The Roots (Pt. 1)

There was a reason for poetry and verse when speaking of the Tuatha Dé, the Fair Folk, the Farthest Travellers, the folk of myth and legends. The reason was simple: even for the mortals who had journeyed to their realms and back, describing the people and sights of that otherworldly land was unto the madness of beholding the rot between worlds.

And if you could write it so superlatively well, bleeding visions and perspectives onto the page with mere ink and imagination—you’d have written something with the nature of that place. That object would have the power to distort and play tricks with your own world.

That was dangerous in and of itself. So, just like the things that should have never been named nor learned to think or exist—poetry was used, meter and verse, to chain together simpler concepts.

The very nature of iambic pentameter existed to give structure to something otherworldly. A painting became a safer portal to view greater truths from via the mind of the artist and the strokes of their brushes.

However, there were still truths to the lands of Avalon, the realms of the fae. They were perspectives, shifting, overlapping, even contradictory, but they had themes and natures. One of the truths was this:

In the court of the fae, at the heart of everything, between time and reality, where they passed from season to season, there was a copse of trees; a forest of ancient, proud woods, conifers and plants far more exotic, adorned with overgrown shrubs and wild mushrooms twisting towards the very sky. However, the land was scarred, showing the ruined remains of where a true forest had once thrived. Rot, weather, and insects had left many trees pitted, eradicating others down to their roots. Shadows played around this empty glade a visitor sometimes might stumble into. They would see a single oak, a world’s tree, growing and find tears springing to their eyes without knowing why.

…there was a court of nobility who stood in august and dignified graces and impressed upon any visitor their wild civility. But for every dancing pixie or burst of wild laughter and chaotic moment, the halls of the palace echoed with silence. There should have been countless millions; now, the emptiness grew so loud that entire wings of the palace were silent.

Each member of the court looked exactly like the species you belonged to and had the accent of old power and infallible manners. Yet their shadows seemed to cavort and twist out of the corner of your eyes.

The windows and paintings would change and flicker, and it felt as though each and every eye were always upon you. Yet there was safety, so long as you obeyed the rules.

If only you knew the rules. But no one had ever written them down…

—a summer’s flare of light illuminated wild folk, half-insect, voices buzzing with new life and promise, and the air hummed with magic. Mere words had the power to bind, and the bright folk circulated and danced amidst a hundred changing rooms that left the unwary visitor, even the divine, trapped and at their mercy.

Woe to anyone who visited this place, for it was both fell and fair, yet even at their most rabid, the Summer Court would turn and acknowledge the empty throne next to the filled one. They gathered in brief bursts of frantic activity, then fell silent, drifting away, speaking to the air, to the dead, before growing recalcitrant, sulky with grief.

They buzzed amidst their petty games and rivalries like disinterested flies around a rotting grapevine or courtiers playing the game of statecraft out of habit. Each one waiting.

Waiting.

They had enough to do, the fae. Play tricks on the many visitors who came in and out of their realm. Pursue old feuds or just investigate the many realities they still had access to.

A fad had been taken up; it was unclear when it had begun, but it had come from the group that departed often from the courts.

Lesser fae, and even greater ones, who would continually flit about come each winter, as if they had just remembered their duties. One would slap her forehead, shout ‘ach!, it’s time to bring the damn snow again’, and gather a group.

Faeries would be muttering curses, taking the guise of small frost pixies, beings of ice and simplicity—at the best of times, they were a cloud of gaily singing, impish figures, considering their job a lark. At the worst, they’d be a sullen storm, or a panicked one, late, because none of them had remembered, hauling snow by the bucketload to their destination.

Sometimes, they’d chant great incantations of cold and whirl blizzards into the sky; other times, they’d steal the snow from somewhere else and carry it with them in their pockets. Most times, it was of little note; groups flitting out of the court and returning with little news.

Most faeries did it for a lark and didn’t bother to go back a second time. But a few of the courts, even the greatest and oldest, would go again and again, like the thunder of frost-laden mountains compressing into silly snowflakes for the trip. Returning in silence, with little to say.

Until recently.

—weary travellers, lined and snappish with age, would take the ‘young’ ones with them. Though, young was so subjective that the youngest were still grown adults annoyed by being treated like infants.

They bundled up, wearing thick winter woolens, tucking away their valuables, stripping away any possessions they had. Almost naked, despite the clothing that covered all but their eyes. Penniless beggars when they should have gone with grand escorts and been received at their destination by a host of servants and treated lavishly.

