My blog is going to be a little sparse this week. The show I’m directing opens on Friday, and it’s going to 
absorb every scrap of creative and physical energy very quickly. It has become an event horizon — I cannot imagine anything that occurs after 12/2.
I’m hoping to have some downtime to post, but if not, I’ll get back into the swing of things next week.
There is a moment of stillness. Then abruptly the masks of Blue, Yellow, White and Red begin to laugh. Master Tumm makes no move, and the Black necromancer, Song, is still as always. Master Graham places his palms flat on the marble table and says nothing.
” Would you like us to come check in your closet for the Gray Beast, or hold your hand when night falls?
Such a ridiculous…” the Bloodburner begins.
“Silence.” the Grand Wizard says quietly. For a dragon.
The masked faces of the Council all turn to regard their leader. The dragon keeps his blind eyes on the crew of the Lodestar.
“The Council is adjourned – leave me with these adventurers.”
The Red Master Vayton sputters slightly, then nods his head briskly. The rest of the council genuflect slightly as well, and stiffly make their exit from the chamber. Footfalls on marble, then the shutting of seven doors.
The gray-cloaked figure at the side of the room steps forward slightly, and makes an inquiring gesture, right palm open and up.
” You as well, Sideways.” says the steel dragon.
The cowl shrugs, as the figure turns — barbed tail swishing under the hem of his cloak. He walks through the nearest wall without slowing, as if the marble was made of air.
The Grand Wizard’s neck drooped slightly, and his bobbed slightly towards the floor. The crew can see the weariness in this old creature’s posture. He speaks, quietly.
“Come closer. ” the dragon breathed.
A few cautious steps, just at the edge of the steel dragon’s dais.
“Do you know the story of the founding of Valeria?”
Before Carbunkle has time to shoot his hand up, the dragon continues.
” Valeria was my beloved mate, oh so many years ago. We stood together against a mighty evil, but in the last battle she fell — like a comet from the heavens. It was my fault.” the Grand Wizard sighed, an ironworks fume.
” She died because of a lie. Because of me keeping knowledge to myself, and believing that I knew best how to shield her from the harsh truths of the world. Her passing carved a deep gouge into the earth, that filled with a fresh sea – a sea of blue. Where her bones came to rest, I came and wept. A tear for each lie, and I grieved for my arrogance, and the loss of the fair Valeria.”
The dragon blinked, slowly.
“There I swore to share my knowledge with all who sought it. Over time the wise of each race sought me out, and I instructed them in the Art. They were the first wizards, and this marvelous city grew out of the bones of my beloved.” the Grand Wizard stretched his mighty arms, as if to encompass the entire city.
“This is a small secret. The Council knows, and some learned men throughout the world have pieced together this truth from relics, old songs, and the fragments of a lost age. I give it to you freely, so that you may understand what you ask, and how I must respond.” the dragon laid its head down on the dais for a moment, and closed its eyes as if thinking. A few heartbeats pass, until its blind eyes open.
“I have offered you a boon, and I will not renege. Not here, so near the grave of my beloved. The knowledge you ask is dangerous, and costly. I will not tell you all, as I would not teach a child spells of flame and death. My boon shall be the beginning of the path, you must find your own way after that.
The Umbral Plane is a dark mirror to our own reality, it overlaps and permeates the Material Plane
—separated by a thin band of energy, some call the Spirit World, or Astral Plane. One must pass through the Spirit World to enter into the Shadow Plane, and vice versa. These “shadows” that you have encountered are emanations, using shapes they find in the Spirit World to temporarily visit our dimension.”
The Grand Wizard shifted slightly, steel scales ringing on the marble floor. He stretched his ancient wings, and stood on his hind legs, stretching.
“All this is within the realm of mortal knowledge – not all believe it to be true, but still the wise have assembled the scattered puzzle pieces. What I tell you now is not known, to any but the oldest of dragons and gods.
When my beloved fell from the heavens, there was no Plane of Shadow. Not then, and not for a great time after. ”
The Grand Wizard flapped his wings, and began to rise from the floor. The old blind dragon sings, as it ascends.
the Shadow is mirror
the Mirror is power
Songs of the Lost
shine on Dark Hour
the Key and the Shield
throw wide the One Gate
the Price of the Beast
if Hero come too Late
The Grand Wizard is gone. The crew of the Lodestar are left alone in an empty room, with nothing but marble and questions.
The man in the brown cloak ran out of things to pass the time.
He sat on the edge of the stone shelf, and watched the sun rise.
The Lodestar would be here soon.
And then it would begin.
And end.
Izus Torrossian waited.
