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The 'peace' of the Tri Cities rides on the back of the Tyranny of
Justice. They seek any reason to extract a payment in gold or blood for
imagined offenses, however the recent interaction with Cadeilin strikes a
new low. This officer did not even provide the paper-thin cover of
explaining the exorbitant fine issued upon my person. In fact, more than
half the time to pay the fine had expired before she gave the barest hint as
to what 'offense' I had committed. Truly a tyrannical and bloodthirsty act.

Sir Thirath courageously asked me to set aside this point of principal and
leave the Justice to his capable claws. When challenged, the drow hid
within her guild. Small improvement from the harassment of convalescents
within the Infirmary, but a show of pure cowardice.

It is but a matter of time until the moral heart of the Knights must rise
against their cruel grip on the citizenry.

Signed,

Duchess Ilromie Illistarre, Arcane Archivist and Polymath of History

The spectre of Kesaria's wrath has loomed large over Serin for several years
now. Ever since an intrepid band of adventurers were finally successful
in their attempts to destroy, or at least banish, the demon known as Olgarda.
But no longer. Once again the mortals of Serin have banded together in such
numbers that they may rally to stand against a threat to their world.

In the holy grove the mortals congregated to plan their journey. Their party
consisted of Clemenzo, the Grand Master of Larceny; Dwiggans, the Wurst
Knight; Corso, the Master Bard; and Wylsin Plindane, the One-Eyed Wizard,
Abecedarian of the Mystics of Arcana. As they discussed their strategy, a
bolt of lightning shot from the heavens and Avenar, the Oracle of the Stars,
stood before them.

The Oracle brought dire tidings. Kesaria's ritual was being conducted deep
within the Maelstrom raging above Seringale and could not be reached by
mundane means. However, Avenar broughtr with him the means to reach Kesaria.
A great airship, called Bhalorin, the Black Swan, sailed in the Oracle's
wake.

The adventurers boarded the airship and by happenstance Corso was familiar
with the methods of piloting such a craft. With adroit deftness he sailed
the party through the treacherous storms of the Maelstrom until they hovered
over Kesaria's ritual site. Wasting not a moment, the party disembarked the
airship and engaged the Faerie.

It soon became clear that Kesaria was no match for the assembled mortals.
She fled her ritual site and attempted to hide within the Maelstrom. The
adventurers quickly found her however and re-engaged. Once again she fled
and attempted to escape the Maelstrom entirely. The mortals pursued her in
the airship before cornering her back where they started in the Holy Grove.

There they struck her down at last and none other than Ilromie Illistarre,
the Arcane Archivist and Polymath of Scholars appeared to join the effort.
They took from her smoking corpse the Kes Arcanum itself. Upon examining
the book it became apparent that they quite possibly traded one problem for
another. The book was sealed by some unknown magic, and moreover it
whispered unsetting pleas to any who would listen. Avenar prophesized that
a key would preset itself to someone in the lands in due course. It was
then decided to keep the tome well protected until such a time came and it
could be decided whether or not to open the Kes Arcanum and let loose
whatever is bound inside.

Members of the Consortium,

Over the past few weeks, I have been diligently collecting research on the
history that unfolded both long ago and recently regarding Kesaria. The
following is my collective gathered findings.

Thousands of years ago, a group of ancient faeries lived among the colorful
forests of Acadia. Among them was a young faerie named Kesaria. She was
extremely curious of the magical land she had the pleasure of roaming and
seemed to absorb all magical knowledge with ease.

Until one day, a great shadow began to consume the land. It was a Purge of
Acadia. Everything containing life fell silent and everything of color grew
dark. Just as she was about to be taken by the encroaching shadows, she
suddenly found herself in a warm home. Surrounded by several other faeries
whom she knew as friends, it seemed they had been spared from the Purge.
This was done through the will of a wizard named Rin. He could not bear to
see all the life destroyed from Acadia, so he saved those he could within a
small space hidden in the ether.

Years passed, and the faeries made peace with what was their new home. They
could not return to Acadia for fear that the Overlord of that realm would
discover their secret. A Purge was supposed to be absolute and if it was
discovered that some had survived, consequences would likely be dire. But
the Overlord, while perhaps brutal in its approach, was not without reason
for its actions. Without the Purge, shadows would consume Acadia and this
divine intervention was deemed necessary for any life to survive there.
Rins knowledge of the Overlord was limited and his knowledge of the shadows
of Acadia was even moreso. In his effort to save the lives of a few, he
unknowingly endangered many more. For an entity of the shadow also escaped
Acadias purge that day, hiding within the soul of a faerie whom Rin had
saved.

Drawn to his magical power, the shadow entity left the faerie and hid with
Rin, slowly consuming him. It used his research to conjure the darkest of
spells, the most dangerous incantations imaginable, and recorded them within
the Rin Arcanix. As time passed, Rin began experimenting on the faeries
with horrific incantations that twisted them into terrifying versions of
themselves. Kesaria was among the test subjects, resisting her
transformation into a creature of shadow with all her might. She pleaded
with Rin and attempted to remind him that this is not who he once was.
Through her efforts, Rin suddenly realized he was not the same man. He
vowed that he would destroy this shadow entity and rid the world of its
evil. But he would not do it in this realm. It was too dangerous. He
would take himself and the Rin Arcanix to a new realm where he could destroy
the demon without endangering others. Climbing a mountain to the highest
peak, he uttered words from his book to create a portal to another place.
Kesaria had alerted Rins brother Kor of his plan and they both had followed
him up the mountainside. With Kor protesting Rins actions, Rin flung
himself towards the portal. But the shadow entity would not so easily be
trapped. As Rin fell through the sky towards the portal, the entity leapt
from him and found a new home within the faerie Kesaria.

