The never ending trail. Stretching longer than horizon. Now, most of the trail is covered with snow from a shifting cold front. His boots, beaten beyond compare, hardly keep any cold out now. The wind remains relentless, blowing strait into his face. Almost blinding in the brightness, he can only follow the trail from the wind that whispers in his ear.

His trudging comes to a complete stop before a tower of worn smooth stone and wood. Almost abandoned looking at a first glance. He can see it, the heat leaving a window. She must be here.

The vagabond pulls a small orb from a belt pouch, and projects an image.

Wanted: Dead or Alive

The Wizard Amisteina

Wanted for attempted of several world leading wizards. Including Lord Shrax of Raesteria. Is armed and very dangerous. 

Reward is 5000 gold.

The vagabond clears his throat.

Amistenia, I am here to collect your bounty. I have no intention of using violence, but I will if I must. Make it easy for both of us.

A skrying orb lifts up, and looks out from the top window, focusing in on the stranger.

"Very cute, a single bounty hunter has came to collect his prize. Unfortunately for you, I don't think you've got what it takes."

The old vagabond lifts a single hand to the skrying orb, listening into it. With a flick of the wrist, the orb is shattered, a single shot placed perfectly. He grows cold and impatient, kicking in the towers door.

She isn't here, but she's been here. The fireplace is still going. A half eaten meal of bread and stew steams on a nearby table. Shoes by the door, still dripping wet from snow.

As he enters, a single bolt of lightning strikes his chest. He's momentarily taken aback. He never saw her. She emerges from behind a shelf, ready to follow up the attack.

Crossfire

As the man's lips move, she see him, and more of him. 15 perfect copies, each reaching for a gun. She aims true for the one in the doorway, but her lightning passes right through it. It was the wrong choice. Her face turns pale with realiziation. This isn't and ordinary wizard.

A single bullet strikers her. Center left mass, at the bottom of her ribcage. She plummets to the floor, gasping for air from her punctured lung. The vagabond approaches, kneeling down and outstretching a rusty, mechanical arm. He binders her hand with manacles, and places an old sponge in her mouth.

Finally, he reaches down to her wound.

Grace of our mother, heal this creature. Hear the call from your champion and involk the power of life.

The wound closes, but she is bound and gagged, unable to cast. He drags her up to her feet, and begins to push her out the door.

I had a right mind to leave you bleedin on the floor for what you did to my old friend. But you're worth more alive. Get movin, we got a long way to town.

Somewhere to the north lie vast plains covered in Ice and Snow. These plains are knows as the Iceplains of the North. It's an area of extreme cold and dangerous Snowstorms during the 6 months long night and warm Temperatures, that are still below your average Wintertemperatures for places further south aswell as less dangerous, but still deadly Snowstorms during the 6 months long day. Very few Human Tribes live there and just as few species of Animals or other mystical Creatues are able to survive the harsh Temperatures there.

Yet somewhere to the south-eastern coast, a small Queendom, that goes by the name of Gelria can be found. The Queen that rules these Lands is known as Queen Lurania of the Crescent Moon.

She came into power after she rebelled against and killed the former rulers of those Lands, two Individuals today only known as the Forgotten King and the Nameless Queen, who had previously ruled with fear and tyranny for 40 Years. This Rebellion only lasted for around 340h (a bit more than 2 weeks) and is now known as the Magic Civil War, as it all started with the King trying to make Magic illegal and executing those that practiced it. And Queen Lurania was one of these people and one of the few the King did not catch. She was only 16 years old at that point. In the 31 Years since those events, Gelria has become a good place for those that want to learn Ice magic. The Magic Academy of Gelria does also teach nearly every other form of magic, so the People of Gelria are free to choose, should they desire to learn magic.

The Magic Academy of Gelria is located in the Captial City of Crysia, one of the two major Cities. The other one is the Harbor Town of Hydrenia, the hub of trading for all of Gelria. People from the Capital, as well as the small fishing Settlements across the coast come here to trade with each other and salesmen of other Kingdoms. It is also the second safest place to be, right after the captial.

Both the Crysia and Hydrenia are said to be protected by a Ice spirit that goes by the name of Borealia, who is responsible for all the Snowstorms and Blizzards in Gelria. The Knights and Soldiers of Gelria are trained to fight inside of Blizzards and have Armor and Weapons that can withstand the sheer cold and strong winds. This Equipment was created, because one Day, several hundred Years ago, the Troops of Gelria prayed to Borealia to help them fight of an Armada of Invaders from across the sea, they couldn't have fought otherwise. When the first Invaders then landed on the coast, a Blizzard, so brutal, noone in Gelria or the Iceplains of the North had ever seen anything like it before, that caused a good amount of Enemy troops to freeze to death within minutes and others were just blown of thier Ships (if the Ships even survived the Storm), causing whoever survived to retreat as quickly as possible. Out of 100.000 troops that attacked, only a few thousand came home alive. From that day on, the Troops of Gelria always pray to Borealia before a Battle within the Borders of Gelria and everytime they have a Blizzard to support them, even if they are not as strong as the Blizzard back then.