But there was no embassy, nor anyone to welcome them. And if there had been…? No. Not anymore. So normally, the groups that went were small and tired, bickering constantly.

A woman in her mid-forties would stop packing her blue socks as her elder, nine times her senior, would stride over and ask if she’d packed enough cold. They’d bicker, but then line up, unfailingly, to catch the train from the platform as it slowly pulled into the station.

There was only one car left on this train; the rails were battered to hells and back—literally—and bullet holes stood out on the once-beautiful metalwork. There was a real fear it might derail, but the Conductor of Worlds always inspected the tracks—there was no iron in them, of course—and had certified they were good to travel.

For a while, at least.

Everything had changed with the last circuit. Now, there was no arguing, and a vast congregation saw off the last group to take the train.

The last visit had been unsanctioned, but they had still gone, tickets or not. A group of eleven on a one-way ticket, riding with the windows covered, the only light visible from inside a pale-blue glow as security rode on the top of the train, holding swords made of frost and the largest-caliber guns they could carry.

Under the watchful eyes of the security, the group of eleven had gone from person to person in the somber congregation standing on the platform. Shaking hands, hugging as they boarded. Then they hung out the windows, waving at their friends, as the battered train creaked out of the station.

Then they were only shadows flitting into the distance, and the tracks had fallen as silent as the night they vanished into. On a long, winding track through the depths of space, to a station that had once been a hub for countless tracks—obliterated by war.

The eleven travellers had brought no weapons, nothing that could be used against them.

The train had still not come back.

It likely never would. Or if it did—

Then it would be time for war.

The little fad sweeping the courts of the fae had not come from the doomed eleven. No, it had started a while back when a group that had left to bring winter had come back bursting with tales of another world.

Earth (aren’t they all?), tales of a Bard, and heroes of legend. Of course, the court of the fae knew those stories well. They had lived them. But they always liked hearing them told a new way.

There had been some fun, lately. There had been a disturbance in the woods. A little chase, an amusing visitor—

A Faerie King’s trick. For a while, it had felt like the old days, and the courts had come to life. Then eleven had left, and a long, sullen silence had fallen. A battle had been won, or at least, not lost.

Four were gone forever. One of the Wild Hunt itself, fallen in glorious battle.

One had left for mortality; dead already, even if she yet breathed.

Six remained.

There was no celebrating that. But as if in sympathy, any number of the courts were, well, reading stories.

They sat reading books from the library as a few harried librarians ordered new books by the thousand for the impatient guests.

They even had to make new sections in the library; the non-stop ‘beep’ of scanners was only replaced by arguments over whether the stories were any good, or accurate, or if someone wanted to read a book in high demand.

And that was the old-fashioned crowd; Melidore could be found here, day after day, first on the old computers he had grown used to, but he’d quickly realized he was behind the times he remembered. At least, with this particular world.

——

The librarians kept bringing in new devices and setting them up. Newfangled PCs with mandatory updates and changing interfaces that dazzled the eyes. Most of the new visitors poked around with them, and the younger ones, as were their wont, were all on board immediately, clicking through different interfaces and consuming stories—including the loud ones, games of diabolical monsters attacking you, where you were the hero.

Melidore was old-fashioned and stubborn about change. When he learned something, he resented moving away from it, so he had remained with the computer he’d mastered a long time ago. A long time ago for the fae, at least. Time didn’t really matter in the same ways.

The Altair 8800 required manual I/O (input, output) cards and other devices; Melidore used the ASR-33, which allowed him to insert punch cards, as well as a CP/M (control program and monitor), which he used to enable the actual functions of the computer. Namely, reading old stories and playing the oldest of games on the clunky device.

Other visitors would peer over the scowling Melidore’s shoulder, glance at some 4k or 1980 x 1080 display monitor running ray-traced graphics of beautifully rendered people and places and compare them to the basic texts on the flickering cathode-ray tube monitors that Melidore was straining his eyes to see.

They moved on. Even the others, who’d learned to use the device a long time ago, had decided to upgrade to a different point in time. But Melidore sat there, scowling and asking for more stories and games from that time.

But they were limited, at least, from this world; time had gone on. Moreover, they were dated. All the stories that the other visitors to the library were reading were new, founded upon the stories that were now classic and tired, and Melidore couldn’t even discuss stories to his satisfaction.

