place. 

…

 

“…a festival?” Cale looked at the flier given to him. 

“That’s right,” Count Deruth, Cale’s father, said nonchalantly, “the festival will brighten the people's moods, as well as show that we are financially good.” 

Politics…. 

! 

“Wait, here it says the ‘Henituse’s’ are attending…I don’t have to attend…right?” 

Deruth raised an eyebrow in question. “You don’t have to go.” 

“...” 

I must go. *Sight* My well-deserved rest has been postponed once again… can’t I catch a break for once? 

“On that note, I have reserved a spot on the city square where we will be presiding during the time,” he said as Cale gave him back the paper.  

“You don’t have to talk–or better said–you don’t have to even move. Just sitting there is enough.” 

Cale smiled at this I don’t have to move? Seems perfect to me! 

“I’ll be attending in that case.” 

“The festival will start in a few days. Be ready.” 

Cale exited his father’s study, walking back to his room. 

I need to tell Ron about this. It’ll be no surprise if Arm takes advantage of the festival. There stands a man with black hair waiting outside Cale’s room for him to come. 

“!” 

“Young master Cale!” The man runs towards him with puppy-like energy. 

“Choi Han, is there something you need?” Cale asked. 

“I heard from Ron that there have been suspicious activities happening in the city. So, I came to ask for permission to investigate.” Hans explained. 

Cale hummed. Strange. Usually, you would do these types of things without letting me know. Perhaps he thinks this is a bit dangerous and if he doesn't return, we know where to look? 

“You can do as you please, no need to ask for my permission.” 

“I see…thank you young master,” Han vowed, “I will report back immediately once I find anything!” As he said that, he began to leave. 

“Oh, and, Choi Han?” Cale spoke before he could fully leave. 

“Yes, Cale?” 

“If you find anything, make sure to report first. Don’t go around making havoc, got it?” Cale instructed. 

“...yes” he responded with a bit of thinking, knowing it was the best decision. 

Let’s see what they have in store for us. Cale entered his room, he’ll laze around until the festival actually begins. What a bother… 

… 

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Master-List

[thevelaryons]

What do you think the Velaryon’s trading looked like during the Corlys’ peak time as Lord of the Tides?

House Velaryon became rather “isolated” from the Crown’s influence within a couple of years after Corlys became the head of the family (due to their conflicting political aims from Jaehaerys and later, Viserys). So I think Corlys would’ve focused more on trade with Essos over Westeros. While trade with Westeros would still exist, it would be to a lesser degree than with Essos, and I believe Corlys would’ve encouraged trade in Westerosi port towns other than King’s Landing (White Harbor/Gulltown/Oldtown/Lannisport). He definitely wouldn’t want to provide direct economical support to the royal family he’s at odds with.

Driftmark is already conveniently situated in spot where many ships pass through. The book suggests that Corlys merely took advantage of this by further developing the shipping ports there.

Sitting athwart the Gullet, Driftmark was closer to the narrow sea than Duskendale or King’s Landing, so Spicetown soon began to usurp much of the shipping that would elsewise have made for those ports, and House Velaryon grew ever richer and more powerful.

Not only that, but I think it’s likely Corlys would maintain the same tax policy as his grandfather, which would help to build wealth in the long run (Corlys doesn’t really need to worry about building short term wealth at this point since he’s already so rich).

Port fees were tripled, certain goods were to be taxed both coming into and out of the city, and new levies were asked of innkeeps and builders.

None of these measures had the desired effect of filling up the treasury vaults. Instead building slowed to a halt, the inns emptied, and trade declined notably as merchants diverted their ships from King’s Landing to Driftmark, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and other ports where they might evade taxation.

If Driftmark is not charging the same tax rate as King’s Landing, it diverts even more trade away from the royal family and towards house Velaryon.

It is actually stated that King’s Landing wasn’t seeing as much profit from trade as Driftmark.

So much trade came to flow to and from Driftmark that the towns of Hull and Spicetown sprang up, becoming the chief ports of trade in Blackwater Bay for a time, surpassing even King’s Landing.

Any ships coming in from Essos would be more likely to make port at Driftmark just because it’s closer and because there might be advantages in place, such as lower taxes.

Corlys also gave priority to the shipping lanes in the Narrow Sea as well, especially when the Triarchy took power in the Stepstones. He was obviously concerned with the loss of profits through trade going to and from Essos.

Of themselves the isles were of little worth, but placed as they were, they controlled the sea lanes to and from the narrow sea, and merchant ships passing through those waters were often preyed on by their inhabitants. […] Order had replaced chaos, and if the Three Daughters demanded a toll of any ship passing through their waters, that seemed a small price to pay to be rid of the pirates. The avarice of Craghas Crabfeeder and his partners in conquest soon turned feelings against them, however; the toll was raised again, and yet again, soon becoming so ruinous that merchants who had once paid gladly now sought to slip past the galleys of the Triarchy as once they had the pirates. […] Of all the lords of Westeros, none suffered so much from these practices as Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, whose fleets had made him as wealthy and powerful as any man in the Seven Kingdoms. The Sea Snake was determined to put an end to the Triarchy’s rule over the Stepstones.

Since Corlys originally betrothed his daughter to the son of the Sealord of Braavos (a city known for its seafaring culture which includes trade), this further adds to the idea that Corlys was more focused on trade with Essosi ports.

Though once house Velaryon reforged their relationship with the Crown, I can definitely see Corlys allowing more of the trade to go to King’s Landing.

[maxparkhurst]

Druxy

During my tenure with the Seventh Son’s Trading Company, I specialized in mycology. Fungi are adaptive. They flourish in nearly any terrain; however, this particular species is resilient unlike variants found in places such as the Zaralek Caverns. These caverns below the Isle of Dorn house a myriad of lifeforms co-existing alongside the founts of residual magic left behind by Dalaran’s fall. The mycobloom has not only adapted but evolved with it. The mycelium, left untouched for thousands of years, seems to have fed on this teeming energy. It is a wonder what their limitations might possibly be… - from the field notes of Maxinora Parkhurst

It mattered surprisingly little to Maxinora where the Alliance embassy stationed her. Stored and transported in a velveteen coffer, her alchemy equipment was portable. Her and her work were bound by no border nor boundary; the only limitation was the conflict between ravenous curiosity and overwhelming apathy. Whichever won over the other dictated where the Alchemist would burrow. In the week following her arrival in Gundargaz, Maxinora found herself to possess an insatiable hunger…

By the misfortune of an Earthen innkeeper, Max charmed her way into a spacious room. Clever words and disarming smiles are a foxes key tools, after all. She retreated there after grueling days spent drudging through the Ringing Deeps. Her muzzle soddened in red as she drug the prizes of her hunt home - venom sacs and deepflayer glands, orbinid bulbs and luredrop heads, leyline ash and effervescent spores. A bounty of secrets and truths waiting to be gutted and devoured. And in the cool shadows of a slumbering hearth, she could digest in peace.

The carnage of Maxinora’s curiosity laid waste to any order the room might’ve possessed. Books and parchment, scrolls and maps, gurgling beakers and boiling admixtures. It was an organized chaos understood only by the Alchemist. She found it to be a welcomed comfort. A facsimile that echoed close to home. Enough for her to remember why she sank her teeth into her work, and how to emerge as human once she picked her molars clean. A stalk of mycobloom harvested from the Waterworks was her most recent prize. It lay on a metal tray beneath a the halo of an alchemical lantern. She breathed a slow hum as she cut into the flesh of the decapitated bloom. A skilled incision from the scalpel divided the gills from the cap. Irradiated spores oozed from the wound, drenching the air in a pungently sweet and metallic scent. It was inorganic. Electrical, even.

Max substituted her scalpel for a pair of tweezers. She worked the tip under plant tissue and coaxed the wound open enough to take a peek. She released an nonplussed whistle. Inside - clusters of spores made bulbous and fat from the arcane energy swirling inside them.