Using her magical knowledge and its knowledge of the Rin Arcanix, the entity
helped Kesaria reconstruct the book, this time in the form of the Kes
Arcanum. Kesaria continued to resist the entitys control over her and
finally split her persona in two, one embodying the carefree faerie she once
was as a young sprite, playing on the rolling hills of Acadia. The other,
dark, menacing and full of terrifying ideas. For centuries she fought this
internal struggle. She knew she could not last against the shadow forever.
So she set out to the realm of Serin to find heroes strong enough and able
enough to defeat it. She created a series of tests for mortals of the land
and found that there were indeed those among them with the strength to fight
such a being. But before she could enact her plan to train the mortals
properly, a Mystic invoked one of the spells from the Kes Arcanum and the
shadow entity fully awoke inside Kesaria. She could no longer control its
will and the entity began making plans to destroy all of Serin with the
power of the books spells.

Deep within the Maelstrom, a great battle commenced above Seringale for
Serins future. Mortals took an airship through the clouds to meet Kesaria
and interrupt her dark ritual. She fought back, but the mortals were too
strong and she fell at their hands. With her dying breath, she uttered a
powerful curse and pointed at the Kes Arcanum. Now the books future is
uncertain as the mortals of Serin grapple with their next course of action.

In this edition of our new series, "Exploring with a Druid", we embark on
a journey to a pirate ship anchored in the Dragon Sea. Located between
Timeran and Darkhaven, the ship can be accessed via a rope ladder.

As a quick refresher, we will cover some sailing terms. The bow is the
front of the boat, the stern is the back, port is the left side facing the
bow, and starboard is the right. The helm, where the boat is steered from,
is usually located towards the stern, and the galley is beneath the main
deck.

Once on board, start by heading to the bow and climbing the ladder to reach
the forecastle, a raised platform at the front of the ship. From there,
make your way to the prow, the furthest point forward on the ship. You will
find an abandoned beehive - be sure to collect some wax for later use. Head
back to the main deck.

Midway between the forecastle and midships on the starboard side, you will
find a pirate's mate. You can easily secure a length of rope from them.
Next, head to the center of the ship, referred to as amidships, where you
will find the largest of the three masts. Climb to the top, to the crows
nest, where the lookout will hand you a needle and thread. Repair the
tattered flag, called a burgee, and then head back down to the main deck.

Proceed to the aft, halfway between amidships and the quarterdeck on the
port side. Here, you will find a rat gnaw hole in the deck that presents a
risk to the ship. Plug the hole with beeswax and continue to the
quarterdeck, which is the raised deck above the captain's quarters.

At the midships of the quarterdeck, you will find the captain struggling to
control the steering wheel, known as the helm. Tying the wheel with a piece
of rope is the best solution. Head starboard and back down to the main
deck. Keep an eye out for a scrub brush to clean up a gross mess along the
starboard railing. If you cannot find a scrub brush, it may be carried by
Blonk the Boatswain, who can be quite the fighter.

Descend below deck, to the galley, where the cannoneers will toss you a wad
of gum to plug a hole in the hull. This should be the final repair needed
on the ship.

As you continue exploring, be cautious not to step beyond the starboard
railing or you may find yourself walking the plank!

Your guide,
Halka

Teleportation Trials

I have taken it upon myself to conduct a most dangerous research endeavor by
delving into the nature of teleportation. I will detail my approach
followed by the exciting, yet grim results!

My research began by teleporting from the North Square of Seringale. In
order to control for the possibility of unknown variables at play, I
committed to teleporting myself from whichever spot I landed. I was
affected by the following spells during these trials: sanctuary, barrier,
armor, protective shield, detect invisible, detect magic, and weapon ward.
My goal was to determine if I could wind up in any sort of danger from which
I would be unable to escape.

My first teleportation sent me to Tenebria with no danger in sight.
My second teleportation sent me to Clearwater Lake, again no danger nearby.
My third teleportation sent me to Mount Rainer, a safe landing spot once again.
My fourth teleportation sent me to the Keep of D'al Kadar...face to face
with Xanthak himself!

I was greeted not only by the Lich King himself but by a pack of cursed
souls, which I had not expected. After several failed attempts at fleeing I
found safety in a nook just south, but it was fleeting. I was unable to
recall or teleport away and the cursed souls gave chase and sent me running
right back into danger resulting in my body being torn asunder with my armor
and entrails decorating the sky.

I was able to detect my belongings scattered across Winter, the majority
within the Faction of Magic. I was fortunate enough to recover several
things but a violent storm halted my efforts before I could retrieve the
rest.

In conclusion, it is indeed possible to wind up in an inescapable
situation. Heed my words!

Fervently Fact-Finding,
Foggledonk

Quinace the Arbiter of Conflicts, Warmaster of the Halls

Farewell to the little warmaster,
Yet fearsome despite his small stature.
He flew through the air
With a warlord's prayer:
No magic would make him leave faster.

Elegy for Another Dark Lady

Who will polish Mournblade now?
Who will shirk her duties?
Who keens for her among the Drow?
I sing of grief and beauty.

Who will share the latest gossip?
Who will trash the Knights?
Who will wear my favorite outfit--
A tutu--to a knife fight?

Who, who, who? I am an owl
Or something less familiar:
I hoot and scream and cry and howl.
To hear it might have killed her.

But here she lies: gone, dead, and so--
I close another chapter--
A mourning song, who's next to go?
I sing of what comes after.

--Valindra Skitterwit

A Toast

for Vargan

Raise a glass to the highest of patrons--
A toast to the Adept of Air
From your Heraldic (if biased) Matron--
We built the Rest with the joy you shared.

Farewell to my benefactor.
Bye-bye to Vargan the thief.
With whom shall I now play poker?
My tell is lying through my teeth.

One last chance to honor this sweet bruv
Before we cover his eyes with stones.
He stole my heart and pried my rings off,
But we'll be pardoned these many loans.