The man in the brown cloak walked to the side of the golden roc, and spent some time tending to the creature’s plumage. He pulled broken feathers from the roc’s breast, and cleaned the dirt and grime of their travels from the great wings.
Bird squawked, and looked at the man quizzically. It was rare for his master to show this much attention to his steed.
The man scratched absently at the tattoo over his heart and continued to work.
Ziria
The druid held tight to the seaweed harness of Manitok, the whale. The two companions moved swiftly through the dark waters.
The creatures of the sea had been crying out for as long as he could remember against the destruction brought by the land-ones. The poison had increased slowly but surely, growing ever worse in the most recent years. Young died in the egg, the strong swimmers withered – his home was dying. His people were dying. The sea was dying.
But now something worse had been discovered.
The great travelers of the sea had called him. The whales has sung to him in dreams, telling of a new abomination growing in the waters to the west of his tribe. At last, Ziria could abide it no longer. He saw to the defenses of his tribe, and took to Manitok’s back for the long journey west.
After several days they arrived, cresting over a deep abyss in the sea floor.
A vast structure of metal had risen from the floor of the sea. Ziria could see tiny craft moving about the
rising tower, strengthening it and adding more metal. The druid could just make out a vast stone ring at the base of the tower. Massive carvings fifty feet in length encircled it. He recognized them as Precursor.
It is wrong, Ziria. the whale’s mind sighed. So very, very wrong.
I know, old friend. Ziria replied. The might of my people are not enough to topple this thing of metal and death.
Who has the might?
I know exactly who we must find. Ziria said.
The man in the brown cloak idly walked along the stone shelf, watching the sun slowly rise. He arrived shortly at the fallen earth and stone depression, where the Lodestar had slumbered for decades.
He kicked over a few rocks, and even found a few bits of wood and metal left behind by the airship. A circular ring the size of a coin caught his eye, and he flipped it between his fingers for a moment before tossing it over the ledge.
Fairchild
The devil’s bone-thin hand stroked the matted green tentacles of his paramour, as she worked busily between his legs.
He sat in a beautiful white throne, ornate and delicate. His poppy-red skin stretched taught over a skeletal frame, one arm crooked around the arm of the throne dandled a fresh, green apple. The devil chuckled.
Diaspora looked up, precious human face quizzical – her tentacle-hair continuing her work in a most pleasant fashion.
“Lord? What amuses you?” she said.
Fairchild glanced down at her, and took a fleshy bite from the apple.
“Just thinking about the future, my pet. Just thinking about the future.”
His white throne sat suspended on a small section of floor, that floated freely. Surrounding him was the throng of Abaddon. Sharpening blades, hammering forges – lesser devils fought greater, vying for new strength and status.
Hell was preparing for war.
The devil chuckled again.
Do you have a character that’s a guilty pleasure?
For me, it’s definitely Izus Torrossian, the “Man” in the current pieces I’m putting up. I specifically limit the amount that I write with him, because I know it would all devolve into nerdish adolation. He’s also a little bit 
of a Mary Sue, which I generally hate in fiction. He’s the main antagonist in Lodestar [but not villain, please note] – I’ve tried to make his sporadic appearances memorable, but brief.
But still part of me just wants him to snap his fingers and set a continent ablaze, then hang ten off the nose of an allosaurus while sipping a cup of oolong with one pinky held up. And then pull out his double-necked keytar and play Queen covers for a while.
You got anybody like that in your fiction?
The man in the brown cloak pulled the blue shield from the hiding place in its pouch. He rubbed idly at a fleck of dirt on its rim.
The design of the shield was simple, unscored blue metal — the rim of the artifact glowed with a steady white light. In the top right corner, a small Arkanic sigil had been inscribed by the shield’s long-forgotten forgers.
“Duty.” he muttered, and laughed sardonically.
Two Dwarves and Two Visitors
The black clad dwarf sobbed, his head buried in his arms on a table made of glass. An ancient dwarf dressed in white stood behind him, and patted him gently on the back.
“Bu..bu..bu…but he was going to be my new servant! The Iron Grip of ….my .. new … dark ..reign..awwwwhaaaaa…awhaaa…..” the dark god sobbed.
The white robed monk diffidently offered a corner of his robe for the other dwarf to blow his nose.
“Thanks..” the dark god trumpeted into the other’s robe, then looked up into the monk’s eyes.
“My nephew has begun his true journey, friend Droskar. Perhaps it is time for you to begin your own.” he said kindly.
The dark god rose and pushed the table with all his might. It fell forward and shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Never! It’s not over yet. That boy still has a lot of trouble ahead, and there’s going to come a day when he’ll need my help. Real, fast and ready help — not your stupid patience.”