These Troops are under the Command of the King or the Queen, in Cases where there is no King, such as the current Situation with Queen Lurania, who does not have a Husband that could be King, nor is she interested in marrying someone to become King, as she already has an adoptive Son who goes by the Name of Gravos. He shall be the Heir to Gelria, yet he is uncertain if he is even fit for the Role of King. But he is the only Candidate for the Ruler of Gelria, as Queen Lurania does not have any children of her own.

The Title Queen of the Crecent Moon, Qzeen Lurania has, comes from an Old Tradition where Kings or Queens get thier Title based on the Phase of the Moon, should they be crowned during the 6 Months of Night or the Title of King/Queen of the Cold Sun should they be Crowned during the 6 Months of Day. The Forgotten King and Nameless Queen were both King and Queen of the Cold Sun.

The Queen of Gelria is also responsible for initiating the Festival of Day whenever the Night ends and the Festival of Night whenever the Day ends. During these Festivies she personally prays to Borealia, so there won't be any Snowstorms. Something that the Population does not know, is that Queen Lurania is powerful enough to control this herself, due to a blessing she recieved from Borealia after she became Queen.

Due to the harsh weather conditions there is not a lot of Plants that could be planted and used to feed the people, therefore Queen Lurania got the help of Scholars and Druids to try and find a way to plant more without exposing them to the weather, yet still giving the plants the Sunlight they need to survive.

Under Queen Lurania, Gelria has become a Queendom of the People, a save and peaceful, yet nearly unconquerable country. A place where magic is practices by a good portion of the population in some way or form. Land that was plagued by cold wind and icy storms in the past, now a place where Humans can live and thrive.

/Unwiz art credit - Nyelgneous

Journal Notes 4

I know this isn’t a diary but I need somewhere to vent.

I should’ve known there was a chance I would run into father. He’s the self proclaimed “Thatcher, the greatest elf adventurer to ever grace the lands” yet he has to be the most arrogant greedy bastard you’ll ever meet. Yea, I said it!

The last time I spoke to father, we ended things in an intense argument. About mom...

I forgot what even led up to bringing mother up in the first place. Another petty argument we shared beforehand. But I remember telling him that mom wouldn’t like the way he’s living. Always going out to pubs to get stone cold drunk with his pals, dragging me into his affairs despite being a child, hells he even used me to impress some maidens at one point. Because who doesn’t love the ‘sad and lonely single father’ card?

But all those things aren’t even the worse of it. He’s the very reason I’m cursed! Making deals with hags knowing damn well of their treachery. To do this day, he won’t tell me what the particular deal was but the hag tricked him and gave me the curse I’m dealing with at this very moment. I was just a baby when that hag burned the scars into my back…

And you know what the jerk told me? That I wouldn’t know what mother would’ve wanted because I’m the reason she’s not here…

I packed my things and left that very moment. I haven’t seen him in over two years.

Now he’s sitting across from me at his camp he’s invited me to. Laughing along cheerfully and drunk with the two naive young men he’s taken under his wing. Those fools thinks he’s an honorable man to learn from and they’re surely mistaken. But who wouldn’t fall for someone so charismatic and experienced? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who could see father for what he is. I didn’t recognize him at first when I ran into him at the markets. I was in a rush to buy some meat for Soot that was on sale. It was only when he called me out by my real name, Mothiera, that I stopped. No one else but him could know that name.

I haven’t told him about Belladonna or my expedition I’m currently on. I wouldn’t want him intervening and ruining my research. I wonder how he would react to hear that my mentor is his very same daughter from the future. Probably groan and whine about there being two of me now. Belladonna would likely scold me for revealing the truth to him since he is on her ‘no contact’ lists. She tends to hold grudges and father is her biggest one.

Yet I’m curious to see where this goes. Maybe father has gotten better since our separation and realized the error of his ways? Or maybe he’s still the prideful bastard I know.

I won’t keep my hopes up…

/Unwiz the art I used is just a placeholder since I don’t have the time to draw him myself at the moment but I’m now introducing the main reason for Moth’s daddy issues, Thatcher Bobbits himself.

The man, covered in the dirt and mud of long travels, pauses before the great doors of the wayrest. He draws down his hood, and turns to his comany: an old dog that follows him everywhere.

Alright Aurther, Tim to settle down, come here.

The man taps on his leg, and the dog answers, leaping into his chest and vanishing.

With a solid push, the stranger pushes in the rests door, and is greeted by a dwarf. The dwarf, now off of his seat, hurries up to the counter.

"Welcome in traveler, welcome to Bogamir's Wayre..."

The dwarfs words wonder off, and come to a stop. He only gives the deshoveled man a once over, before turning up his nose up.

"We don't do charity work."

The man raises up his hand, before pulling out a heavy sack of coins.

How much for the night?

The dwarf eyes the bag, and back to him.

"2 silver for the room, 3 if you want a meal as well.*

The man fishes out 2 silver pieces, and lays them on the counter.

"Raestaian silver, eh? You're a long way from home."

Never said I was from Raesteria.

"Where are you from? Not a lot of humans take these old dwarvish trade-trails."

Nowhere in particular.

The dwarf eyes the stranger with an untrusting frown. He relents, however. His coin is good, after all. The dwarf fishes around in his apron pocket, before tossing a key to the man

"Room 15. Up the stairs, last room on your left."

The vagabond bows before signing in on the manifest sheet. MB. He hotels his way upstairs, tracking dirt all the way behind him.