So, eventually, he turned off the old Altair 8800 computer with a sigh and demanded a new device. He packed away the old computer with some reverence.

It had mattered, back then. Some of the best stories that had enthralled the faeries and their friends had come out around that time and shaped…so much.

When Melidore and other visitors had sat around the library tables in times of old, they’d played on this device. Rolled dice and laughed about the stories those foolish mortals came up with, swapped tales and speculated with some on how you’d make the best story of all. The best game—until the Head Librarians got mad at you for shouting and chased everyone off.

Wonderful, nostalgic times. Melidore had laughed back then. Until one day he’d risen from the books and tales of yore and picked up a sword to murder his old friends.

But that was just the story of how they’d all gotten here. Told in a different way.

——

Today, Melidore was back to games, albeit of a different kind.

He’d upgraded to a smartphone, which he poked at with growing ire, annoyed by the touch interface, irritated by all the weird commands and functions that overwhelmed him, until something ‘clicked’. Then he’d bent over the device and become lost all over again, like he always did when he found a story he liked in any kind of world.

Melidore and a cortège of addicted fae would sit around, playing on the phones. It was apparently some kind of game, though one that had both story and characters.

“Yon device keeps charging me for more ‘rolls’. It’s a game where you play and gamble for the right to use great heroes.”

“…Where’s the story in that?”

Two of the fae were arguing as Ivolethe stared at the brightly moving pixels. She pointedly closed her book as a faerie with a snake’s head, who hadn’t slept for eighty days, gestured at the screen.

“No, it’s got a story! I swear! I’ve nearly got all the S-ranked characters! It’s a gacha game and—”

Ivolethe rubbed at one ear.

“How are you paying for it? What money does it charge? Coin? Funny paper bills? Aught else?”

“Uh.”

The other faerie grunted at her with a flick of the tongue and shrug of her sinuous shoulders. She tapped the smartphone, and the screen wavered.

“Number money of some kind. I don’t have the ken of it. I just keep telling it I have enough. See? Wait, I’m rolling again. Ivolethe, give me some luck. I need this new character that came out—”

She was staring at the glowing screen as she added more money to the game. Ivolethe wondered if someone else would get into trouble when they found out the money didn’t exist.

Well, it wasn’t her problem. She went back to reading. It was a story of magic and monsters; that she understood. But she frowned as she flipped another page.

The levels were odd. Was this a trend? She missed the old stories that hadn’t had such things. But then…she sighed as she recalled that oft-annoying, frantically energized figure demanding the very first of the books here and running them back to great discussions with other fae and his guests.

Isthekenous had found the first books here so fascinating. And that had been a long time ago. It was one reason why she and Melidore kept reading, even if it was pointless and the real battle lay with Shaestrel and the others.

They both felt responsible. They had both known the travellers who’d sought shelter here and argued for their cases until things had changed. Then marched to war. Now, they were reading books and waiting. But today…Ivolethe frowned down at her book and saw a sleep-deprived Melidore look up from his smartphone. The huge projector on the far side of the library was malfunctioning. Again.

Something was up. The courts of the fae were abuzz with confusion—a rarity. They were all gathered around the pools of water in vast basins that the Kings Arthur were most familiar with.

Well—two of them were. The old one and the King of Knights in his prime couldn’t stand some of the perspectives the fae flitted across, and they were ever-changing.

The boy who had yet to draw the sword from the stone, Arthur Pendragon, was always more adaptive. But the other two preferred the image of the fae dressed in a variety of styles of clothing from cultures before and after Camelot, standing in the marble palace, speaking and talking in what seemed like plain English to the two men.

Then again, even in this fashion, there were oddities; there was no roof to the palace, just the vastness of space and planets, magnified until they filled the sky. A fiery red planet, like Jupiter, with two crisscrossing rings was glowing with some interstellar war as, in the middle of the court, two people who looked mostly Human were dancing; one had a black vest and a ruffled, voluminous blue undershirt and complementing similarly-black leggings. His partner had on a swirling dress that opened and moved like a chrysanthemum flower, bright red and flaring to orange.

They were being watched by someone in a uniform that was stark white and who had a round helmet under one arm; a disconcerted emissary complete with a space gun. At least they were wise enough not to draw it.

“They seem confused.”

The oldest Arthur dragged his attention from the everyday spectacle of the courts of the Faerie King to the scrying pools. Indeed, he spotted Ivolethe, Melidore, and an entire cluster of fae standing and arguing around a pool reflecting the sights of that world.