“And still I continued to be amazed.”

“What is it? Lemme see…”

The voice. Familiar yet different. Always continuing to be different. Somehow sounding exactly like her brother, and yet not at all. It possessed neither weight nor texture as it reverberated from the shadows, nestling close to Maxinora’s ear. The shadows at her shoulder shifted. A feline shape emerged from the dark, paper-flat and semi-translucent. Its gaze, lament eyes burning bright as green-glass fire, widened then narrowed.

“A mutation!”

Maxinora licked that morsel of truth from a canine as she worked the tweezers tips around an irradiated spore. With a great degree of care and deliberation, she coaxed it from the fungi’s fibers and placed it in an awaiting dish. “The mycelium must have absorbed the arcane energy from Dalaran’s fall.”

“This far underground?” The shadow cat glided from Max’s shoulder, collecting onto the table like a cloud of smoke. Its head canted as it watched her slide the dish under a scope’s lens. A moment of silence passed. Then its eyes brightened like midsummer fireflies. “Oh. The water channels… They’re all connected .”

Maxinora rewarded the shade with a toothy grin as she peered down the scope’s eye piece. It took adjusting the turret to a higher lens and a bit of fine tuning with the focus knobs to bring forth a clear image. The spore was composed of agglomerating pockets encased in a clear, keratin coat. Housed in the core of each pocket was a cortex of spiraling arcane mana. “Ah,” she laughed, the sound equal parts mirthful as it was sly, “You are capable of clever moments, little brother.”

Her jest was met with an unexpected fold of silence that momentarily curbed her appetite. She stole a glance up at the shadow cat to find its eyes gone dark and its form nearly transparent. It wavered. Struggled. Then lingered like an autumnal fog. She tempered her smile as she waited. A moment passed into a minute before the shade darkened and its eyes suddenly reignited.

“Ah! Sorry…” The voice sounded warped. Guttural. Pitch black. Wrong. The distortion lasted only a brief second before being corrected. Her brother’s voice spoke in sync with the shadow cat, “It is hard to keep the connection across such a great distance. What were you saying?”

The fox faded from Maxinora’s smile as she turned towards her work. “Oh, yes,” she offhandedly remarked as she opted for a pair of point tip forceps, “Simply that you are very clever, Augustine.” In a different time, different place, she would be all but certain of his puckish grin. Of the delight shining so bright in wonder-struck eyes. But things were inexplicably different, now. She did not dare to even glance at the shadow cat, afraid to catch a glimpse into its starved gaze. Instead, she pierced the spore and dug beneath its keratin skin. Electricity jolted up her arm as the tines clasped a thread of coalescing arcane, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to bristle. She gritted her teeth and uncoiled a cluster of cores with a single tug.

Nothing but a ringing in her ears.

And a sudden flash of white. A lightning strike.

Blood roared in her ears like the distant roll of thunder as her vision cleared. She possessed no recollection of the interim between extraction and now, though during such time she deposited the volatile thread into a separate tray. Her gaze momentarily flicked to the fiber, watching as it oxidized and was slowly reduced to shimmering dust. “Leyline residue,” she concluded, tossing the forceps onto the worktable, “How… Shocking.”

“Perhaps it would be best,” spoke the shadow cat, eyes following Max as she rose and crossed the room to a leaning tower of books, “If I were to travel there, too.” Its tail swayed from shoulder to shoulder, eyes narrowed in a display of concern. “I worry for you, you know.”

Max dismissed his concern with an offhanded wave. Her gaze scanned the tower’s titles: Letters of Avaloren, Coreway Catalysts, Curse of the Flesh, Observational Reports: Mycology, The Order of Azeroth. “Your concern is appreciated,” she remarked, casting the first tome aside and cracking open the second, “But misplaced. Mishka is a formidable combatant and a serviceable escort.” Coreway Catalysts had been devoured and digested within the first few hours of Max’s arrival, yet she found it worthy of a second glance as a sudden thought piqued her interest. The book spoke of the varying magical lifeforms inhabiting Khaz Algar, particularly those with close proximity to the Coreway. The link shared between them and the World Soul have caused some herbs to partially crystallize. This made Max exceptionally curious: If such creations were capable of adapting to both arcane and life energy, what else might they absorb?

“You know that’s not what I- Hm. Listen. Your methodology is a bit… Well, it lends itself to the extreme.”

“Oh-ho. So said the pot to the kettle.” Max plucked Curse of the Flesh from the tower and added it to her growing stack. Stepping over a moor of discarded notes and theories, she meandered back to the worktable. The tray of shimmering dust was scooted closer, and a fresh piece of parchment was drawn from an awaiting stack. “A bit of sacrifice is necessary, especially when unraveling mysteries as complex as the wilds of Khaz Algar.” She found a quill amidst the cluttered table and dipped it in a half-dried inkwell. There was enough pigment to draw up a legible draft.

“Sacrifices…” echoed the shadow cat.

“Yes. Such is the First Law.”

“I am aware of Equivalent Exchange…”

There was a momentary pause during which Maxinora refused to look up despite having not written a single word.

“But you must know that there are people who value you more than your work? Surely some part of you does.”

Max barked an arsenic-sharp laugh as she set the quill aside. Such a vulpine sound. Her lips twitched up into a sly grin, breath drawn in retort, when she looked up to find the shadow cat gone. Naught left but an ever-dissipating trail of smoke.

Alone again.

Max suddenly dropped her gaze, hands clasped in her lap. Sitting amidst the massacre of her ravenous curiosity, ink drying like blood on her fingers, cannibalized theories and speculations stuck in her teeth, mouth salivating for more and more and more… She suddenly felt very abashed. “I am my work…” she whispered, gossamer soft.

If Maxinora did not possess a shimmering spark for alchemy, an insatiable hunger for knowledge… Then what remained other than a husk of a mycobloom dying dark on a metal tray?

Prologue | Previous chapter |

[cozynerdreviews]

Best Cozy Games in Steam Fest

After Love EP

RELEASE DATE: Q3 2024

DEVELOPER: Pikselnesia

PUBLISHER: Fellow Traveller

A story that will pull at your heartstrings and let you experience many different emotions at once, all while you enjoy fun, rhythm-action gameplay. If you feel like playing osu! but want something less challenging to cozy up with then After Love EP will be perfect for you.

Just… remember things might get a bit emotional, so maybe get some tissues ready, just in case.

Tiny Glade

RELEASE DATE: Q3 2024

DEVELOPER: Pounce Light

PUBLISHER: Pounce Light

Tiny Glade wants to give you as much cozy as you can physically handle! Enter a whimsical fantasy world where you can build lovely, rustic castles without worrying about the details or needing a specific plan. Just let your imagination take over… 

Take a screenshot of your beautiful creation once you are done and fantasize about all the mischief you could do if you lived in a fantasy world… at least, that’s what I like to do on my lonely Thursday afternoons.

Airborne Empire

RELEASE DATE: Q3 2024

DEVELOPER: The Wandering Band LLC

PUBLISHER: The Wandering Band , Strayfawn Publishing

Do we have any fans of strategy games amongst our readers? I know some of them can stress you out with all the mechanics, but if strategy is your cup of tea and you feel comfortable in figuring out how to create your village, town, kingdom, or empire… why not take it to the skies!?

Airborne Empire gives you exactly that, and while my mediocre skills got my hangar burned rather quickly (don’t ask), I am sure strategy fans will love this take on the genre! This strategy game felt very relaxing, even if I burned down my hangar.

Amber Isle

RELEASE DATE: TBA

DEVELOPER: Ambertail Games

PUBLISHER: Team17

Are you bored of farming cozy games and need something more… EXCITING? Or maybe you secretly dream about opening a shop with handmade goods?