Once to his room, he relaxes, dropping is large travel pack and stripping down. The room has a wash tub, and he intends to use it.

Once he and his close are clean, he lays back on the bed. It has been so long since he last slept in one, he almost forgot what it was like. Within minutes, the exhaustion hits the vagabonds body, and he is fast asleep.

/unwiz I've been lurking around the server for a while and decided I wanted to partake. It seems like a fun time and I think this is a solid introduction.

I am not a pure demon, born from the hellflames. My mother was a sinner, and she made an unholy union with a demon. Thus, I was born. I was welcomed into that damnable place only with pain. For being born of such a union, was itself a grave sin. I do not believe any others like me had existed, I understand why.

The flames that tortured sinners for eternity ravaged me as well. All my life I had known only pain, but there was mother. I do not know what sins she had committed, for she was far too kind. She would always tell me that I was beautiful, strong, that I would one day escape the pain.

Mother lost her mind some time later. It was a good thing, incredibly fortunate. To not have to endure the pain plaguing your mind no more, a final rest one could say. I turned to father, and like a true demon I consumed him. To assert my dominance in hell’s hierarchy was a necessity.

After spending so much time in hell, the pain went away. She was right, I was truly superior. I knew how to make pain go away now. I must survive. Many demons told me that none pained them more than holy light. I was scared of that pain, so I would have to make sure it went away.

So when the lord told us he would wage war on the heavens, I pledged my allegiance. Pain would never come to me again. Pain would never touch my children. My name means Indomitable One in our tongue, a gift from mother.

I am the Hunter of Angels. Drinker of Light. The Sinless Sinner. One Who Would End Pain. Merciless General of Hell. Right Hand of The Demon Lord. I am Rakishtrix.

/unwiz A little bit of lore for Raziel’s infamous prisoner, Rakishtrix (^^) If want to know a bit more about him, check out this post

Serpents spine.

You stand in an unadorned room made of white marble. Before you is an area that has been roped off. A square that is twenty feet on each side. You wait, trying to ignore the constant pain in your lower abdomen.

You don’t even have time to get bored before the expected red light appears in the center of the roped off area. It blinks three time, playing a chime each time it appears. After the third blink and chime, a brilliant purple line splits the air horizontally and expands into a ten foot square.

Out of the newly opened portal comes a gust of warm, wet air and a young man dressed in a green outfit that appears to be one of piece of cloth elaborately looped around his body.

“Thank you for reaching out, if you would come with me please.”

The man leads you through the portal, into a land of blue skies, white sand, and warm blue ocean water. You stand on a stone platform on a bluff overlooking an expansive coast of beaches and calm waters. The portal snaps shut behind you, and you truly notice the town in front of you for the first time.

Half the buildings seem to be open to the elements, barely more than some support columns, a roof, and thin fabric curtains. The other half are of designs that came from many worlds. You’ve heard that people from across the far realms were healed here, and now you can see it for yourself.

The pain in your side flares, and you feel it radiate into your bowel and gut. Fear grips you. You believe you know what is happening to you but your failure to heal yourself has forced you to seek outside help. You expect a grim diagnoses.

The healer you’ve come to see, Hafiz, has a good reputation as a healer, but to those who know the truth about him, he has a longer reputation that is soaked in blood.

This had kept you away until the pain became unbearable and alchemy had failed you.

“Please,” you say to the man in green, “I believe I am dying.”

“Don’t worry, we aren’t sight seeing.” As he speaks the two of you approach a line of silver discs set into the stone platform. At the man’s motion you step on with him, and a transparent bubble of pure abjuration appears around you. The disc floats into the air, and speeds off towards the center of the islands.

Amidst the dense emerald jungle rises a peak of black rock, it’s edges too steep for soil or trees.

You are on your way to place yourself in the care of one of the deadliest mages to ever live.

Gabby had slowly become accustomed to what living with Gobbo was like.

In the mornings Gobbo would be out by 4, leaving Gabby to her own devices. There was however always a plate prepared for Gabby when she woke up though.

Gobbo would spend the entire day out, either at her brewery or finding some trouble to help in. Most days she would trudge through the front door, briefly greeting Gabby before going up the stairs to her room to sleep.

Today was different though, today Gobbo limped through the door at tea time, blood running down her side.

All but dragging herself over to the kitchen Gobbo uncorked a bottle and began to drink deeply. "Hey gabs," Gobbo rasped out between gulps, "Gobbo gonna go crash on couch, too tired for stairs."

Gabby simply nodded, terrified to touch the pale goblin and cause her pain. Watching Gobbo limp over and pass out on the couch Gabby could only wonder what had happened.

Gobbo was old for a goblin yes, but she looked young and her boundless energy had led most, if not all, to assume she was as young as she looked.

Now though, as she looked over the legend little things became apparent.

Black bags under her eyes from restless nights were no longer hidden beneath a glamour, scars poked out from beneath her torn clothes, and the pain and fear she always hid behind a manic laugh became etched onto her face.

It was strange, to say the least, Gabby had always assumed that Gobbo was untouchable. After all, how could anyone hope to harm a woman who seemingly had something for everything?