That world. There could only be one. It was why the two Kings named Arthur were here too; they’d taken a personal interest, and it seemed like that world had always mattered. At least, more than most.

It was personal. Both eyes stole towards the empty throne, overgrown with dead vines and wilted flowers; nothing ever grew there. As for the second throne next to it, a canopy of green leaves and outstretched tree limbs—

In better days, it would have filled this entire place and blotted out the stars or been so vast as to twine its branches amidst the very planets. These days, it was refrained, tired, a small growth to celebrate the summer.

Nevertheless, they bowed towards the silent figure sitting and watching the proceedings, unmoving.

The Faerie King said nothing, nor did that green stare acknowledge the two bows. He waited, and the Kings Arthur turned and moved closer so they might hear the argument.

“…makes no sense. Hit it again.”

One of the faeries obligingly gave the scrying pool a damn good kick. The waters rippled, and the glowing vision below changed. The youngest King Arthur, a boy of thirteen, dashed over, seeming guilty and hiding something behind his back as the other two peered down.

Young Arthur Pendragon had a smartphone he shoved into his pocket. The older two gave him a reproving stare; he innocently stood on his tiptoes as a Wyrm grudgingly moved aside for him, giving the other two famous dragonslayers a wary glance. Indeed, it wasn’t just fae watching the scrying pool. A number of the other guests of Avalon were watching, perhaps because they had nothing else to do or felt they had some stake in this.

“It’s not working! See?”

It seemed fine to the Kings of Knights. The mirrors very clearly showed Ryoka Griffin, running screaming from a giant Squirrel-woman who’d poked her head out of the young woman’s closet. She was in some kind of palace…it seemed in keeping with her character from what the Kings had seen of her.

A disapproving Nama was watching Foliana’s antics. The Kings Arthur and other guests stood well apart from her, giving her plenty of room on one side of the scrying pool. It was large enough for everyone to see, a massive basin of water twenty feet across, the water as clear as a mirror, if rocking a bit from the kick. And Nama merely seemed like a five-foot-tall squirrel woman with an apron and half-moon spectacles. Nevertheless, she had about a dozen feet of clearance in every direction around her.

It didn’t matter what this perspective showed her as; no one wanted to stand right next to her. The King of Knights in his prime, the middle-aged one in his thirties, gazed about.

“It seems to be working just fine.”

“Tisn’t showing the right perspective. Kick it again, Ivolethe!”

One of the faeries who had pointed, elfish ears and green skin called out, and a woman dressed in blue and radiating cold kicked the scrying mirror again. The waters flickered—

—And switched to Erin Solstice being served a fried bug for breakfast as Ulvama and the Battle Hamster looked on. A grinning group of Fraerlings was offering her the food.

The date was unclear; the faeries tried to keep the timelines more or less contiguous, but it was a lot harder with multiple perspectives, especially in a realm that made no sense. It was the continuation of her particular story.

However, it wasn’t what the group wanted right now. The faeries around the Kings of Camelot began muttering louder.

“It’s not the right one either. Has this happened before?”

“Nary that I know of.”

“Strange. Could it be that this is our fault?”

“Can’t be, can’t…well, it probably is. The flowers, eh?”

“Which idiot gave the [Innkeeper] the lot?”

“And how were we to know she’d do something intelligent with them? But if they’re meddling in their own way, it’s beyond what anyone’s expected.”

“It’d be funny if we could see.”

“Aye, if.”

Flowers? The youngest King Arthur stood on tip-toes to see Ivolethe slapping the side of the bowl.

“Show us the white Gnoll! The child, Mrsha! Where is she?”

Nothing. And that was interesting because…there were few things in any realm that were invisible to the fae. The oldest Arthur Pendragon addressed the summer figure standing next to Ivolethe, one of the greater fae.

Melidore.

“Is this an issue of magic, Sir Melidore? Perhaps we might call for Merlin, if he’s here?”

Half the watchers around the pool turned and gave the oldest Arthur, the one about to return the sword to the Lady of the Lakes, a long stare. A few hecklers called out.

“Ye can’t solve everything with Merlin.”

“Psh. He’s not even that good at magic. I’ve seen better.”

“Shut up, old man. Leave this to the professionals.”

The oldest Arthur snapped his mouth shut and glowered as Melidore gave him a more courteous response.