He's gone. He's gone. Dear Vargan,
How I'll miss that peekaboo flair.
Though we'd only just begun--
Raise a glass to the Adept of Air.

Dwiggan's Duality
- By Trillian Triffle the Casual Consumer

The sausage and the sword
Ruled over his days
Confusing desires
Of how dwarves might slay

This truest of champions
Faced proposition most lewd
Chose his sausage when clearly
It was the sword that would do

Yet still true he was
He grieved his poor wife
Estranged not forgotten
He took his own life

And how came his end?
Did he fall on his blade?
Again with the sausage!
Engorged on goods that he made!

Curation
- By Trillian Triffle the Misshapen Doll

Skip over that stone, I can never go home
All barrels have bottoms, perfect for the downtrodden
Tossed into the ether, just for pleasing my teacher
And portals go places, not give extra faces!

Burnt feathers, lost letters, a broken tambourine
The greediest collector that I've ever seen
Essence in rafters, metal tongue lashes
Half written op-eds on latest Serin fashions

What are these things?
Another secret you see
That secret? It's obvious
The secret is me

But what of the toys
when the island is sunk?
Too late, secret's out
We believe we're not junk

And all Mamas leave, but do they depart?
Can a concept so pure truly fall apart?
That shimmering sheen that hangs in the air
Heat wafts o'er the oven, I see her there

So follow your nose
Do pick up those crumbs
They lead to each other
So search with aplomb

Drip, drip
Blood falls upon the sand
Don't trip
Or you'll die by my hand

Quick, quick
We run to see who lasts
I slipped!
And smile with final gasp

My blood seeps deep into the floor
Arena stains how I endure
Earth recalls what men forget
The Blood God's grin in each sunset

- Trillian Triffle, the Upper Leftmost Stain

Vhrael, you old drow,
Where are you now?

Justice is ashamed,
Who can be blamed?

You trust not the Hallowed Crown,
Yet I can't feel a sorrowed down.

Headaches, you gave them relief;
It was painful, yet it was brief.

Begone, now that you're null,
Before I dig into your skull.

Coattails has packed up his old bags,
Filled them with tears, blood and rags,
And left behind his double fake.
Did he merely go jump in the lake,
Or was he trying to avoid the stake?

No one knows where Coattails has gone,
But many of his belongings are pawned.
Vinnie won't say where they came from,
Maybe it was on somebody else's lawn?
But surely it wasn't Valour's kingdom.

Coattails, you made many mad,
Though you made me quite glad,
As you drew everyone's ire,
And your death many's desire,
But there was more to be had.

There is this odd fact about Shadows and Light. There can be no shadows
without light. And all light has a source. No source is fixed. They can
and do move or extinguish. So what do we deduce, dear readers? Only this:
Nothing can remain in the shadows forever.

So true with the Legion! For long years, they laid in the shadows. They
closed their doors. They moved their home. They made vague offers with
undefined benefits. And then, in this very era, the most exciting
development in absolute ages! The Legion stepped boldly into the light.
With flashing red eyes and malicious intent, a reborn Kryton engaged the
mortals of Serin. Merged. Enhanced. Greater than. His demonic powers and
influence were laid bare for all to see. It was a declaration. This is
what it means to be a Vessel.

And yet, room remained for misinterpretation. For a lack of understanding.
But fret not, dear readers! This is where the Mystique works for you, the
lay folk. Where mysteries lie, we seek truth. I, Trillian Triffle, at the
time not yet the High Herald of Serin, was granted an interview with Kryton
himself. And he did not disappoint. He peeled back the veil. He allowed
me to converse with not just himself, but with his former self. I spoke
with Kryton, Hand of the Dark Lord. I spoke with Kryton, the former fire
giant. His intonations, accents, and mannerisms seamlessly flipped between
the two. He could be either. However, through questioning I learned the
depth of the merger. They were the same. Distinct yet unified. The old
present, yet more than before. The demon and the giant. Together.
Preserved intact yet still combined

Kryton the giant's personal goals were much aligned with the demon who
inhabited him. Blood and supremacy. So we also spoke of Kikikale. We
spoke of the Fae spirit he pursues, both before as a corrupted tree and now
as a demon reborn. The goal remains. There is more, not less. It is
addition, not replacement.

Becoming a Vessel, it would seem, is far less sacrifice and far more
opportunity than it might at first seem. A revelation indeed.

- Trillian Triffle, reporting

A Knightly Summation
- By Trillian Triffle, the Liberal Librarian

The latest era of Knights is best encapsulated by the career of another
fallen, favored son. The cabal itself stands at this time as a reflection
of Savanti, Guardian of Valour. History shall remember him as Savanti the
Builder in accordance with his persistent, diligent nature. He started as a
young elf emerging from the woods with naught but hope and inexperience in
equal measure. Throughout his life he would return to those woods. On
occasion, he seemed to prefer the solitude of the ruins of Gregisham to the
bustle of Valour and the companionship of his beasts to that of his fellows.
In truth, he poured his time into building in two places. He dreamed of
restoration of both the glory of Gregisham and the ideals of the Knights.
Each of these lofty aspirations escaped him in his life. He railed against
the Rise of Legion. He stood before the storm and he faltered. Again and
again he paid for his values with his own blood. As did his Knightly
fellows. Yet between each death he returned to the Ruins of Gregisham.
With his two hands, he carried stones. With his mind, he carried lessons.
And as he laid those stones he reflected on battles lost. And stone by
stone, death by death, he built. Little by little, ruins turned to
foundations. Slaughters gave way to pitched battles. It is true that
victories were infrequent. A skirmish here. A triumph there. But he
persevered, as did those who strode the path with him. At a key moment, Sir
Vok felled the Kryton, Hand of the Dark Lord. A momentary victory to be
certain as Kryton returned to the peak of his prowess with ease and menaces
the land to this day. But it served as a call. A beacon of hope to rally
the next generation. "Hope yet burns," it proclaimed. Young warriors began
to look once more at the Knights and rallied to their Halls. Savanti
assumed leadership and taught all he had learned. Many came, many fell.
Savanti himself succumbed forevermore to the ravages of his many wounds.
Greginsham stood again, but in fragments only. A tower here, a garden
there. Hardly the White City Savanti had imagined. But a start. So too
the Knights of Valour. Legion looms more threatening than ever, yet so too
stands the next generation. Three strong warriors stood as candidates to be
raised as the first Executor since Rhoa. Aerysen was chosen and soon proved
himself able to the task. With flashing blade and diamond skin, he felled
Kryton once more. The Knights are ably kept, and it would seem it is not a
moment too soon. Legion has stepped from the shadows and movies with
demonic intent. Which of these bold leaders will claim the next era? That
has yet to be seen. The field is prepared. Only time will tell.