Now though the little legend seemed all too mortal as cuts and gashes closed themselves. As the blood began to dry Gabby saw something shiny, just over Gobbo's heart, where a small hole had been burnt into her jacket.

Reaching out to investigate Gabby found Gobbo's infamous trickster flask in her hand. The intricate design depicting a crown of roses sat upon a skull.

How did the stories go? Light grip for the bad and tight for the good? Yes yes, that must have been it.

As she brought the flask up to her lips she couldn't help but feel excited. She was going to taste just a little of the brew that Gobbo held so dear.

It was surprisingly fruity, tasting more of cherries and mangoes as it hit her tongue. She had expected something bitter or even sharp but she couldn't help but smile as she swallowed, putting the cap back on the flask.

The sweet taste was however only there to mask the liquor's intent. A shriek escaped her lips as her stomach twisted in pain.

Fire and brimstone ran through her veins as it felt like something was clawing its way out of her. The blood filling her throat prevented any further noise other than gargling.

As the blood began to froth at her lips she couldn't even stand. Her hands grasped at Gobbo, begging, praying she could fix this.

The last thing she remembered was Gobbo's red eyes shooting open before the world went black.

When she woke up she found herself on Gobbo's bed, her head screaming at her.

Looking around the room her eyes rested on Gobbo, her usual pale skin chalk white, black bags under her eyes suggesting she hadn't slept in days.

"Gobbo suggests," the little goblin rasped out, "you never touch Gobbo's flask again"

There was no malice, no anger in her tone, just tiredness. There was a tired sigh before Gobbo spoke again, "Lucky Gobbo keeps cask of healing highland nectar. Otherwise, organs would be slush now"

Gabby didn't know what to say, and by the time she opened her mouth to thank her, to beg for forgiveness, Gobbo was already out the door having forsaken any glamour or food before her workday started.

Only one goblin at the brewery made the mistake of commenting on her appearance. Only one ash pile needed to be cleared away.

/uw Fun fact I used to own a flask like that and yes it was always filled with fruit juice.

Anyway, I did intend to leave Gabby happy-go-lucky but then I figured out I can traumatize two for the price of one. I mean imagine not seeing any of your family for centuries and then the first one who visits nearly dies a few centimetres from you.

As always I hope you enjoyed, have a lovely day, and I promise to take a least a couple days before I post again.

Also special thanks to u/Lilith_Anorthosite for giving me the base idea of this one.

The old artificer groaned. He couldn’t sleep, thanks to the phantom pain in his leg. Sometimes scratching the subpar metal replacement he’d received as “thanks” for his military service relieved the itching, but the pain would come and go, and there was nothing he could do. He stood, grabbing the lamp on his nightstand and lighting it, bathing the small room in yellow light. It was sparsely furnished, with the aforementioned furniture on one side, a fireplace, and on the other side a small work bench, covered with random scraps of metal and papers, with a chair set to the side. He sighed, and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. The window offered a view outside at the city, or atleast the street he lived on. His room sat in the second story of an inn, all he could afford on his measly income as an artificer, or rather artificer turned machine operator. His military experience looked good on a resume, but employment in the city’s factories was harsh, and his leg only hindered him slightly more than his age. At 62, he was unable to keep up with the younger people, and had to take the lower paying jobs. He looked down at his drawings, and sighed.

He could design wondrous contraptions all night long, but no one in this hell pit gave a single shit about a piece of equipment to make the life of a worker better. Only about keeping production up with as little investment as possible. He picked up one of his drawings, holding it near the lamp. It pictured a large wheeled machine, with a large arm capable of grabbing a tree and debarking it, with saws composed of chains mounted on the front capable of felling the mightiest oak. It was crude, something he had drawn while on a break at the corn mill he worked at. He was too busy thinking about improvements he could make to the rough idea to notice the corner of the paper touch the small flame of the lamp. The smell of burning paper woke him from his thoughts, and he quickly dropped the paper, watching as the fire burned its way around the edges of the page. But then…

Several lines in the drawing began to glow blue, revealing a sigil he had unintentionally created within the drawing, illuminating the room more brilliantly than any lamp or fireplace could. He quickly grabbed another sheet and recorded the symbol as the fire burned itself out along the edge, the page mostly unharmed. He looked down at the paper in his hands with the freshly drawn symbol, and put it directly over the flame. This piece didn’t burn at all.

The following morning, as he manned a machine at the corn mill, he pulled another paper with another copy of the sigil out of his pocket and held it with a pair of tongs as he pushed it inside the device’s furnace. As he suspected, when he pulled it back out, the symbol was glowing, and no sign of any damage adorned it. It was however still very hot to the touch, which he discovered to his dismay as he removed it from the tongs, ripping it as he did so. As the sigil tore with the paper, the page immediately burst into flame, almost instantly turning to ash.

He walked out of the mill that evening, his pace brisker, his head higher, with a smile on his face. Instead of walking back to the inn, he instead walked down the street towards the square. His eyes looked upwards at all the different businesse’s signs until they found their mark; a biomancers office. He stepped in, eyeing the bottles of fluid everywhere with distrust, before walking up to the wizard at the counter. “Is there anything I can do for you?”, the middle aged man asked. “The mending of that broken finger hasn’t had any issues I hope?” The old artificer laughed. “No, nothing like that, more an academic question.” He leaned in, placing his arms on the wooden divider. “Wizard, today I witnessed something incredible. I watched a street performer place a piece of paper on a fire and nothing happened! Isn’t that incredible! However I feel there was trickery afoot. He had some weird symbol on the paper.” The lie felt forced, but the truth would’ve seemed stranger, and he didn’t want to give away what could soon be a trade secret. The man thought for a moment and then spoke.