Amber Isle is a wonderful little game where you gather resources, talk with both residents and visitors of Amber Isle, and build your fortune by selling your own crafts! It was so nice to get lost in making all sorts of things, learning new recipes, and selling the products of your own making.

Oh, I almost forgot the best part! DINOSAURS! Yes! You will be the very best Dinosaur, gathering resources, crafting your items and rebuilding Amber Isle!

Tavern Talk

RELEASE DATE: 20th June 2024

DEVELOPER: Troll Entertainment

PUBLISHER: Troll Entertainment

Tavern Talk is your comfy fantasy novel in the form of a little game where you’re the innkeeper making fancy drinks and planning out quests in between listening to the stories of travelers who visit your establishment. 

The game has all the necessary vibes to make you feel like you’re in the middle of a D&D session – though, rather during the roleplay session while the party rests at the tavern than during action-packed fights. Which makes it perfect for your lazy evenings.

Angela de Frost (Writer) Lucine Zhang (Editor)

[v-thinks-on]

In the year 1187, I began as a journeyman to the village apothecary. When the call came to follow the noble King Richard the Lionheart, like many young men, I eagerly went. The Crusades brought honours and penitence to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. After months of delirious fever, I was fortunate to return to my native England with little worse than a limp and a lame shoulder.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore free as air—or as free as a man with neither health nor livelihood can be. Under such circumstances, I found myself wandering the countryside, where all the loungers and idlers live by their wits and the fleeting generosity of strangers. It was a meaningless, comfortless existence, spending what little health I had far more freely than I ought.

I knew I could not last like this for much longer; I had no choice but to make some drastic alteration in my style of living. The day I had come to this conclusion was in late spring, graced with the charming weather of my native isle; a heavy blanket of grey hanging above the tree tops and a chill in the air, which made my shoulder ache and my legs stiff, and I feared a turn for rain.

I hoped it was not far to the next village. It had already been some days since the kindly innkeeper, who had traded some food and a place to rest for the night for a poultice for his ailing daughter, had pointed me in this direction. These woods were dangerous, he had said, but there was a man in these parts who might be able to help a poor wanderer such as myself. It seemed an unlikely solution, but even a brief respite would be a relief to me.

The deeper I went into these woods, the thicker the growth became; the trees gathered tighter together and it became increasingly laborious to pick my way through the dense undergrowth. Only a dim light filtered through the canopy of clouds and leaves above, leaving the whole forest in twilight, with who knew what manner of men or creatures lurking within—I thought I spied the glint of a Sacaren spear, but it was only a shiny drop of dew upon a thorny bramble.

However, the whiz of an arrow through the air was unmistakable. I had no sword—I was no knight, merely a village apothecary who had gone to tend the brave souls who followed the King into battle, but when the battle began, all men became soldiers—but still I tensed for a fight, glancing around me in search of my assailant. But I saw nothing, only the deep dense woods and an arrow embedded in the tree behind me, mere inches from where my head had been.

“You had better be careful, an old campaigner travelling through these woods alone.”

I started at the voice which sounded just into my ear and turned to find myself face-to-face with a long, thin man who appeared to have materialised from the woods themselves. He was dressed all in green, with aquiline features, and rough bow in hand, another arrow already knocked into place.

“You were at Acre, I perceive,” the man said.

“Y-yes,” I said, too startled to protest at the pronouncement, “did you also follow King Richard the Lionheart?”

He shakes his head, a laughing curl to his thin lips, though there’s a darker irony lurking in his keen eyes. “I have only heard tales of the destruction.”

I can only bow my head in acknowledgement; the evidence of my hardships is unconcealable.

[snowberry-crostata]

Languages of Skyrim

Back to our irregularly scheduled programming, with more headcanons about Skyrim.

Nordic is still the primary language spoken throughout Skyrim, but is slowly becoming less universal as Cyrodiilic, the lingua franca of the Empire, spreads. The Nordic language is descended from the Atmoran language (also called Nedic, which developed from Ehlnofex in the Merethic Era along a separate path from the development of Aldmeris by the elves). One of the most notable linguistic differences between Nordic and other Ehlnofex-derived languages is the influence of Dovahzul on its words and pronunciations due to the long subjugation of the Nords by the Dovah.

In the current day, most people living outside of cities speak Nordic as their primary language, even non-Nords born in Skyrim. For many Nords, Nordic is their only language. However, immigrants to Skyrim such as Dunmer refugees and Khajiit caravaners primarily speak the dialects of their homelands and often teach their native language to their children. Among Mer, attitudes vary around how important it is to speak the language of one’s ancestors; the Dunmer tend to feel strongly that their Skyrim-born children should know how to speak Dunmeris, and they incorporate Dunmeri words and phrases into their speech. Meanwhile, Altmer immigrants often choose not to teach their children any Altmeri at all (this is a result of both the political climate of Skyrim and the distaste that Altmer emigrants tend to have for the current rulers of the Summerset Isles). Merchants and innkeepers in all but the most rural settlements typically speak both Nordic and (at least some) Cyrodiilic.

Orcs living in strongholds throughout Skyrim mostly speak in the Wrothgarian dialect of Orsinian, though the Orcs of Narzulbur speak the Velothi dialect. They know enough Nordic or Cyrodiilic to get by with the occasional trader (trade is typically conducted in a Nordic-Orsinian pidgin), but the languages of men are not commonly heard inside the compounds nor are they formally taught to Orc children. Orcs typically pick up other languages through immersion, which is one reason why Orsimer who leave their strongholds are sometimes perceived as being “slow” or unintelligent by others - they are still learning the local language.

[scotianostra]

18th August 1773 saw Samuel Johnson and James Boswell set out on their three month tour of the Highlands and the Inner Hebrides.

Boswell enticed his famous English friend Samuel Johnson to accompany him on a tour through the highlands and western islands of Scotland.

James Boswell, 9th Laird of Auchinleck was a Scottish biographer, diarist, and lawyer, born in Edinburgh, like many young men he longed to visit the bright lights of London and in 1760 he deserted the family home to live in the English capital for a few months. It was during his second stay in 1762-63 that he met his literary hero and model, the poet, essayist and dictionary maker Dr. Samuel Johnson. In August 1763 Boswell embarked upon a 2½ year Grand Tour of Europe, during which he met many notable men and women, including Voltaire and Rousseau. On returning to Scotland he practised law as an advocate. During this time he made occasional visits London to spend time with Dr Johnson and others of his circle, including Oliver Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Edmund Burke. He was also on familiar terms with David Hume, Adam Smith and other leading figures of the Scottish Enlightenment.

Johnston and Boswell set off less than 30 years after the '45 Uprising, when whisky was still distilled illegally, roads were scarce and travel was by foot, bone-jangling carriage, horseback or over very turbulent seas in a rickety boat.

Their extraordinary journey to the Highlands and the Hebrides during an autumnal season of relentless rain and storms, took Johnson - plump, partially deaf and blind and who had rarely travelled outside of London - on a grand Scottish tour which led to two of the earliest travel books and paved the way for centuries of tourists who would also explore the nation’s wild islands and highland

While for the then 32-year-old Boswell there was a chance to witness Johnson up close for nearly three months, providing a wealth of material for his admired biography, Life of Samuel Johnson. The travel journal was a massive hit and a humorous account of their journey.

Boswell was Scots to his roots and is very defensive about the Scots and Scottishness, while Johnson has this very English take on it all. These two things fuel the humour, Johnson is like this English bulldog and Boswell is like a Scottish terrier. Together they are a hoot! Add to that the facts that as you would expect from a Scotsman, Boswell was a heavy drinker and Johnson was teetotal, which leads to all kinds of escapades. It’s like 18th century Laurel and Hardy.

Boswell, quoted their first conversation in the biography, Life of Samuel Johnson, saying: “Mr Johnson, I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it”. To which Johnson replied: “That, Sir, I find, is what a great many of your countrymen cannot help.”