With the recent rift between Knights and Justice I headed to the streets
of Seringale to conduct a focus group on whether the removal of Justice was
a good thing or a bad thing for the city. I tracked down four regulars who
wander the streets to hear what they had to say.

Foggledonk: "Good day, citizens! I'd like to hear your thoughts on a matter
of great importance. What do you think about the Knights driving the
Justices out of town?"

Melenn: "I've always believed in balance, and this whole situation is a
mess. The Knights and the Justices, they should have found a way to coexist
peacefully. Driving the Justices out was a mistake. They should have
worked together to protect our town and uphold the law. It's a shame that
ego and power got in the way."

Mogu: "Well, I've lived in Seringale all my life, and I've seen both sides
of this conflict. I think the Knights did what they had to do to protect us
from evil. Those Justices, they may have upheld the law, but they did it
with an iron fist. It's about time someone stood up to them."

Keth: "Oh, you've got it all wrong! The Knights are nothing but
power-hungry brutes. The Justices may have been strict, but they maintained
order in Seringale. Now that they're gone, who's going to ensure we don't
descend into chaos? I say we need the Justices back!"

Polik: "Well, I'm just a simple storm giant, and I don't care much for
politics. But I can tell you this much - business has been booming since
the Knights took charge. People feel safer now, and they're buying more
weapons and armor. So, from a business perspective, I'm all for the Knights
driving out the Justices."

There you have it, the voices of Seringale's citizens. If you try to please
everyone, you'll please no one.

This has been another edition of Face-to-Face with Foggledonk.

The Blood God

In the realm of Serin, where violence holds sway,
The Blood God reigns in crimson array.
His eyes aflame with malevolent might,
Defy him and suffer unmerciful smite.

Once a member of the dark-knight guild,
He practiced the dark arts, a pact fulfilled.
Bending the will of those before him,
Carving his foes from limb to limb.

Lodur, the deity of drow descent,
Offered Davairus a bloody ascent.
Davairus, they called him, the Blood God reborn,
Those who defied him, their families mourn.

For Davairus, the Blood God, may seem austere,
But his purpose is simple, straightforward, and clear:
Spill blood in his name through war and strife,
Each droplet of blood sustaining his life.

Leading his Warlords from the clouds above,
They seek his approval and blessings thereof.
A deity of battle, of war and of pain,
In the realm of Serin, he continues his reign.

Faithfully fulfilling a debt to the late Xhao,
Foggledonk

This multi-volume scroll is dated Day of the Great War, Third Renewal of
the Celestial of Vanity. Faint indentations upon it seem to indicate its
provenance as a facsimile reproduction.

<><><><><><><><><><>The Ballad of Sheer Loonacy:<><><><><><><><><><>
<><><><><><><><><><><>A Farce in Three Acts<><><><><><><><><><><><>

{Dramatis Personae}
Tevaloon, a drunken wastrel
Trillian, a garrulous gadfly
Ilromie, an unnerving instructor
Lamneve, a student
Baewyn, an exemplar of virtue

[Mocker's Tavern, Seringale. Midday.]

resembles no less than a wasted spider. He tries to raise a frosty mug to
his lips but manages to spill its contents in the process. TRILLIAN enters,
flitting across the stage with trademark fey mania.>

Trillian: My, my, Tevaloon! Getting after the sticky pickle a little early,
aren't you?

Tevaloon (hiccupping): Help me, Million! I mean Trillian! I have ...
writer's block.

Trillian: Oh, no, no, no! That simply will not do! Have you tried using
your head?

Tevaloon: What do you mean?

Trillian: Let me explain.

audience can clearly read the words (FOR WRITERS) in crude script across the
front. TRILLIAN smashes the block into TEVALOON's head, and the drow goes
careening across the stage.>

Tevaloon (bellowing): Trillian!

Trillian: We are all slaves to our muse, Loony!

times until the pixie darts from his grasp at the last moment. TEVALOON
grows frustrated, his breathing increasingly labored.>

Tevaloon (panting): Slow ... Down ... A minute ... Would you?

Trillian: Well, if you're not going to use your head, maybe you could try
your fists.

Tevaloon: My fists?

Trillian: Yes, yes, Loony! Have you explored the pillar of warfare?

Tevaloon: The whatsit of who-now?

Trillian: The pillar of warfare! Every young scholar must study their
pillars, and I think warfare is the perfect place for you to start. It
seems to require very little intelligence.

Tevaloon (his panting subsiding): Tell me more, Trillian . . .

[Blackout.]

[An unremarkable classroom, somewhere in Serin.]

she commands their attention, even in silence. Eventually, she speaks.>

Ilromie: Now, who can recite for me Serin's immortal pantheon ...

Ilromie (concluding): alphabetically?

avail.>

Ilromie: Lamb shank?

Lamneve (stuttering): Lam-Lam-Lamneve.

Ilromie: No, I don't think that's it. Now, are you catching flies or
answering my question?