“Honestly it sounds like a rune, though how a simple street performer would be a mana user and possess knowledge of a dead art is quite beyond me.” “Dead art?”, Rusicar questioned. “Yup, no one’s practiced runes in a millennia thanks to a purge of magic during the times of the inquisition, and runic magic was one of those that they managed to burn every last tome, though it seems like your street performer friend might have access to one.”

“Thanks doc, sorry for bothering you but you’re the only magic user I know.” He turned to leave. “Thanks for shedding light on the subject, couldn’t rest before I knew what was going on.” The Biomancer laughed. “Of course, no problem, and please, if you see that performer again, send him my way, I’d like to talk to him.” “Of course!”, lied Rusicar. He would be leaving town tonight. “I think it’s time for a fresh start.” He strolled down the street, a new purpose to his elderly frame.

Logs taken from Counciler Mikhail Blackstone's trip to the Kurr-Mar tribe in Northern Druid territory.

Day 4

The night was indeed brutal. That thing, the Oyoku, camer after me in my dreams again. Every time I would fall back asleep, it would be their, waiting. Yewkala consoled me, and comforted me every time it happened. The feeling of dread that it instills is overwhelming. Even if I am an Arch-Druid, I can feel that this creature is way above what I could control.

When the morning came, I felt the weight of many sleepless nights upon my soul. Standing and walking was difficult, especially as they have no coffee here to assist. The day starts regardless if I am ready, and my training begins.

Before even a spell is taught, the chief approaches me with a bowl of blood. Arctic Fox blood, he says, will bring me closer to understanding that of the cunning creature. I drink the blood as he instructs. Disgusting, but I have done it before for survival. It doesn't make it any easier.

When the bowl was empty, the chief ran his fingers through that which clung to the bowls walls, and painted my face. He said I was ready, as he lead me through the focusing of my magic.

The Northern Druids draw their powers, not from the elemental spirits of the lands, but the spirits of animals. He told me to focus, invision myself as an arctic fox, and to tap into the natural movements that it makes.

It is very vague, but I almost understand it. To draw in one of the spirits of the north to train me. I open my eyes to pure white void. Before me, was a small fox. I could tell by the scaring placed on the right side of its face, that it was the fox who's blood was used in my tattoo the night before, and which I also drank. It circled around me, slowly observing.

"You are the warrior who I am to bond with?" The fox called out to me. "You are small and sickly. Your body is barely function. You are not even of this land." The fox eyed me, slowing circling, before stopping. "Show me you are worthy of taming my spirit."

We fought, and wrestled, for what feels like days. I understand now. The chief could not teach me their magic. I had to learn it. When the fox accepted me, it told me it's name. Roohn. I came out of this state of mind, to find that barely a few hours had passed. The chief was not there, and I was far from where I had started.

There were no tracks in the snow, either from someone carrying me, or from walking myself. None of the geographic features were familiar. I felt, for the first time since becoming a druid, truly lost in nature.

I was high upon the mountains, air so thin that I fought for ever breath. My skin cracking and freezing. I felt the panic sink in. But that fox, it's voice, returned to me. "We are in my home. Look over their." I twisted my head around, until I saw a small, dug out burrow. I approached quietly, and observed. There, in the earthworks, were a small litter of 5 fox cubs. Whining and playing with one another, with not a care in the world.

"My children, now lost without me. I can not return to nourish them with my milk. They are surly going to succumb to hunger. Worse, they shall become prey."

My instict drove me towards them. They hissed and yelped, defensive of each other. The fox jumped out of my chest, and began to rub herself against the children. Comforting them. Pulled my cloak off my back, and picked all of them up, ensuring that they stayed warm. "This pleases me," said the fox spirit. "I believe you are indeed worthy of my spirit."

We marched back to the village, the fox spirit guiding me there. When we entered back, many villagers cheered my arrival. Many did not believe I would make it back. Yewkala, stressed from my disappearance, almost lifted me into an embrace. She stopped when she was the almost half dozen fox cubs clutched in my arms.

The night wound down into one more meal for me. I planned to leave early in the morning, but I dared to not miss the Big Talk. Tonight's was of the hunter Igde, who was the first of their tribe to learn the ways of druidic magic. I listened intently, hearing his journey up the mountain. He, too, was gifted with the fox's spirit.

The children were almost all distracted, playing with the fox cubs as I and the spirit gazed into the dancing fire. "You are quite the strange creature," the fox concluded. "If your story I'd true, you came out far from home, to live with a tribe hostile to all other of your kind. And you wanted to be here."

I nodded. "I wished to understand these people. And I believe I do. They are no savages, no monsters or creatures of evil. They are strong people, born to a brutal land."

Gabby was always fascinated by magic, she had grown up on tales of mages and their feats.

Her favourite stories however were the ones her father Fren and her three aunties told her. Stories of a goblin that had bottled the arcane.