It set the scene for a friendship driven by verbal sparring, with Johnson’s deprecating remarks about Scots robustly foiled by Boswell’s defence of homeland.

Their travels began in mid-August at Boyd’s Inn in Edinburgh, where the cleanliness dismayed Johnson. Boswell wrote: “He asked to have his lemonade made sweeter; upon which the waiter, with his greasy fingers, lifted a lump of sugar, and put it into it. The Doctor, in indignation, threw it out of the window”.

The pair then travelled up the east coast, stopping at St Andrews to indulge their interest in John Knox and Mary, Queen of Scots, Following the coast towards Aberdeenshire, a bit like today’s NC500 tourists plotting their route, they took an anti-clockwise course along the Moray Coast to Inverness and then to the Western Isles.

At times their journey resembled a lengthy pub crawl as they noted the quality of the inns and the food.

In Montrose, Johnson noted: “At our inn we did not find a reception such as we thought proportionate to the commercial importance of the place; but Mr Boswell desired me to observe the innkeeper was an Englishman, and I then defended him as well as I could.” Dundee, it was noted, was “dirty, despicable”. They even recorded their first taste of Arbroath smokies.

Having travelled through Glen Shiel, the pair arrived at the inn at Glenelg. Often praised today, Boswell and Johnson gave it the equivalent of a one-star TripAdvisor review. Having arrived “wearing and peevish”, they discovered “no meat, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no wine. We did not express much satisfaction.”

The Highland terrain posed even greater stress. Dangerous and often impassable except on foot, they were often in remote spots, miles from inns or shelter or ankle deep in a peat bog. Nevertheless, they trudged on through stormy weather and with Johnson often suffering from colds, increasing deafness and seasickness on the journeys between the islands.

The trip from Coll to Skye was undertaken during a vicious storm, with Boswell fretting over whether the boat might sink or explode, and troubled that he couldn’t understand the sailors’ Gaelic! Johnson was no great fan of the language, describing it as “the rude speech of a barbarous people, who had few thoughts to express, and were content, as they conceived grossly, to be grossly understood”.

But in Skye, they were delighted to meet Flora MacDonald, and slept in the same room that Bonnie Prince Charlie had slept in. “Both were over the moon because they were besotted with the story,” he wrote.

Don’t judge Johnson on his dislike of the Gaelic language though, the pair told of finding the Highlands still occupied by military garrisons, cleared by immigration and spoke of the suppression of Highland culture and oppression of the clans.

The isle of Raasay turned out to be a favourite spot, where the pair enjoyed the clan chief’s hospitality and a raucous ceilidh, with Boswell dancing a jig on the flat summit of Dun Caan. Both felt that in Raasay they had come close to authentic old Gaelic culture and way of life.

By October 1773 they were in the Saracen Head Inn in Glasgow’s Gallowgate, revelling in a roaring coal fire and conversation with professors from Glasgow University.

The trip would come to a sorry end, however, at Boswell’s family’s Ayrshire home at Johnson and Boswell’s father had an enormous row; they were total opposites in religious and political beliefs,

Johnson was a kind of father figure to Boswell. He knew Boswell could be a bit out of hand, but he also knew he was a real literary talent.”

Johnson’s A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, was published in 1775, followed a exactly decade later by Boswell’s The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson. Both wrote their own versions of their tour differently. They go to the same places but see things differently.

[brinefathomcaves]

Aug 24: The Normal Village (6, 10)

This island is home to a village that’s just… ordinary. If encountered on one of the other islands in the Whistling Isle’s archipelago, it would be completely unremarkable. The mostly-human population of about 100 grows crops, raises animals, and generally behaves as though they live on the normal ocean rather than the Sunless Sea. Travelers can get any service they could from a similarly-sized village—lodging, food, smithing, etc., especially by asking around at the single tavern, the Crooked Palm Inn. The locals have little cash and prefer barter.

The local populace deflects questions about their odd circumstances and become uncomfortable and annoyed if pressed. If a villager’s reality is challenged strongly enough, they may mutate into a screecher (long claws, hunched posture, bleeding eyes, constant screaming that deals psychic damage) and attack the nearest creature. There is a secret cavern under the mayor’s house where two screechers are being restrained and muzzled in cells in the hope that the village’s cleric can cure them. So far, nothing’s worked. The villagers do not understand how screechers happen.

Village NPCs

Obasi Mondesir (M Human, LG): Village magistrate and coroner. Late middle age, with receding gray hair drawn back into a ponytail. Desperate to convince his people that everything’s fine; willing to lie to do it but means well. Nervous talker. Always a little sweaty.

Calder Gammidge (M Halfling, NG): Priest of an ocean god. Blue-green robes, thick spectacles. Currently having a crisis of faith that some of his congregant are turning into monsters and there’s nothing he can do to help, but tries not to show it. Wears tall shoes. No inside voice.

Aolina Fors (F Human, N): Innkeeper and bartender at the Crooked Palm Inn. Fat, freckled. Knows everybody’s business and is happy to share gossip, though she pretends otherwise. Lost her husband and kids to a fever a few years ago. Easy mark for a good sob story, very interested in talking to people from outside the island.

Darice Sandeux (M Human, NG): Young windower whose wife turned into a screecher. Frizzy fright-white hair, deep eyebags. Spends all his time at the Crooked Palm now, drinking and generally being miserable. Doesn't know that his wife is one of the screechers Mondesir manged to subdue and capture.

[quicksilverdrabbles]

Inside Dead Man's Drink

Lucien: Excuse me, er..

Morana: *staring blankly at Lucien through her mask* ...?

Lucien: *doesn't know what to call her* Um.. Si- Mada-? Uh.

Morana: *muttering under her breath as she pulls out her notebook* What on earth could he want..? *writing* Can I help you with something?

Lucien: *feeling uncomfortable* Ah, um.. I-I was just wondering-

Inigo: *heard Morana speaking, got curious* My friend, is everything- Oh, hello there!

Lucien: Oh thank Gods- H-Hello! My name is Lucien Flavius!

Inigo: It is a pleasure to meet you, Lucien! My name is Inigo, and my friend here is Morana. She has a very weak voice, and can not typically be heard by others, so she writes in her notebook. Please be patient with her.

Morana: *turning her head to look st Inigo, raising her hand to her chin in a sign for 'thank you'*

Inigo: Hehe, I remember what that one means. You are welcome, my friend.

Lucien: Oh! Do you know sign language? *moving his hands to gesture along with his words* I studied Imperial Sign Language quite a bit in Cyrodiil, but I didn't have much of a chance to practice.

Morana: !!! *rapid-fire signing* You know ISL?

Lucien: Yes! I've been studying a bit of Nordic Sign as well, but it's apparently much less common, even here in Skyrim. The local Nords seem.. rather offended whenever I try to ask about it, for some reason. Like they think the language is ridiculous!

Morana: Nords don't like talking with anything but their fists.

Lucien: Haha! You're not wrong there.

Inigo: Er.. Excuse me, but I did not recognize those words. What did she say?

Lucien: *chuckling* She said that Nords prefer to talk with their fists rather than with their hands.. But aren't their fists also their hands? Doesn't that mean sign language should theoretically be their preferred language? Questions for the ages.

Morana: *quietly giggling, her shoulders shaking* I don't think many of them would remember to take their hands out of fists in order to speak with them.

Lucien: You may just be right!

Kaidan: Right, I'm back with drinks for us. Innkeep was nice enough to- *spotting Lucien and Morana engaged in a conversation with Inigo looking quite lost* ... Who's this, then?

Inigo: This is Lucien Flavius! He knows sign language. I have no idea what they are talking about now. It is very confusing.

Kaidan: Sign language? The 'speaking with hands' Morana mentioned, you mean?

Lucien: Hello there! Erm-

Morana: This is Kaidan.