Lamneve (tentatively at first, but then picking up steam): Yes, ma'am.
Aberdour, Avenar ....

Lamneve: ... And Zylenier!

Ilromie: Very good. Now who can tell me what Lamb shank did wrong?

Lamneve (softly): Lamneve.

Ilromie: Yes?

Lamneve: I only meant ... My name is ...

Ilromie: Lamb shank, I gather you're here because you wish to join the
Consortium. In fact, you remind me of someone who used to sit in that same
chair. But you'll never fill her shoes, no matter how large your feet are.

Ilromie (as an aside): And your feet are very large.

Lamneve (simultaneously): I already have shoes ...

Ilromie (continuing, speaking over Lamneve): Now, Tevaloon here is an
example of what a true scholar should be ...

soundly.>

Ilromie: Even now he receives special instruction from the divine!

Lamneve: I dont think tha--

Ilromie: Silence! Let him rest, for soon he will awaken with a suitable
motive for murder and an opportunity for first-hand combat experience. You
should truly be more like Tevaloon, Lamb Shank.

Lamneve (trailing off): I . . . .

[Blackout.]

[The Arena of Blood, Seringale. Dusk.]

measure, observes a duel in the arena below. Out of nowhere (or, more
precisely, stage left), TEVALOON skulks in, attempting to kick dirt into
BAEWYN's eyes. A brief skirmish ensues.>

Baewyn (drily): Why are you attacking me?

Tevaloon (panting): Isn't ... It ... Obvious?

Baewyn: If it were, would I ask?

ground.>

Tevaloon: I was ... Bored.

continues to observe the talking pretzel.>

Tevaloon: Listen up, lady, and be sure to tell your friends--if you wish to
know what is most fundamental to Serin, it is simply one fact: kill or be
killed. That is how you circumnavigate this realm. The annals of Serin's
history are littered with the losers who ...

nature of the realm and the lesson he intended to impart. BAEWYN, however,
has left him contorted upon the ground. She walks toward the sunset with
a suddenly appeared LAMNEVE.>

Baewyn: Can you believe that guy?

Lamneve: I was sort of hoping he'd come up with a better reason . . .

Baewyn: Me too, Lam, me too.

[THE END.]

Tiamat was restless. Her massive chest heaved as Red huffed her
displeasure while shifting the bulk of them on the pile of gold and jewels
that they claim as their bed. One celestial. A full celestial since the
most interesting event in ages and nothing! No escalation. No visit. Not
even a repeat encounter. It was all the more frustrating because Red knew
these feelings were not truly her own. The Five have distinctly different
thoughts, personalities, and preferences. But emotions are... Trickier.
Things tend to blur. And the other four range from intrigued to stimulated
which left Red beholden despite her current dominance of the collective. It
was infuriating.

Her vision started to haze as the others reached out. Red settled her neck
and head deep into a bank of gold as they began yet another undoubtedly
fruitless search. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her trying not
to focus on the experience too keenly. Dragon to dragon to dragon to
dragon. They jumped about near frantically barely even taking the time to
taste the scent on the winds. As soon as the air was fresh, absent the
sickly scent of death, they moved on. For weeks. It was tiresome. It
would seem Red was not alone in the feeling. They landed on a middle aged
Blue atop a hill and paused for a time. The Blue was striking. Powerful.
In his prime. Young enough to control a significant territory but not so
ancient as to have largely retired to a lair unless stirred. The object of
their interest and the cause of the momentary respite was cresting a nearby
hilltop. An armor clad knight strode a direct path towards the highest hill
where the Blue maintained its nest. The Blue in turn rose into an
elongated, sitting position that stretched its neck and caused its head to
tower above the surrounding landscape. Red's lip curled in a sneer. The
mirrored overconfidence of the two was nearly comical. A knight so bold as
to stroll openly to his death. And a young dragon so infatuated with his
own strength as to nest in the open. Tiamat opened herself to the emotions
and memories of the blue to get the feel of the slaughter she was about to
witness. It washed over her. Amusement for the paltry challenge
approaching. Bloodlust for the kill to come. Anticipation for the
slaughter he would enact upon the villages in his territory after. The
knight continued his direct march and began his ascent to the nest. All
five heads exhaled a simultaneous sigh. Another bore in an endless line of
little disappointments. The man was as green as he was arrogant. Shield
slung upon his back, he didn't even know he had just entered the range of
dragonfire. He just stoically lumbered on while dragging a long and heavy
object behind him. As if on cue, the Blue inhaled sharply, stoking the
flames in his belly. The fire broiled and churned and built until it
screamed for release. His neck snapped forward, jaws springing wide as he
funneled the flames into a jet that coursed through his throat. Then Tiamat
slammed the door closed. Wrenching all bodily control from the dragon, she
locked his jaws and convulsed his neck muscles, swallowing the fire and
forcing it back deep into his belly to smolder unrequited.

She focused intently on the inhaled air. And it was there. Feint. Fresh.
But there. The scent of death.

