Of all the humanoid races of Solkin, avayla had the shortest lifespan. They lived, on average, to be about forty-five. At fifty, they were truly ancient. Some speculated that this resulted in a stronger inclination toward caution and self-preservation than other species; if they were only getting at most fifty years, they were going to get as many as possible, darn it. Continue reading “Recursion, Epilogue”
A number of unfortunate situations can be attributed to a failure in communication. For example, linguistic barriers between Dol elves and their dwarven neighbors created confusion that led to the Orichalcum Wars which lasted for many centuries. Personal barriers can also result in poor communication, such as when a very literal person asks an irate person for directions, and spends six days sailing up the Yores River and rediscovering the ancient art of necromancy. Continue reading “Recursion, Part Six”
The way many told it, the legend of the Suntouched was a succession of successes. Climbing Mount Paylor, mastering one weapon after the next, discovering mythic treasures, defeating this monster or winning that battle. Of course, like most legends, it was largely a lie of omission. The Suntouched had failed many times. Mostly in the early days, but some were more recent, like his defeat at the hands of Ulthanadon, The Mad Dragon, or his role in the creation of The Below. And, most prevalent in his mind these days, the failure at Tinderleaf. Continue reading “Recursion, Part Five”
When Pulldrid the Riser lifted the city of Seamoore into the sky, he made sure to take much of the eastern farmland with it. However as local historian, soothsayer, and political commentator Andrea Greycastle noted in her award-losing book, 49 Things You Didn’t Know About the Past, Present, and Future of Skymoore: Number 18 Will Fill Your Soul With Existential Dread, “Pulldrid the Riser was a socially insensitive jerkwad! Did you know that eighty-percent of the farmland he took with him when he selflessly saved Seamoore from destruction was land belonging to Goldsoil Farm, which is owned by bourgeoisie hags and exploits the common man like you and, to a lesser extent, like me? That’s, like, really unfair! Their low wages and long hours have led to the poor and crime-infested state of the Mish Mash (look it up), and they keep the handful of remaining farms from reaching their full potential by signing exclusivity deals with local restaurants. Uncool, Pulldrid! Very uncool!” Continue reading “Recursion, Part Four”
Thursday, Spring 51, 1677 was a rather ordinary day in most respects. The sun shone brightly in Skymoore, as it often did. The birds were chirping loudly, communicating the secret messages of a vast network of organized crime, as they often were. And Odd & Ends was empty, as it often was.
Empty, that is, except for Donovan Allman, who tapped his fingers in rhythm with the birds outside (in flagrant violation of Skymoorian Law), and Nestor Pinkly, who hummed an accompanying tune (this was fine) as he alphabetized a shelf of enchanted toys based on the unofficial names he’d given them that day (Spinny Doodad, Bouncing Thingamajig, Flashing Whosawhatsit). The latter was enjoying himself, the former was not. Continue reading “Recursion, Part Three”
With four employees in the store at once, Odd & Ends quickly became overcrowded not merely in terms of space, but also in terms of work to be done. Sure, if the shop were busy Donovan could be managing the books while Karessa swept, Nestor helped a customer, and Linda restocked the displays. But the shop was never busy. Even three workers could often feel unnecessary.
So, for the first time since arriving in Skymoore, Donovan took an entire day off. He hardly knew what to do with himself. In the morning he walked about the city, casually familiarizing himself with it in a way he hadn’t yet had time to do properly. He discovered a library, an aquarium, and a place that sold something called “pizza,” all of which he made a note to check out when he had the time. Continue reading “Recursion, Part Two”
Getting to Seamoore was never an easy task. It was near the western edge of the continent that is mostly called Penscarop, but which has been dubbed “Remainia” by many recent immigrants and their children. To get to it, you had to cross either the Frostlands, the O’grofkala mountains, or troll territory, depending on where you’re coming from, none of which is anyone’s idea of a good time. Continue reading “Recursion, Part One”
“Haven’t you had enough for tonight?” the minotaur bartender asked. She wore patchwork hide and chain armor, like she was some wild barbarian ready to charge into battle, and over that she wore an apron fitted for a human – that is to say, about five sizes too small. Continue reading “A Divine Intervention”