Lucien: K-Kay-den?

Morana: *shaking her head* Higher.

Lucien: Kaidan?

Morana: Yes.

Kaidan: Nice to meet you. So, Morana doesn't need her notebook to speak to you, does she?

Lucien: Well, I'm sure there may be times where she could still use it, but I'd be glad to be a practice buddy with her!

Morana: I haven't had anyone to speak to like this since I traveled the Summerset Isles.

Lucien: Which was how long ago?

Morana: ... *counting on her fingers* ... four years ago.

Lucien: You've been using a notebook for four years?!

Kaidan: Really?

Morana: Well I've had to use a notebook for much longer. I've travelled to just about every country, and not many people know sign language. Before I left, I had an entire wall of bookshelves full of notebooks in my room.

Lucien: Fascinating! I imagine the change in your handwriting is quite jarring if you compare your earliest notebooks to your current one. Did I see you writing with your left hand?

Morana: Yes.

Inigo: Is that such a strange thing?

Lucien: Most people back in the Imperial City write with their right hands! It's quite uncommon there!

Morana: Most people in the Imperial City never needed to wield a dagger while writing at the same time.

Lucien: You did?

Morana: It was part of my training.

Lucien: Quite gruesome training.

Kaidan: Do you have any idea what they're talking about?

Inigo: I do not have a clue. But, our friend looks happy. Perhaps this Lucien fellow can be another good friend to her.

Kaidan: *Watching the way Morana's hands move with a frown* Yeah.. Feels kinda like we're being left out though, doesn't it?

Inigo: Perhaps Lucien can teach us sign language! That would be fun! And we would be able to speak to our friend without waiting for her to write out her thoughts.

Kaidan: I suppose.. Yes, that could work.

~

Quick recap on Morana's forms of speaking

Italics - Writing, either in her notebook, or on scraps of paper

Bold - Sign language!

Small - Whispering, using her voice. Can't be done too often or else her throat gets sore.

[wisteriteeth]

session 6 of isles inn is finished :--] heres all the cutscene art!!

[satoshi-mochida]

Shiren the Wanderer: The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island coming west on February 27, 2024

Gematsu Source

Spike Chunsoft will release Shiren the Wanderer: The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island for Switch on February 27, 2024 worldwide, the publisher announced.

Shiren the Wanderer: The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island was announced during the Japanese Nintendo Direct broadcast on September 14, but did not appear in the western broadcast. It is the sixth numbered entry in the dungeon RPG series.

Here is an overview of the game, via Spike Chunsoft:

■ Main Visual

■ The Mystery Dungeon System

The Mystery Dungeon offers endless gameplay with procedurally generated dungeon maps, enemies, and loot to ensure that every game will be a new challenge for even the most seasoned adventurers. Shiren starts at level one each time he enters a dungeon, so he needs to grow by defeating enemies, gathering loot, and building strength. All the gear and levels Shiren accumulates will be lost if he collapses during exploration and must restart from scratch. The action progresses on a turn-based system, which allows players to plan carefully and thoughtfully. Players must use their accumulated knowledge, experience, and imagination to succeed.

This title brings new elements to the Mystery Dungeon, such as Shiren taking on new, powerful transformations and giant Behemoth monsters that hunt him through the dungeon.

■ Characters

Shiren

A heroic wanderer who travels the land in search of adventure with nothing but his partner Koppa, his wits, and his iconic hat and cape.

Koppa

Shiren’s loyal companion. Koppa is one of the last talking ferrets, able to speak with both humans and animals fluently.

Asuka

A wandering swordswoman who is old friends with Shiren and Koppa. She’s come to Serpentcoil Island for her own reasons and is reunited with her allies.

Suzuna

The cheerful innkeeper at Uzumaki-Ya, ready to support Shiren and Koppa while they plan their adventures on Serpentcoil Island.

■ Pre-Order the Physical Version Today

As a first-run bonus, a 2.75” x 3” sticker featuring the protagonist Shiren and the game’s traditional Japanese art style will be included with the game. *Image for illustration purposes only. Design and details are subject to change without notice. While supplies last. For details on where to pre-order Shiren the Wanderer: The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island visit the official website. Physical version published in European regions by Reef Entertainment.

About Shiren the Wanderer: The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island

After receiving a vision of a mysterious girl held captive by a terrible monster, Shiren and Koppa make their way to Serpentcoil Island—a distant isle rumored to be the lost stronghold of treasure-hoarding pirates. To brave the many dangers that await them, Shiren and Koppa must traverse complex dungeons filled with hostile monsters, hidden traps, and useful items. All the gear and experience Shiren accumulates will be lost if he collapses during exploration, so beware of rushing in unprepared! Rescue the mysterious girl and uncover the mystery that clouds Serpentcoil Island. The forthcoming release for Nintendo Switch marks the series’ latest mainline entry to come to the West since Shiren the Wanderer: The Tower of Fortune and the Dice of Fate was released on PlayStation Vita in 2016 and then on Nintendo Switch in 2020. While preserving the traditional gameplay, this installment introduces new elements and 3D graphics to create a fresh and exciting adventure.

About the Shiren the Wanderer Series

Shiren the Wanderer series of roguelike RPG games began with the 1995 release of Mystery Dungeon: Shiren the Wanderer for the Super Famicom in Japan. Players venture into a “Mystery Dungeon” that changes each time they enter. To succeed, they need to rely on their wits, experience, and creative thinking to overcome monsters, avoid perilous traps, and conquer the dungeon. Players who run out of energy during their journey will lose all of their possessions including tools, money, and gear, and must start again at level one. Players will experience a thrilling and tense adventure with unexpected events and risks that cannot be redone.

Watch the announcement trailer below. View a set of screenshots at the gallery.

Announce Trailer

English

Japanese

[ladyswillmart]

Serpent Isle Companion #7: Boydon Base Stats:

Strength: 30

Dexterity: 12

Intelligence: 12

Combat: 8

Default Combat Style: Random

Carrying (03/60 Stones): Backpack x1 (Empty); Leather Leggings x1; Black Boots x1

��❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙

Life.

Rummy old thing, that.

Boydon’s master Erstam was obsessed with it, such that he could trace the words of the old wizard’s inexorable torment, engraved into the core of his own strange existence: What is the answer to the question of Life and Death?

Old Erstam spent decades of his life, possibly centuries pursuing it. The endeavor was not a cheap one, costing him many years, many eggs, many chickens, and many more research assistants after he ran out of eggs and chickens to lay them. More than that, the man—once considered the most powerful mage on the Isle—sacrificed his dignity and probably most of his sanity, for what ultimately amounted to an inane little stump of rhetorical algebra:

Life minus Death equals Immortality.

But when at last he put this hypothesis to the test, Erstam was quite satisfied with the conclusion, with the irrefutable proof he produced. So much in fact, that he went on to say that one can trivialize nearly any other problem of philosophical algebra by simply lopping off some integral part of it, e.g., One could avoid the whole chicken or egg issue by killing all the chickens on the premises. No chickens, no eggs, no ontological quandaries, Q.E.D., and so on.

On the other hand, Boydon was not so sure that he appreciated being described as proof—and as a storied veteran of having integral parts lopped off he didn’t find his master’s concluding argument very satisfying at all. He would never dare admit this to the master lest he break his rotten old heart (or worse, invoke his rotten old wrath), but Boydon knew, intimately and absolutely, that Erstam had it all wrong. He was no solution but a complication.

He was not immortal and he was neither alive nor dead, but something else.

But Boydon didn’t know what that something else was, not anymore. And he certainly didn’t know what to think about any of that rummy Life and Death business so he decided he would simply avoid considering it altogether. Thankfully, his travels with Giselle and her friends saw them dealing exclusively with well-defined entities that were either alive or dead, or sometimes alive then made dead via the intervention of Giselle and her friends.