Tiamat pulled the dragon back into an upright, crouching position. She
declined his head ever so slightly. Not a bowed head. Just enough to shift
the blue's gaze downward to ensure that there would be no eye contact with
the approaching knight. This time the encounter would unfold on her terms.
She would not reveal herself until she was ready. The knight summited the
hilltop and continued forward. There was no hesitation, no fear, in his
gait. He made no move to defend himself, striding confidently until he was
within easy reach of the dragon's jaws. There he stopped and dropped his
burden. The bundle of heavy chains and metal stirred the dust as they
clattered to the ground. At this distance, to a dragon's nose, there was no
mistaking it. This man was dead. Or rather, undead. A zombie. Freshly
killed, freshly raised, with no traces of decay. Still averting her gaze,
Tiamat snaked her borrowed head forward, jaws wide, snapping them closed a
scant inch from the creature's face. Green snorted in disdain as the zombie
gave no reaction, not even the slightest flinch. How she loathed feeling
outmaneuvered. The fire still roiled in the blue's belly, yearning for
release, for satisfaction. Oh, how the blue wanted to consume this
creature. She could nearly taste his frustration. His desire. She
smothered his will beneath her own. She began to explore the creature,
first taking in his scent more fully. She started at the waist and worked
her way upwards. Just as she passed his sternum a hand pressed upward from
beneath her maw. The touch on her chin was light, yet persistent.
Powerful. Commanding. It compelled her, lifted her, until they locked
eyes. Breathe caught in five throats as again the world exploded in a
fractal of sensory perception. But this time, she was ready. She quickly
pushed through the multitude of vision, ignoring the localized sight of
thousands of interconnected dragons and undead. She pushed through, and
beneath, to the twin, blue fires that burned within. To the master. In
eons of existence, there had been only a scant few times when Tiamat had
completely focused all five of her minds so intently upon a single creature.
Fewer still that the one before her had not instantly been bowed by the
intensity of her full presence. For some time, neither moved. They simply
stared, eyes locked, two beings separated by untold leagues yet lost in
consideration of each other all the same.

"What are you?" Tiamat thought to herself.

As if the thought were a cue, the zombie knight began to move once more.
His palm caressed her nose with the softest touch, barely maintaining
contact, as it traced a gliding path from below her chin atop the bridge.
Then the guiding, persistent pressure resumed, this time pressing her head
downward rather than up. Slowly, Tiamat abated, descending until her head
was pressed fully to the ground. To the dirt. Dust flurried about them she
huffed. But she allowed it. If the knight took notice of her displeasure
he gave no outward sign as he turned to his fallen chains. They rattled and
clanged as he searched before shaking an item free. He returned to her
carrying a massive hinged collar. Her nostrils flared in warning as he
approached, but he quieted her with a hand to the cheek. Again, he traced
her curves, his touch trailing down her sinuous neck before coming to rest.
She heard the metallic grind of the hinge being worked. Felt the weight of
the collar settling upon her. And she did nothing. Nothing outward.
Internally, her emotions were aflame as the knight continued his work,
shackling limbs and binding wings. The blue mentally writhed in fury but
that was paltry compared to the storm within the Five. They had not
suffered a degradation like this in ages. Perhaps ever. And never
willingly. By rights, they should incinerate this knight until the ash
itself fires and is no more. They should hunt this creature and his eyes of
flame and unmake his very being. And yet... Twined with this indignation
was something more. She was in no true peril. Yet her
heart raced. Her breath quickened. To feel so... Stirred. Tiamat
squirmed upon her gold. White burrowed her muzzle in a pile of fine silks.
And they held the blue tight.

====================The Pillar Pageant====================

The chorus -- your hosts, an attractive group of gods dressed in suggestive
attire. Played by Resatimm, Olyn, & Ceridwel.
Warfare -- battles, cabal interactions, the art of fighting. Played by
Davairus.
Literature -- the art of language. Played by Vevier.
Fundamental -- that needed to circumnavigate the realms. Played by
Solmundi.
Physical -- the study of animals, objects, and places. Played by Varliv,
Phostan, & Lumubella.
Arcane -- the study of spells and the magical interplay among elements, the
ethereal, and otherworldly. Played by Denadlyr.
Religion -- the study of deities, followers, and their interactions. Played
by Kedaleam.
Tragedy -- obituaries and the Serin-shaking events. Played by Dogran.
History -- the study of Serin present and past. Played by Avenar.
Myth -- the origin and persistence of legends. Played by Vanisse.
Lamneve -- a young scholar. Played by Kryton.

Scene 1. Introduction.

[Inside LANNEVE's head. Most of the stage is dark and empty. A lone
spotlight illuminates the chorus.]

The chorus (sing-song and in tandem, starting at a near whisper, but
crescendoing): Who will she pick? Who will she choose? Who will she pick?
Welcome to the . . .

Chorus #1 (distinguishing himself from the others, singing): It would be a
sight to see . . .

Chorus #2: Some Pillars as fine as we . . .

Chorus #3: Selected by that giant girl . . .

Chorus #1 (slightly muffled): She really is a giant girl . . .

Chorus (in unison): Welcome to the--Pillar Pageant!

[WARFARE enters from stage left, covered in blood and with several arrows
protruding from his person. He steps on the Chorus's last line. The
remaining Pillars file in as WARFARE begins speaking.]

Warfare: Why wouldn't she pick me? Blood spills as easily as water, and who
can--

Literature: That's not--

Warfare: Who can help you understand Serin better than Warfare?

Literature (muttering, as an aside): We're not there yet.

Literature (after a beat, turning to the audience, falsely bright):
Literature!

[The rest of the pillars announce themselves in turn, each striking a pose
somewhere on stage.]

Fundamental: Fundamental!

Physical (flexing, in unison): Let's get . . . PHYSICAL!

Arcane: Religion!

Religion: No, I'm Religion!

Tragedy: Tragedy!

History: History!

Myth (bored, inspecting her nails): Myth . . .

Chorus #1: These are your pillars, folks! Give them a round of applause.

[Silence. The curtain falls.]

Scene 2. Talent.

[The curtain opens on the same group of Pillars, each seemingly frozen in
the pose they'd struck moments before. They remain this way, suspended in
time, until isolated by the spotlight.]

Chorus #2: Alright! Let's get this party . . . over with. Each of our
contestants has been asked to prepare a short demonstration for Lamneve's
consideration. First up -- Literature!

Literature (illuminated): Literature is an art, like everything else. I do
it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so--

[LITERATURE continues reciting her poem, the specifics of which change with
every performance. She concludes with a sharp bow.]

Chorus #2: Welcome to the stage . . . Warfare!

[WARFARE swaggers forward.]

Warfare: I'll need a volun--

[The spotlight shifts to TRAGEDY, whose hand shoots up before WARFARE
can finish.]