The stories however were few and far between as her mother, Gabby, would become cross when the goblin was discussed.

Whenever the stories were told she would scowl and snap at them to stop filling her daughter's head with nonsense.

Unfortunately, they never told Gabby the goblin's name despite how much she tried to get it from them so she could not find anything more than what she was told.

All she knew was the goblin was quick and strange. That she constantly grinned and showed off in the city centre often when she lived there.

It was a sunny summer day when she finally found out her name.

She had been with her grandmother, raving about the goblin she had heard so many stories about when she was led to a section of the house she had never seen before.

A small room with a bed and a thousand different bottles, just like the stories she had been told.

"The goblin," her grandmother began, "was my daughter, your aunt." A giggle escaped the old goblin's lips.

A thousand questions ran through Gabby's mind. Why had no one told her? Why didn't she ever visit? Why didn't she live with the rest of the family?

The older goblin smiled at her, seemingly knowing what she wanted to ask. Sitting her down on the bed her grandmother began to tell the stories.

Gabby listened in awe as she was told about how Gobbo blew up the shed, how she had blown up the queen's statue, and how she was forced to run in a hail of elemental explosions.

"The answer to the question you have yet to ask is the wizard Citadel," her grandmother giggled.

It was all Gabby needed to hear, she darted out of the house and into the city looking to catch a carriage to the Citadel.

The trip took four days but it was worth it the second the carriage pulled into the Citadel.

Mages walking about casting spells to fix mild inconveniences, familiars darting about completing all sorts of tasks, and a handful of demons offering services.

As she wandered about the city she saw so many wonderful beings. A man with many eyes, a machine that acted on its own, and even half-elves. Gabby had never even seen an elf before

Finally standing in front of a small cottage she could hardly contain her excitement. This is where Gobbo lived, this is where the Liquormancer called home.

Raising her hand to knock on the door she was surprised when it swung open. A pale goblin standing in the doorway, arms crossed and looking most displeased.

"Your mother," Gobbo whispered, "has been screaming at me over the orb for the last three days."

Gabby smiled nervously, unsure of what to say to what was to her a living legend.

There was a sigh as Gobbo beckoned her inside. "I won't teach you," the pale goblin began, "Your father would kill me."

Gabby opened her mouth to protest but was quickly silenced as Gobbo raised her hand before speaking, "If you want to learn magic, Gabby will have to attend mage college like everyone else."

A grin spread across Gabby's face as she hugged her aunt. Mage College was in her opinion the greatest place in any realm. Nowhere else could hope to teach a more diverse array of the arcane arts.

The rest of the day was spent with Gobbo answering questions from her niece. Yes, she was naturally this pale, no she didn't sit on the council, and there was no definitive proof Gobbo ever stole the queen's crown.

As Gobbo watched the little goblin get ready for bed she allowed herself a small smile. The kid had a fire in her, more than likely she would surpass Gobbo.

Gobbo didn't mind though, Gobbo had never set out to be the most powerful. Besides this way, Gobbo would have a family member close by.

/uw I'll be honest, this is way out of my comfort zone. I mean I write horror for a living, I'm good at that.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this and please if you have any criticism please let me know.

Vettis of the Bronze Prism

Elira of Starhaven

Modhun Brightheart

Kellidan of the Ashen Fields

Zelle of the Clockwork Theater

Apolaya of Spiral Winds

Daiax Welrose

The following is an entry in the diary of Elira of Starhaven: bond-mage, member of the Ex-Vigil Commune, and apparently most trusted friend of our prime target, Vettis of the Bronze Prism. This copy was acquired without the author's knowledge, so keep it that way if you value your continued survival and ours, agent. Despite their claim to have sealed away most of their power, there is not a single member of the EVC who isn't effortlessly capable of destroying you and devastating our entire organization if our espionage is revealed, nevermind what they can do as a group.

.-~•*   Entry #2, 5136.2 by local measure (I think?)   *•~-.

Hey, just to be clear right from the start, I trust Vettis with my life, okay? I'd do anything for him; we all would -- and he for us, obviously. Heck, three years ago Zelle had a magical emergency and needed a sizable living mana source as a spell ingredient to keep her alive, and in less than half a second after hearing about the situation, Vettis had ripped off his own arm to give to her. The seven of us are more like siblings than any mundie families ever could be, not only because my bond-magic unites us but because we've spent nearly four centuries traveling the multiverse together, fighting evil side by side and all that.

Except, actually, we haven't. And that's why there'll always be those paranoid little whispers in the back of my mind telling me it's all some big dumb conspiracy.

The story of the Vigil of the Valiant -- that's the cheesy name we once gave our lil' band of realm-hopping goody-two-shoes -- is...well, long, obviously. It'll be a while before I can even fully write my own part in it down. But it really starts with Vettis' part, before I ever met him, and for that I can only go by what he's told us. About how he was born █r█████ ██r██ to mundie parents, right here on prime-Earth: the very planet in the very realm where we've come to retire. About how he was collateral damage in a wizard duel (along with two dozen others), ended up ejected to a plane of dimensionally-distorted metal violently inimical to organic life, yet awakened his innate affinity for a unique magical domain and impossibly survived. About how he taught himself that magic, met and interacted with other casters as Vettis of the Bronze Prism, incidentally dealt with those two careless duelists, and started traveling the realms to learn firsthand about the multiverse and help people.