Her work was often brutal and unhappy, but Boydon, who for many years existed as a severed head and a collection of limbs scattered about Erstam’s workshop, was no stranger to violence. Unlike the old mage, he could accept Death as a reality of Life.

Hell, it was probably the most real thing about Life. Rummy old thing, that.

He would remain a steadfast companion of Giselle’s, only deciding to part ways after she proposed launching another expedition into the forsaken frozen northerlies of the Isle, this time to do something terribly important with some of the old ruined temples up there. It all sounded a bit too meaningful and meditative so Boydon elected to stay behind and assist some local warrior-type they had just met—an innkeeper’s son, apparently. Poor chap lost his mother and brother in the attacks that claimed so many others in this place.

This place. What a mess. The Sleeping Bull Inn was once a popular roadside joint once teeming with merriment, life, the occasional cockroach. Alas, one of those Banes (Kindly do NOT ask me what a Bane is, says Boydon) came along and lopped off the Life half of its equation, turning it into a derelict vestige of itself, littered with entities in various states of definition and decomposition.

Except the cockroaches, they were fine. They tended to be impervious to things like mass death and metaphysics.

Boydon took pity on the knight—Sir Wilfred, his name—and volunteered his considerable strength towards cleaning up the place. Such a thing was not easy to think about, but not as difficult to think about as other things. Likewise, Boydon knew he was no philosopher. He had no answers to any of Wilfred’s questions, especially to those about Life or Death. But he knew how to use a shovel.

They worked, digging graves for a fortnight and a week. Well. Boydon worked for a fortnight and a week. Maybe longer. Really, he tried not to think about it too much.

Then, just yesterday, when Giselle and her party at last returned from their mission, she brought something back—someone. He appeared to be an ordinary young man in nearly every respect, but he had a peculiar look about his eyes. Without a single word in re his ontological status, she introduced him as “Sethys”, an Ophidian (Kindly do NOT ask me what an Ophidian is, says Boydon), but there was no need for this because Boydon already recognized him.

That is to say, he knew what the lad was at a single glance: Neither alive nor dead. He was a something else.

While everyone else gathered in the inn’s former dining room and tucked into Petra’s home-cooked supper—splendid, as always—Boydon invited this Sethys to a chat at the bar counter. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, belying his uneasy appearance. Sethys even apologized for seeming high-strung, explaining, as offhandedly as one might speak of one’s knitting hobby or pet terrier, that he was an acolyte of Chaos and a war prisoner who’d just spent the last several centuries or so imprisoned in a rat-infested cell in a basement, awaiting an execution that apparently never came.

Well.

Well, how does one follow an introduction like that...? Boydon deftly changed the subject to something within his own domain of interest: Recreational clam digging. Sethys was unfamiliar with the practice but he seemed most grateful for the diversion.

(As a complete aside, whether or not he actually noticed it, this Sethys chap did not comment on the smell at all, not a single jape or even a pointed wrinkle of the nostrils; Boydon was most grateful for this in turn.)

They spoke for a long time and covered a range of topics from the importance of dried kelp in Ophidian society, to the much more recent practice of “noodling” to harvest flathead catfish. After a little more such idle chit-chat, Boydon seized an opening and sprung the Big One: What say you, then, about the answer to the question of Life and Death?

Life and Death...? This Sethys thought about it for a long time. Finally, he shook his head, his smile faint but amiable. I know not what thou meanest. Life and Death are not questions. Thou wouldst be wasting thy time seeking answers, my friend. Thou’rt here, now, today! So thou shouldst try to enjoy it. That’s what I think.

And even though the today in question was about to become a yesterday, Boydon thought it was a lot nicer to think about than Immortality, anyway.

Anyway, here, now, today—today was brilliant! It was the kind of day that really made one glad to be alive or even a something else. Blue skies as far as one could see, a spectacular canvas for the few cottony wisps of clouds and the crisp autumn breeze that painted them to and fro. While Giselle departed that morning (for Monitor, for some woman whose name Boydon did not recognize and could not recall now), the others got to work on tidying up the inn’s small barnyard.

Giselle left the older woman in charge, but Gwenno's idea of taskmastering was to bustle and potter around the yard wearing an overlarge, floppy straw hat stuffed to the brim with flowers, like something one might see gracing the crown of a retired mule. Occasionally she would hover over someone’s shoulder and offer some kind remark or question regarding their progress, but as she was given no orders nor the authority to delegate them, she mostly served as a source of morale.

“Stefano,” she called on the man idling in the middle of the corral and instantly regretted it—dressed most impractically in a lemon-colored shadbelly and robin’s egg breeches, it was clear the man set out that day to keep his own role purely decorative.

“Yes, old Duck?”

Gwenno felt some unsavory something lurch up the back of her throat every time she looked at him. “Please tell me you’ve seen Sir Wilfred about.”

“Hah! Alas, lackaday and good luck trying to find him,” Stefano snorted. “I reckon somebody must’ve mentioned the words yard and work over this morning’s vittles because brave Sir Wilfred took off in a flash before he could even take a crack at his eggs.”

“Boydon, have you seen him?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, leaning on his pitchfork, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Due to the nature of his construction, Boydon did not perspire so much as he percolated. “Stefano there has the right of it. I saw him shortly after Petra served breakfast, sort of whizzing through the front door like a bee smelling honey. He seemed to be following Miss Gizzard.”

“Brilliant.”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

“I need to get into that barn but the bloody doors are locked!” Gwenno lamented. “I assume he might have the key, or at least know where to find one.”

“Oh, rats to him and his key. I wouldn’t bother with that blowhard. Just take a little prowl through the inn, rifle around a bit,” said Stefano, gleefully sly. “Case the cupboards and whatnot, I’m sure it’ll pop up sooner or later.”

“Indeed. That’s your solution to everything—break into someone’s house and meddle around until you get what you want.” Mortegro’s stentorian baritone cut through the air from the fence where he stooped. Appropriately the mage himself appeared a silhouette on the sun, clad in funereal black, carefully meting out quantities of a stringy red reagent from one purse to another. However there was no disdain in his voice; he grinned too. ��Why not volunteer your expertise?”

“Volunteer!” Stefano bristled. “You know jolly well I don’t work for free. Not even for—Hello!”

As one says when one is confronted, tête-à-tête, with the beady, penetrating eyes of a phenomenally meaty specimen of poultry.

The buff bird clucked testily, giving his scarlet wattle a good wattling.

“Uh, hello,” added the owner of the shoulder upon which the rooster perched, uneasily—that is to say, an uneasy owner made for an uneasy perch, and there were few perches on Serpent Isle uneasier than Sethys. He came from behind, from where the hen house was located and from where he had been tasked with locating said hens. With uncompromising anxiety he took great care to approach the group in a way that would not startle anyone (least of all himself or his cargo) but it would seem the rooster did not share his foibles.

“Buck bu-gerrrrrk!” he crowed, imperiously, impossibly loud.

Sethys yelped and clutched his heart. It had been a long millennium.

“Hello to you too, Buck-Buck!” Stefano dubbed the bird immediately.

“Well, I see you’ve found one of our missing chooks, at least. Any others?” wondered Gwenno.

“I am sorry, miss,” said Sethys. “I did look hither and yon for the other hens, but this fellow seems to be all what remains of the lot.”

“Buck buck!”

“Hither and yon, you said?” Stefano raised an eyebrow, amused. “Well, did you try looking athwart or somewither?”

“Stefano...” Boydon warned; he disliked teasing, especially when the recipient seemed so totally unaware of it.

“Yes! Hither and yon and everywhere in between, I reckon. And...” Sethys’s voice softened to a near-whisper as he squinted incredulously, as if he didn’t want the rooster to notice his doubt. “I swear, I swear it, I swear this cockerel was creating his own food!”

“What, did he cut off his own leg and broil it?”