Warfare: --teer. Oh, ok, Tragedy get on up here. Let's show Tragedy some
love, everybody!

[Silence.]

[WARFARE waits a beat before drawing a vicious broadsword with three
scintillating rubies on its pommel. He advances upon TRAGEDY.]

Warfare (lunging): Get ready to . . . defend yourself!

[TRAGEDY raises his own weapon to meet WARFARE, though it appears made from
wood, perhaps intended only for training. The pair weave in and out of the
frozen Pillars upon the stage in a dexterous dance that the spotlight
follows closely.]

Tragedy (grunting): You're fast . . . hey, I've been meaning to ask you . . .

Warfare (barely exerting himself): What's up, Tragedy?

Tragedy (now sweating profusely as he attempts to match pace): You ever
think about teaming up?

[WARFARE switches the direction of his blade at the last moment, severing
TRAGEDY's head completely from his body. The head arcs several times
through the air before landing with a thud at the foot of the stage.]

Warfare (cleaning his blade): I work alone.

Tragedy (a head): It's an honor just to be nomi--I mean decapitated.

[Silence.]

Chorus #3: Here comes . . . Religion!

[Both RELIGION and ARCANE step forward into the spotlight. ARCANE
eventually steps back, if slowly. RELIGION clenches a stack of letters in
his fist.]

Religion (reading from the top letter): This letter is dated Day of the
Great War, Third Renewal of the Celestial of Vanity.

Dear Lord, I hope you are proud of me. I am trying to be like water. I am
trying to be whole . . .

[RELIGION reads the rest of the letter, which changes every performance. He
returns to the assemblage of frozen Pillars with little fanfare.]

Chorus #3: Are you ready for Myth? Make some no-oise!

[Silence. The spotlight finds MYTH, who does not stop examining her nails
for a long time.]

Myth: For my talent, I'd like to share with you my impersonation . . . of a
pillar!

[An audible gasp from the audience. Myth stands perfectly still once more.]

Myth (after a long time): . . . get it?

[Thunderous applause. Fade to black.]

Scene 3. Interview.

[LAMNEVE's head. The set has been rearranged to feature a desk with two
plush chairs, all facing the audience. CHORUS #1 sits at the desk, while
ARCANE sits beside him in the first chair. The spotlight finds them
mid-conversation.]

Arcane: The greatest healers of an age will spend their lives debating that
distinction.

CHORUS #1: But why the constant impersonation?

ARCANE: Well, is divinity not inherent within the study of arcane?

Chorus #1: Referring to yourself in the third person now? Are you really
that famous?

Arcane: No, no. That's not what I meant. That's not what I meant at--

Chorus #1: Then what did you mean?

Arcane: at all . . . it is the study that's important. Is that not a kind of
prayer? And does it not require faith to use magic? I am not so different
than my brother.

Chorus #1 (incredulous): Your brother?

Arcane (talking over Chorus #1, fiddling with his collar): We're constantly
getting confused . . . even by each other. And by you too, I guess. Isn't he
the one who's supposed to be sitting for this interview?

[ARCANE punctuates his remarks by doffing a mask, revealing RELIGION beneath.]

Chorus #1 (tossing his index cards over his shoulder): Well, now I've seen
everything . . .

[Fade to black.]

Scene 4. Swimwear.

[The curtain lifts, and the spotlight reveals HISTORY and PHYSICAL posing in
their best swimwear garb.]

Chorus #2: C'mon in, the water's fine. It's time for . . . swimwear!

[Silence. HISTORY steps forward, nearly nude, though his radiant aura
prevents most from discerning his immodesty.]

History: In the outmost reaches of the universe, the deities fought for
supremacy. Each of them battled for eons over control of their territories,
that one may triumph and possess all, uniting them into one . . .

[CHORUS #2 makes a spinning motion with his finger. HISTORY twirls, though
he continues his recitation at great length. It changes every performance.
Eventually, the three-headed avatar of PHYSICAL interrupts, pushing to the
front in their swimwear singlet astride a donkey.]

Physical (gesturing proudly to the donkey): The study of animals . . .

Physical (second head): Objects . . .

PHysical (third head): And places!

[The audience murmurs appreciatively as a large portal opens behind
PHYSICAL. FUNDAMENTAL emerges in a full body stocking.]

Fundamental (addressing someone in the crowd): You'll never get where you're
going without me, Lammy!

[FUNDAMENTAL models his swimwear by cartwheeling across the stage. He takes
another pass, this time flipping, and then one more, demonstrating a talent
for walking on his hands.]

Fundamental: Stick with me, kid, and it's straight to the--

[A deluge of water interrupts FUNDAMENTAL. It begins to fill the entire
stage from an unseen mechanism above the contestants. HISTORY, PHYSICAL,
and FUNDAMENTAL can be observed treading water until the curtain eventually
obscures them from view.]

[Silence.]

Scene 5. Dedication.

[LAMNEVE's head. The curtain opens to find the young scholar sitting upon a
small stool, stage right. The scene contrasts, perhaps comically, her giant
size with that of the stool, which she handily eclipses. Despite this, she
holds herself with poise. A partition divides her from the other half of
the stage. The Chorus enters from stage right, illuminated by the
spotlight.]

Chorus #3: Well, let's see who you didn't pick!

[A parade of dejected Pillars enters from stage left, each stopping briefly
to address LAMNEVE as they exit stage right.]

History: You're doomed to rep--

Warfare: Byeeeeee!

Literature: That's not what we're . . .

Myth (bored): . . .

Tragedy: You're never gonna get a head now!

[FUNDAMENTAL, PHYSICAL, ARCANE, and RELIGION line up outside.]

During an attempt to find out more about Legion, their greatest member,
Kryton, was interviewed. He accepted the interview but said he would only
answer two questions! The dialogue between our interviewer and Kryton went
as follows:

Fralenn: Where does Legion feel it stands with the current influx of
Knights?