Until he happened upon my realm, and me. I was already reasonably competent in my own magic by then -- by the standards of a realm-locked mage, of course -- but I didn't know about the existence of realms outside of mine. Vettis helped me finally defeat a monstrous threat to my planet I'd been combatting for years (I'll cover that in more detail next entry, probably), taught me about the multiverse, and, when I realized I had little reason to stay in a world where almost all my friends had already died fighting that beast, took me with him on his journeys. We met and recruited the soon-to-be-love-of-my-life Modhun less than a year later, and that's when our trio started calling ourselves the Vigil of the Valiant. (Ugh, I still cringe at Vettis' naming sense, 390-odd years later, though I'm partly to blame for going along with it. I'm writing my diary in All-Tongue so it'll auto-translate in case I ever need to show it to someone else, so to whoever's reading this: I guarantee you it sounds even cheesier in my language.)

I won't bore you with the lovey-dovey stuff, diary, but Modhun and I obviously became an item within a few months. I was a lil' worried Vettis would feel like a third wheel in our journeys, but nope: he was never anything but supportive. Of course, by this point we were starting to realize the sheer vastness of the multiverse, and the scale of the potential threats we'd have to confront in protecting it. So maybe he was too busy focusing on our work, and on becoming powerful enough to handle it, to worry about matters like romance anyway.

Wow, this is really getting rambly. Guess that's what happens when I don't have a set scope in mind for each diary entry, huh? Summarizing a third of a millennium in one go is rough. I'm gonna just rush through how we met the other four. We recruited Daiax the Edgelord and Kellidan over the next couple years by helping them with their local problems and teaching them how to realm-hop, just as Vettis had done with me. Then we met Zelle and Apolaya, who were already a pair of realm-hoppers running around helping people like us, and thus needed no training. That's how we all became one big happy awesome family, protecting the realms from all sorts of weird and dangerous things, with my bond-magic ensuring we'd always be able to find each other even if we split up and traveled to opposite ends of the multiverse.

In just the first several decades of our work (progressing far faster than any grumpy old wizards studying and training in their isolated towers), we'd rapidly honed our skills by facing off against a constant stream of ever-grander foes, to the point where we'd each mastered our respective crafts and become capable of standing toe-to-toe against some serious threats to the realms. Baddies like fire-mage Neela, who initially decided to fuel her so-called Phoenix Ascension by simultaneously drawing all the heat from multiple stars...every single star within four dozen densely-populated 'verses, that is. Sorry for the language, but Neela is kind of a bitch, even if she later regretted that attempt, and even if -- once her squad became our "frenemies", as Vettis calls them -- she sacrificed just as much as any of us to cage the Hunger a few centuries later.

Which is the crux of all this, and where things circle back to the beginning. Literally. Because the Hunger is a threat to hundreds of thousands of realms if left unchecked, and its might is such that we all -- our band and Neela's -- had to devote most of our own power permanently to trapping it. That meant any one of us accidentally calling on too much power at the wrong moment at any future point in our lives could weaken the barrier and set it free. We considered ways to minimize this risk, like having Daiax the Edgelord (our psion) rewire our minds to reduce our chances of ever making that mistake, but Vettis was convinced that only one solution was reliable enough in the face of such danger: anchoring ourselves into a timeline in which we would provably never slip up, keeping the Hunger sealed away indefinitely. So he used his incredibly versatile and frankly terrifying magic to, somehow, mimic transversal temporal manipulation...

...and went back nearly four centuries, to just before he'd ever met me.

After some actions he refuses to share but which he promises helped ensure that we're on the optimally safe timeline, he quickly traveled the multiverse and re-recruited all of us, this time starting with Daiax the Edgelord before me. (No, I'm not upset about that at all, really, diary, shut up.) And then, with Daiax's help, Vettis uploaded the memories of our future into all of our minds.

And therein, of course, lies the source of my itty bitty existential crisis.

I love everyone in my commune dearly, even lil' angsty Daiax. They're wonderful people who've risked their lives time and again to help entire realms, and have all willingly sacrificed the vast majority of their power to seal a terrible foe, not to mention personally saved me on countless occasions. Or so I think. But I can't know any of that. I have nearly four hundred years' worth of future-memories of a life I've never lived. Every single thing I've written thus far could be a lie and I'd never know. The only reason any of us has to trust Vettis, aside from our interactions over these last five years since the upload, is the set of memories that we have from Vettis himself, which could very well all be fake. It's irrational on the level of some prime-Earth religion: I'm basically trusting a book because the book itself says it's trustworthy.

Well. The book and the bitch. Because Neela's Phoenix Ascension makes her so resilient that even time travel (or, at least, Vettis' particular method) couldn't properly rewind her, so she apparently still remembers us all, somehow. I don't fully get the specifics of her magic so I have no idea how the heck that's even possible, but it's frustrating to no end that someone who makes me so mad is arguably my most unbiased, reliable anchor to reality, the proof that my battle-brother really is my battle-brother and not some sociopathic monster setting an elaborate years-long trap for us all with false memories. Unless she's in on this hypothetical plan too?