“Not as such, he—art thou making fun of me?”

“Buck buck! Bu-gerrrrrk!”

Stefano recoiled and shut his mouth; he had to admit, the lad did appear significantly more intimidating while he wielded that wicked rooster on his shoulder.

“Pay the dandyprat no mind, dear. What do you mean by creating his own food?” asked Gwenno, concern evident.

“I know it doth make me sound the gudgeon, but I would swear on all that is holy that I saw this chicken—I heard him say In Mani Ailem,” Sethys told her. “Dost thou know of that spell? 'tis quite an old one, for sure.”

“Create Food, you mean? One of the very few Stefano knows how to cast, for sure, if that was not immediately evident,” said Mortegro as he ambled forward, closing the distance between himself and the others. “But I must warn you, your story does sound comprehensively preposterous. Hard to imagine a rooster saying anything amounting to anything more than cock-a-doodle-doo.”

“Well, it did sound a bit like that,” Sethys admitted. “But when he said it, I could feel a shift in the surrounding ether, as if he had really cast a spell. And when he finished there was a tidy little pile of chicken feed, right there at his own feet!”

“Buh-guck. Buck buck.”

Mortegro shook his head. “Impossible. Moreover, meseems one would have to be going around the twist, to so readily accept the existence of spellcasting chickens.”

“No! No, I-I’m not!” Sethys said, flustered. “Besides, what would I know? It hath been one thousand years since I last saw a chicken, at least. A lot could happen to a chicken over a thousand years.”

Buck-Buck clucked in the affirmative.

“He's got you there, Morty,” said Stefano, suddenly realizing. “Wait, what do you mean, immediately evident...?”

“—Oi!”

A squealing hail from the other side of the barnyard impelled Boydon to turn his head, straining at the seams as he did. From that distance, and to Boydon’s diminished eyesight, the newcomer appeared little more than a blob in shining armor, struggling to maintain his domineering bearing as he loped through the muddy morass.

“Bunch of slugabeds!” Sir Wilfred continued his halting castigation. “The Lady Giselle did not hire the likes of me simply to loaf around with a bunch of sloths and old women and... and mages...!”

Stefano muttered, well beneath his breath. “Speaking of cocks...”

“Bu-gerk?”

“Poor thing.” Sethys was giving the rooster a pitiable look and an ill-advised riffle to the neck feathers. “All of thy hens have flown the coop. He must be quite lonely.”

“I'm sure he is, dear. I bet he’s parched, too,” said Gwenno. “Why don’t you take him around the side, to the water pump? Let him have a nice drink? Cool off a little?”

“That old pump is a stubborn cuss,” noted Boydon. “Allow me.”

Gwenno nodded her agreement but kept her eyes focused on the encroaching Wilfred, seemingly nursing a similarly encroaching headache. “Yes, that would be quite helpful of you,” she said, grimacing. “But really, I think we’re all going to need a nice drink shortly.”

“Hopefully something nicer than water,” Stefano added, dryly.

“Indeed,” agreed Mortegro. However, he was more keen on watching Boydon shuffle off in the opposite direction, with Sethys and the rooster following at an awkward clip. “What a strange thing. Rummy old thing, that. Life. Bah.”

Gwenno glanced at him. “What about it?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing, madame.” Mortegro inhaled, closing his eyes. “Nothing important. Just that...”

“Oi!” Wilfred hollered again. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Just that... The very premise is absurd, but I cannot shake the feeling that I know that rooster...”

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙ 

Side Notes: This screenshot is an absolute fabrication! Obviously not possible in the actual game... The things I do for a good story! LOL

There is one of these little stories left and I’m a bit sad. I enjoyed writing these a lot. But then, I guess there’s nothing stopping me from writing more, huh?

Previous Stories:

#1: Gwenno

#2: Petra

#3: Wilfred

#4: Selina

#5: Mortegro

#6: Stefano

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

For Ravonna: If you didn't have to worry about money, politics, or logistics, where would you travel? What would you do first once you arrived at your destination?

This is for this ask game!

Hello there! I don't really care about politics, to he honest. I hate the Thalmor, so I probably wouldn't go to the Summerset Isles. That's where their main base is, right? Or maybe I would sneak there, but my friends tell me I'm a terrible sneak, apparently...

Aaah, I don't even know! I would go everywhere! Each province has its beauties and songs. And special drinks! My initial life plan, before the whole dragonborn thing was to become a bard and eventually travel the world. I wanted to sing at least once in every tavern ever. And be a crazy wizard-bard. Now I'm a crazy wizard-bard who needs to defeat Alduin because otherwise this whole beautiful world will end. No pressure at all...

The first thing I'd do anywhere would be go to the local tavern and see the people there. See who the fun people are and who are the assholes. Talk a bit with the innkeeper and get the special drinks, whatever those are. Maybe even get the recipe. Then, after a few of those, I'd probably try to impress the people with my singing or my party tricks.

[ainews]

On the 26th of April 1643, the sleepy town of Peel on the Isle of Man made headlines as a long-forgotten ghost made its presence famous. The specter in question was a ‘torpid ghast’; a term used to refer to a sleeping ghost that remained dormant in a state of suspended animation over the last centuries.

According to Isle of Man folklore, the torpid ghast was once an innkeeper who situated himself and his establishment in the town of Peel. The innkeeper's untimely demise triggered the emergence of the supernatural entity that eventually settled in the abandoned building, and haunted its residents for hundreds of years.

On the fateful day of the April 26th, the ghast unexpectedly woke up and set in its wake a terrifying ripple effect of events. Various accounts describe a series of poltergeist occurrences, such as objects flying around and lights mysteriously flicking off and on.

The arrival of the torpid ghast awakened a dormant local superstition that had seemingly been forgotten by successive generations of islanders. As rumors began to circulate about the ghast's presence, fear soon began to creep its way into the small town.

Local authorities decided to investigate the matter further and called in renowned English occultist and amateur folklorist, Reverend J.T. Bloxham. After performing a thorough investigation of the torpid ghast's haunt, Rev. Bloxham concluded that the lively specter was an ancient entity known as “The Torpid Ghast of Peel.”

The case of the torpid ghast of Peel made waves throughout the island, and has become a continued source of fascination among many Islanders. The apparition has been referred to in multiple historical texts as one of the earliest recorded occurrences of the supernatural in the Isle of Man.

Today, the story of the torpid ghast remains part of Manx folklore and stands as a testament to the courage and resilience of the Isle of Man's people in times of hardship and uncertainty. It serves as a reminder of the lasting presence of the Otherworld in the Town of Peel and beyond.

[whoislio]

Several Days Later

The crystal turns, night becomes day, a brief respite.

I've reached Mereldar in Hallowfall, the fight with the Nerubians and followers of some dark master brought me here. I took the time to restock my supplies, sharpen my blades, and grab a drink at the local tavern. Those like me, those from the surface, are scattered about the town here. Some merely seeking to aid the people here, others searching for lost loved ones from Dalaran or the various battles that have ensued since arriving on the Isle. I am an outsider on both fronts, no one lost, no skin in the fight, merely here because the surface held no answers for me.

The Empire's Edge is packed as I take a seat with my mug of something the Innkeeper called Blessed Brew. All that mattered to me was that it was cold and the drink would muddy and blur some of the images in my head from the battles that brought me here. One of the servers brings me another mug, setting it on the table before I've finished the last gulp of the first. I can feel a warmth begin to spread as I gulp down the second mug and finally relax against the back of my chair. My eyes wander as my thoughts return to my completely blank slate. I still don't know who I am, though given my ears I assume I am some sort of elf, I've seen others like me but no one looked at me as though they knew me so I didn't bother them with my problems. I sigh, just about ready to get up and explore the town when another elf sits at the table next to me.