Kryton: Is stand same place before is new Knights. Is smash. Is make blood
shrine is Dark Lord name.

Fralenn: How many members does Legion have currently?

Kryton: Is waste you second question with that?

Kryton: Is give you nother chance for second question.

Fralenn: Right.

Kryton: Is Kryton no big on second chance.

Kryton: Is right.

Fralenn: Who is your biggest enemy, Kryton?

Kryton: Is wake up expect all is my enemy at this point. Is some fight
tougher than is other... That no matter though.

Fralenn: Thank you for your time.

Kryton didn't reveal much, but at least he allowed a question to be asked in
place of one he didn't answer!

Although Lord Avenar seemed to be slightly distracted by happenings in
the Rest during this time, he was interviewed. Initially he was asked about
cuisine, literature, and mysteries. He said he never fancied himself as
having anything but simple tastes since food is short-lived, so seeking it
out is a fool's errand in his words. Regarding literature, he said it is at
the heart of everything.

In his own words, "[Literature] is like a living soul that pulses through
the world and keeps it alive long after we are gone. The words of those
before us can inspire us again and again. And something about that remains
special forever."

He said mysteries are always intriguing and he adores a good secret wrapped
up in hidden purpose. He also alluded to the Rest being especially full of
secrets.

When asked if he had any enemies as a mortal, he said the Warlords would not
let him study and insisted on dueling. Legion was also a problem because
they attacked the Rest. He also made mention of a dark-knight whose name he
forgets.

Finally, he says his greatest weakness is being able to focus on his own
mind and be present because he sees things from the past, present, and
future all at once.

As recorded by Trillian Triffle when a tiny wisp named Hibbadibbity
emerged draped in a natty black veil and cleared her throat.

Now I speak for Valindra the witch,
Who of late finds herself in a ditch:
'When I peered into flame,
I saw my own name
In the mouth of the Reaper--that bitch!'

Foggledonk
----------

Valindra, the witch with the goblin face.
A seer who was anything but commonplace.
Poetic Prognosticator, High Herald of Myth.
Friend to all, Master Wordsmith.

Embracing all subjects, both rousing and plain.
With grace you saw beyond the mundane.
Your impact on Serin cannot measured.
Every moment together, profoundly treasured.

Your fate was cruel, as fate can be.
A death nothing short of tragedy.
With no foresight of what was to come.
We are left behind, completely numb.

A tragic witch by many a name,
Your goblin face, a mask of fame.
In your presence we were spoiled rotten.
You may be gone but will not be forgotten.

Goodbye, Valindra.

How Valindra Left Home
----------------------
by Duchess Ilromie Illistarre, Polymath of History and sister to the deceased

There once was a goblin I knew
Whose fame she never outgrew
Her rhymes were sublime,
And her whines were divine,
But when she was due, she was through.

But there was also a wisp named Hibbadibbity.
It turns out that she was also one of three:
The goblin facade,
a witch in a card,
And the one who devised the whole thing.

'Little Hibba' you say, 'how could she?'
'A wisp of little power, fortunately.'
But all's written, here in this Tome
In the story of How Valindra Left Home.
Sit and harken now, to the Polymath of History.

A goblin seeking wisps went looking afar
Through a portal that someone had left ajar
To where a witch waited,
Nigh on emaciated,
So faded she resembled a twinkling star.

She whispered sweetly and she coddled,
So peaceful she even let herself be bottled.
Then just the next day
With almost no say,
Valindra ate her mentor, then dawdled.

For there was another who must be beguiled
They were waddling there, as the details were styled.
Valindra wiped off her chins,
Thought naught of her sins,
And took another portal into the wild.

Olgarda the witch had many schemes of her own
She lived in a chalet of cookies, instead of stone
The goblin's welcome was her lapse
A blink, then in a Tarot trapped.
Her fate was tied to magic instead of flesh and bone.

For the wisp, such control was not to last
Each day the present bled ceaselessly to past
Hibbadibbity forgot who she had been
And then Valindra added Gimbolin
For the crone, all sense of identity was smashed.

In the end it was Olgarda who rose up and fought
Who strived to possess what she aught not
She was banished, we hope
the dark Coven was broke
When we sent her to the Abyss to rot.

Left two of three in the power she formed
while the goblin's appetite turned to a dwarf.
But little is written of what came after.
What ran through that head as the goblin grew fatter
Did the Banishing also a wisp transform?

If not, then what is written is as clear as my chalice,
For possession requires intention and malice.
If Hibba's changed then she will fade,
and we have two friends to farewell this day
Otherwise, little one, your deception was callous.

The books and stories include all three
Attributed only to the one we could see.
Don't forget this old Myth
Of the two who came with
Or you forget part of our friend, to a degree.

Witch's Rap VI
- By Trillian Triffle, Child of the Coven

I am the pixie
in the witch's hat
Don't yet know the Magics
but I'll get the knack

Staring in the fires
Don't yet see your demise
And no I'm not crying
Bright light just hurts my eyes

So step up sirs, ladies, and sons
I'll roll these bones
And come what come
(Please consult Wylsin for the reading when I'm done)

The age of illusion has begun
Time for y'all to learn about pixie fun
Confirmed deletes, a fiat complete
I didn't do this, I've got receipts!

Pick up your jaw
No disbelief
No time for History
Myth runs these streets!

Weaponizing fiction
Transcendental transcription
Hyperbolic half truths
Canonized into scripture

Cause me and mine?
We don't sit on our hands
These quills be scribblin'
So best meet my demands

Now run to the taverns
Do be my friend
Feed me my desires
Or meet literary end

But what's with this hat?
It's heavy as a lead sack
I best be careful
Or I might hurt my back

The Serin Mystique, Volume 16, Issue 3