“Even if he were here, this isn’t a matter of magics, Arthur Pendragon. It is odd. Though perhaps—not unexpected.”

It certainly seemed to have flummoxed the others, but one slight nod from Melidore’s head indicated who he meant. All three Arthurs turned, and the youngest one sighed. The Faerie King was watching them, face blank, giving nothing away as the tips of his antlers brushed the lowest-hanging leaves growing from his throne.

“Well, that doesn’t mean much. Nothing surprises him.”

“Perhaps. Though maybe it is a surprise. And if it was, who could tell?”

The middle-aged Arthur commented, and all three nodded and turned away. The faeries were taking turns kicking the much-abused scrying pool now, giving it orders. Most of the other watchers were drifting away to pools showcasing other events while they waited for something to happen. Then the youngest King Arthur saw someone pushing their way through the crowd.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. I need a good look at that scrying pool. Damn, am I in the right perspective? They’re having technical difficulties with the big-screen television. What is with the frames of reference in the courts these days? At least nothing’s abstract. I can’t stand abstract.”

A short man with a blue beard and half-bald pate—and a spacesuit of his own—was pushing through the crowd. He was shorter than the boy, three foot something, but he sounded full-grown.

He was so short, in fact, he could barely see above the stone lip of the scrying bowl and tsked. He clicked his boots together and then hovered up several feet, nearly headbutting the Wyrm, who glowered at him.

“You are giving me offense, mortal. Begone before I lose my temper.”

Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui’s voice was warning and dangerous; she hadn’t been pleased by recent events, or she was just naturally foul-tempered. Probably both. Her long, forked tongue flicked out as the Human-seeming woman with serpentine eyes glowered at the man.

The Gnome just grunted.

“I haven’t been properly mortal in ages, young woman. And I will thank you not to issue threats in this place. It never ends well. I’m here as a guest; I have a personal reason to be here. What are we looking at? Malfunctioning scrying mirrors? Has anyone tried emptying the basin and refilling it?”

A Gnome? The youngest Arthur edged over as the Wyrm opened her mouth wide—then hesitated and eyed the friendly smile the man gave her. She retreated slowly, pretending she was just bored, as Arthur came over and tapped the newcomer on the shoulder.

“Excuse me. I’m—”

“Arthur Pendragon. Hello! How d’you do? I think we’ve met. Reimesk at your service.”

“Oh, have we met? I—uh, don’t recall.”

Flustered, the boy shook a hand with the gloved Gnome, and Reimesk chuckled.

“It was about sixty…no, it’s got to be seventy thousand years ago. Someone’s beard, it’s been ages. It was just when the dust was settling after the war. I passed on through and spent some time here with a handful of my kin who decided to leave.”

“Oh, the war with…?”

A glance at the empty throne. Now, several of the fae were glancing around, even Melidore, and recognizing the Gnome. Reimesk nodded. He took a heavy breath, though his smile remained pleasant.

“The very same. When I heard things were heating up, I made my way back. Not to interfere; the gates are all closed, I understand?”

“Sealed by order of the Faerie King himself.”

Reimesk nodded again. He touched his beard, then his chest.

“Then I wouldn’t have a way back even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Nor do I quite fit the old stomping ground. Nor do I have the right to return. I just want to see how it ends. You know? I thought it might be a reunion, but the others might be dead. Or busy. No one’s seen any Gnomes about, have you? They said they’d pass on naturally, and I said, ‘what a waste when we could explore realities!’ But they felt like it was their responsibility. Terrible thing, responsibility.”

He laughed, rubbing at his balding head, and Arthur glanced at the scrying orb.

“I saw a few Gnomes. In the lands of the dead. They were fair glorious, and they performed an important role, I think.”

Reimesk’s laughter stopped, and his smile flew off his face. He stood there, swaying suddenly, then his boots stopped hovering, and he landed hard enough to stumble. The young Arthur steadied him, and Reimesk looked up.

“I’ll…I’m sure there are recordings. In another point of view. They sat there that long? Kasign—those lands endured?”

Arthur didn’t know what to say except nod, which he was embarrassed and annoyed by. He had remained here, in his incarnation as the boy about to draw Excalibur from the stone, for ages.

Young Arthur was older than any mortal being, and yet he was perpetually the young, uncertain boy untried by fate. It annoyed him and left him with little desire to mingle—and predisposed him to like those like him, such as the girl who’d run through here recently, Ryoka Griffin.