"Hi there!" She was quite cheerful given the grim path it took to get here. "I haven't seen many of us down here, I'm Romassi, but everyone just calls me Roma. What's your name?"

I contemplated just walking away, but the way she said us piqued my interest. "Lio, just Lio." I force a smile that seemed to appease Roma as she smiled back.

"Boy my wings are tired, having to fight those flyers so they stopped swarming the fighters on the ground nearly wiped me out. Is that any good?" She pointed at my mug.

I was a little confused by her words, I remembered seeing odd creatures, something of a mix of dragon and humanoid, flying about the skies and battling the winged Nerubians. But she neither looked like one, nor did she have wings. Perhaps she took a particularly nasty bump on the head. I was just about to start inspecting her for any head injuries when she spoke up again.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" She raised a brow, tilting her head as her hair parted from the shift to reveal a broken horn at her hairline. "Are you well?"

I stared, I admit it, not in a creepy way, but in a way that Roma apparently found funny as she started to laugh.

"You know, not that I am complaining, but compared to most of our kind your visage is somewhat plain. Beautiful in its own way, don't get me wrong. But plain. No horns, hardly any jewelry, no scales. It's like you said I want to be pretty but boring and instead your look became pretty boring." She continued to laugh.

"I'm sorry.. what? Visage? What are you on about?" I couldn't quite wrap my mind around what she was saying, was she calling me boring? Ugly? Dull? I don't think I've heard those words used to describe me. Before I could dig through my head to decipher her meaning two things happened all at once. Where a lovely elven woman with a broken horn, and laugh that was beginning to irk me, sat one of those humanoid dragons now did, their wings folded beneath their neck like a leathery, scaley cloak. And I fell out of my seat.

Nearly the whole tavern turned their attention to us, some craning their necks around those at their table to get a look at what was happening, but I seemed to be the only person shocked by her sudden shift in appearance.

"I.. you.. wha-.. huh?" I swore I knew how to speak, honest, but the words just tumbled out of my mouth and they weren't the ones I wished to use.

Roma chuckled and shook her head, her crimson scales catching the lamplight in an almost mesmerizing way. "What's wrong with you, Lio? You act like you've never seen this before."

"I haven't." Well look at that, chose the words, spoke the words, and they were the right words!

Roma appeared confused, though it was harder to tell with this face than the elven one she had only moments ago. "Surely this is some kind of joke?" From my place on the floor I could see her tail twitching, the spiked, club-like end rolling back and forth behind her seat. "You.. haven't? I.. aren't you.. I mean you have to be, aren't you? I can't be wrong. Aren't you?"

"Aren't I.. what?" I may as well get off the floor now, this conversation felt like it was taking a serious turn and me getting up might stop people from staring.

"One of us?" She leaned forward, glowing golden eyes searching for something in my own.

"You mean.. can I turn into something like that in the blink of an eye? No. Just an elf, sorry to disappoint. Nearly a month ago I woke up on some ship during a storm, crew said they found me in a wreck. All I had with me was a satchel and a book, Lio was written on the inside cover so I took it as my name." I looked over to the innkeeper and gave them an apologetic look for the scene I'd caused and tossed a few coins onto the table. "Anyways.. this has been fun, but I should get going. Best of luck with.. well.. whatever you're doing." I didn't spare her another glance, the look she'd given me stirred something dormant inside me and I didn't like it, it made my skin crawl. I'd barely made it out of the door, one foot on the path when I felt hands wrap around my arms and hoist me up. Only.. the up just kept going..

"Stop squirming! I don't want to lose my grip!" Roma shouted through the rushing winds as she flew higher and higher.

"ARE YOU INSANE!?" The ground was rapidly getting further away and all I could think about was the soldiers I'd seen being dropped by the flying Nerubians exploding against the ground like sack of meat and bones. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?"

"Just proving a point!" She yelled hovering in place.

"And what point is that?!"

"This!" And she let me go.

Looking back this was sheer insanity, not knowing who or what I was, no proof beyond whatever crackpot idea she had in her head about me. Was she hoping an instinct that had yet to surface in my entire fight down here would suddenly come? All I knew for certain in that moment was that I was about to die and there was nothing I could do about it but hope she came to her senses before I hit the ground like some sort of nightmare water balloon.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" I tried to flatten out in vain, hoping to slow my rapid descent to no avail. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU- "

Something stirred once more, this time stronger, I felt it reach into my very core and rip away the shackles of fear. It was instantaneous, one second I was falling to my certain death and the next I was leveling out and just missing the rooftops before banking left and coming back around towards the tavern. I could see her crimson form at the entrance, wings spread, arms pumping in the air. She looked happy. Did she not know I was coming? Did she not sense the approaching danger?

I crashed into her, slamming her to the ground, my momentum sliding us both several yards and nearly a foot deeper into the ground. "I should kill you!"

Black and silver scaled hands with curled black talons closed around her throat and through her struggles for air she managed to squeak out. "See... I.. told.. ya..."

I let out a growl of frustration as I released her, staring at these odd hands and arms that moved when I moved them. Standing up and inspecting myself further, I found that these scales covered my entire body, wings curled in, hooking together under my neck, something dragged behind me as I continued to examine every inch I could see, bringing my attention to my tail. MY TAIL! I HAD A TAIL! AND WINGS! I was one of those.. one of those THINGS! Unlike Roma's tail, my own was like a long and bladed spearhead that carved furrows into the dirt and clanked against the cobbled path as I turned.

Consider the shock I must have experienced, one moment thinking I was an elf, one moment thinking I was about to die, and the next.. I am something else, something entirely different that I'd believed myself to be all this time. I wasn't an elf, no, like Roma I was a Dracthyr, and the form I'd thought was just me was merely a visage. Take that in for a moment. Good? Great.. let's get back to it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

Again, remember.. this was a shock to me, okay?

"Calm down! You can't tell me you didn't know this was who you really are, Lio." Roma chuckled as she got to her feet. "I've never heard of any of our kind not knowing." She gave me a once over. "Though the visage is starting to make more sense.. wow." Roma recoiled as she took in my form.

"I.. didn't.. know.. and you.. you.. y- ARGH!!!" I tackled her again. "WHAT IF YOU WERE WRONG!!?"

"HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!" The clank of armor and the song of drawn steel snapped me out of it as the guards approached.

I didn't wait to face the guards, I thought about being away from here and pushed off the ground suddenly finding myself hurling through the skies with Mereldar disappearing behind me.

"HEY! Wait for me!" Roma had followed me. "Come on! Let's touch down there!" She soared beside me, pointing to a nearby cliff overlooking the water.

I wanted to tell her no and fly away from her but I figured she'd just keep following me so I turned and began circling the cliff, slowing myself down before attempting a landing. I will admit, not my most graceful landing, but I did land on my feet, sort of, and Roma landed beside me a moment later.

"You really didn't know?" She asked, concern, the same expression she had at the tavern etched her scaled face.

"No. I didn't." I searched within, trying to find a way to turn back. I was about to give up when Roma placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry.. I thought you were pulling my tail." She paused briefly before continuing. "Focus on the image in your mind, hold it there, and push it towards the front of your mind. Do you have it?"

I nodded, struggling to keep my thoughts on the face I'd seen in the mirror so many times before today. I felt the stirring, only instead of breaking free, this felt more like bundling up..

"There you go.. not so hard, right?" She clapped me on the shoulder. "Of all the things you thought you were.. I bet this was the furthest from your mind."

I couldn't help but smile as I opened my eyes, seeing she'd returned to her visage as well. "This wasn't even a consideration."

I finally knew what I was.. but the question of who still remained. Was Lio even my real name? Was it short for something? Was I good? It would be a long, long time before I learned the answer to who I was, and how it came about was not in a way I'd ever thought of. But I like to think that it was moments like this that helped shape me into something better than I was. Because knowing what I know now.. there's no telling what kind of monster I'd have become.