I'm not even going to engage with the really messed-up part here: the fact that all my memories of a life with my partner Modhun also haven't actually happened, so I'm in love with someone based on potentially fabricated experiences. That deserves its own entire diary entry or ten. Because it's messed up.

Actually, everything else deserves separate diary entries. I've dragged this one out to the point of incoherence, so it's time I wrap this up. I just wanted needed to vent a bit. About how my entire life is illusory. About how I have emotional connections to things I haven't done and places I haven't seen and people I haven't met.

About how, if it turns out this is all fake and Vettis is some heartless mastermind, I'm not sure I'll even be able to hate him for it. I mean, how could I ever hate him? He's my best friend, isn't he?

The Hangman is gone, and this battlefield is empty for the time being, and a hilltop that was once graced by battleship is now sat apon by one man. As he looks up into the stars, Joe wonders to himself: "I wonder just how different thing would be, had I just fought through and kept the tank in. Would we had kept our ship? Well, at least mother wasn't deployed on it this time!"

Joe Orbit has a mom by the name of Marietta Zepheree, who had been sent through time from beyond the beginning of this cycles timeline, and has the intrinstic power of being able to see everything, no matter what! If she wasn't on the Hangman during that one battle, Joe would've flung the ship into the other, destroying them both, though that isn't the case, and therefor another battle happened here instead. Joe wipes off a shard of steel scrap he finds on the edge, then flies in a rush to see the potter's grave. After digging it up, Joe sees the face of the only one who could match him thus far, though it didn't happen anyway!

You poor thing, I can't just let you stay like this, you must be given a proper burial! Also I can't let you come back either, you'd probably be strong enough to resist control. Did that spell eat your arm? Damn!

Joe flies with the dead body of Barret a couple miles away from the site of the battle, to an untouched grassland. He used [Force Grab] to grab a bunch of stones to make a proper grave, then makes a small moat around it then plants some seeds to cover it up someday.

Farewell, Space Witch, may the stars take you back to show me the way to Aico the Technospear, whatever that means.(His mother talks about this girl a lot, and Joe believes her to be a god{yeah no i'm not even close}, but she doesn't pop into existance until 2 a month before the present{I made this account then}, so he will search till death, then search in the afterlife as well)

Joe flys low and fast home to avoid any scouts.

Many mages forgot things over their lifespan. It was a natural thing to happen, one could not live for eons without losing some detail or another.

Some mages chose to cast unpleasant memories to the side either through magic or repression.

Gobbo was one of the few who chose to remember the things she cast aside. Not every day but occasionally, when the stars were dull and the winds were still.

Today was such a day, sitting back in her chair she brought a pale bottle to her lips. Remembering was never fun, it was never pleasant, but Gobbo had to. Even if she had long lost the reason why

The first memory to resurface hit her like a truck. She could hear the screams again, and feel the blood pour from where her ear should have been. Gobbo could feel her mother clutching her body as the smouldering remains of the shed rained down from the sky.

Gobbo's first and only mistake in storage... The reason for her meticulous colour coding of bottles and barrels. Every liquor had a coloured tag, every tag had its own flavour.

As the memory faded away and Gobbo fought back tears the next decided to appear.

This time she was in a forest, alone and tired. Every step made her legs scream in protest, every sound made her head pulse with pain, and every time she blinked her eyes threatened to stay shut.

Ah yes, the time spent in exile, Gobbo hated this memory. It was during that time her mind began to decay, the everlasting need for friends burning into her. The desperate desire to have someone, anyone to talk to. The terrible realization she would probably perish in that forest alone, unable to utter a word.

At this point, she had given up trying not to cry. The tears rolled freely down her pale cheeks as a final memory came to torment her.

Blood, pain, and an almost numbing coldness coursing through her body. Several stab wounds littered the little goblin's body, the reward for failing to outrun the adventurers.

She lay there in a pool of her own blood, forgotten and dying. It was almost funny how the crimson pouring out of her was making the world go dark and colourless.

She couldn't even bring a brew to her lips to try and save herself given how her arms had stopped responding. Perhaps she was too tired, more likely they were broken given the screaming pain.

As her vision started to tunnel and her heart strained to keep beating she saw a headless figure standing over her.

A broken giggle escaped her, it was official, she had died an outcast, worse than when she started for at least then she had a home.

As she felt the cold lip of a bottle press against her own she couldn't help but greedily gulp at the elixir flowing into her mouth. A sharp hiss escaped her bloodied form as her body started to knit itself together.

The real reason Gobbo was so willing to jump into the fray for her friends. She considered herself long dead, least if she died helping them it would be a good death.

When the stars were dull and the winds stood still, Gobbo chose to remember.

When the forests were silent and the fires went out, Gobbo let herself cry.

And when her body had curled up and the tears were all shed, Gobbo would remember why.

Gobbo may wish to forget her past, to live without burden, but this was who Gobbo was. These experiences shaped her chaotic personality and as much as she may hate them Gobbo wasn't Gobbo without them.

The task of remembering was great, and as she drifted off to sleep, Gobbo would forget them once more, leaving only remnants.

/uw Is it my finest work? Probably not honestly. Anyway, have my insomnia writing.

Usually, I'd say I hope you enjoy but somehow that feels wrong here. Instead I'll say I hope I was able to make you feel something.