Reimesk didn’t need an answer. He just leaned on the stone bowl as it flickered again, then produced a swirling tide of grey mists. The cursing of faeries rose, and the Gnome stared into the waters.

“Who are they searching for?”

“Mrsha. A white Gnoll girl. She’s fallen out of the [Garden of Sanctuary] into…somewhere else. Following the roots of the flowers of Avalon, which dug through the Skill itself.”

It was one of those statements so incomprehensible to outsiders that one of the space-people watching the entire affair had to go and get an explanation from someone. However, Reimesk just processed the statement and nodded slowly.

“I have little experience with the Prowess of the Accomplished…”

“The what?”

“An older phrase for such things. Nevermind. The flowers of here? Mixing with…oh, I see. That could be quite messy. I told the designers they couldn’t account for everything. And this girl. Somewhere even we can’t see?”

He was watching on. Ivolethe caught sight of him and swept over.

“Reimesk. You missed Zineryr’s final death.”

“Lady Ivolethe! I knew he was dead the moment I said my farewells. But let me see it and mourn him again, milady. Thank you and greetings.”

They embraced like old friends, and Ivolethe turned to the young Arthur. Since she seemed to know the most, he nodded to the pool.

“Do you know where she went?”

“Somewhere deep and where she shouldn’t be. Somewhere we ought to see…lest it lies where not even we have the knowledge of. Aye, and if she is, like the adventurer Halrac? It bodes ill for the little child.”

The faerie was grim and worried. Emotions at odds with the usually cheery and flighty Summer Court, but she was in her winter aspect. Reimesk scratched at his beard.

“It surprises me they warded anywhere from your sight, Lady Ivolethe. Then again, one assumes they meant it to avoid the gaze of other pantheons and rivals as well as here. If the girl’s that deep—is she in the heart of it all? She could unmake reality itself. Or find an object left by the creators. Tools of gods.”

From what the young Arthur had observed about Mrsha the Great and Terrible, he felt like this was not a good sign. Ivolethe clearly shared Reimesk’s concerns, but she shook her head.

“If she fell that deep, and ‘twere it so easy, I think it all would have fallen apart long ago. Somewhere between the garden and the center of things, I think. But what? And where?”

“And who might know?”

Now, all three of them were stealing glances towards the throne. The entire courts of the fae were abuzz, like a great thrumming of bees made of fate. They knew almost everything. They saw the future and played games of what might be against their opponents and each other, trying to find the best paths forwards.

They cheered Shaestrel, Theillige, young Vofea, the damned and glorious, and the mortals they had decided they liked and were on the right side. They did not interfere as a general rule, and when they did, it was by breaking the rules as they felt was acceptable.

But mostly, they were waiting to see how it ended. Like the Gnome. Like so many. Today, though, something had happened that not even they could predict.

Where was the girl?

What had happened? The powers, nay, the flowers of this land had mixed with the nature of that world and created a scenario outside of anyone’s predictions. Not Gnomes.

Not gods.

Not the fae…

But him?

The Faerie King, Oberon, sat there. A thousand pairs of eyes studied his face suspiciously, entreatingly, curiously, trying to read the deepest games he played against his foes. A single handprint stood out on one arm, marring the healthy, vibrant skin.

Death. The Faerie King was in this game to the very end. One of the finest players and tricksters of fate there had ever been or would be. Did he know where Mrsha was?

Slowly, the Faerie King’s gaze lifted, and he smiled as his courts rustled around him. His eyes stared at something only he could see.

It could have been a bluff. The Faerie King watched as down and down the girl fell.

He winced imperceptibly as she landed on her head.

Author’s Note:

I was extremely tired, but not writing till Friday helped a bunch. It was a mini-break before my break, but I’m back.

I’m back to these smaller chapters!

I’ll try to be less, uh, frenetic in how I put them out. If I don’t release them every day, well, let the readers eat cake and wait! I’ll do my best to put out a reasonable amount until I take my break, and we are moving straight into another arc.

I think it’s only fitting. I’m nervous about it and still a bit tired, but I have always said that. Some things never change. Like Melidore.

But sometimes we do get answers. And amazing, informative chapters.

Hopefully this arc will have some of that. Also, my sense of timelines is about as good as the fae’s. Next chapter tomorrow! It’s a big one…but I already wrote it.

Thanks for reading!

Tserre by Nira!