“The harder you push, the faster the spinning top finds its center.”
“What does THAT even mean?”
The old monk sighed, and tried to hide his concern. His dark friend had grown smaller recently, he could 
almost watch Droskar shrinking.
“Come, Droskar – let us sit, there is no need to leave. You are correct, there is still much game left to play.”
The old monk sat, and began to put the table back together, tiny shards of glass tinkling on the ground.
Droskar sullenly stomped off to get another beer, but soon returned to watch his companion’s work.
Some time later an old human, and a beautiful woman arrived. The woman saw the half-assembled table and rolled her eyes. She leaned her sword against a nearby column, and sat down to assist the monk.
“I brought snacks.” said Frank, and plopped down next to Droskar with an overflowing basket.
The man in the brown cloak pulled his bedroll from a pouch. The pouch and sleeping mat were fairly new, purchased after his last had been appropriated.
He found a shady spot under a stone outcropping, that would block him from the dawn sun. He laid down, and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Fifteen minutes later he got up.
The Ghosts
Eliljah kicked open the door of blood-red marble, the black crystal bar shattered and rained onto the floor.
“Get that door open — before we all die! Die horribly! Horribly!” Gorton quavered and redoubled his
protective ward on the center of the bridge.
The bridge was made of black stone, as was much of the city of Iax. It spanned a thousand foot crevasse, lit only by the murky lava below.
“Running out of ammo.” Marabon said calmly, as her rifle sounded a report. “ One box left.”
Elijah’s boot slammed into the door, budging the massive doors another few inches.
Mr. Quick and Quintus danced and spun at the center of the bridge, keeping the edges of Gorton’s ward covered.
The Ghosts hadn’t seen light in several days — moving stealthily and steadily further into the heart of the Tyr-Elves domain. At last they had reached their goal.
Elijah raised his boot, just as Tetch’s spectral head popped through the face of the marble door.
“Uh, guys…I think you’re going to be upset.”
The cavalier’s boot slammed down onto the doors, and they swung open at last.
“Let’s move!” Marabon barked. “Gorton, pull the ward to cover this door.”
The Ghosts dashed inside, the throng of silent elves hard on their heels.
A quick scan of the room revealed an ornate square dais, chiseled from the same blood-red marble. The green field of the wizard’s shield crackled at the door, the pounding of the rangers muted for the moment. Quintus could see their eyes glowing blue and hot, held back by inches of magic.
“I’ve looked in every wall, and under this altar to a distance of 100 feet.” Tetch reported. “ There’s no Shield here, only this.”
The ghost pointed to a scrap of paper affixed to the altar with a glob of green wax.
Written in common were the words:
Too late.
I.T.
Quintus pulled his hair out of his eyes, and tried to salvage the elaborate coif he fancied.
“Well, mother fucker.” the Gilean soldier said.
A man in a brown cloak rode a giant golden bird.
The desert air was cool, but he could smell the heat that lay waiting in the stones. It was an hour before dawn.
Mighty brown talons crunched into red stone. The roc, Bird, landed on the wide shelf and came to a halt. The man swung down from his back, and gave his steed an absent-minded pat on the shoulder. He surveyed the surrounding area. The wide green metal grate leading into the abandoned prison was just visible in the gloom. No sounds came from within – the Sarmadi had swept their prison clean weeks ago, and left it empty for the traditional nine-and-ninety nights, for the sun and their goddess’ wrath to burn the place clean.
He was completely alone – it would be a perfect place for the meeting.
Talitha
A little girl tossed and turned on a bed of stone.
After the initial terror of her capture, Talitha had found the past few days intensely boring. Men had grabbed her, then rushed her to a new place binding her eyes with a dark cloth. She had been tossed into the back seat of a small aircraft, that smelled of clean leather. The engines had hummed, and short while later she had been pulled onto a larger craft. She was led to a smaller room, while calm, businesslike voices spoke in a language she didn’t understand. They tied her to a bed, and left her alone for several hours. She knew she was on an airship, the movement felt a lot like her home, the Lodestar.
Talitha had fallen asleep, and dreamed of running through a blue field with Crackers at her side.
She had awoken to being carried again, in bulky but gentle arms. The blindfold was removed, and she found herself in an odd stone room. A stone room with one wall missing. She had tiptoed to the edge, and looked down the side of a massive building, hundreds of rooms rising above above an unfamiliar coastline. To the left and right she saw many other buildings stretching as far as she could see. The roar of the surf was loud in her ears, and she could make out an odd tower standing all alone in the middle of the bay. She felt like she could almost reach out and touch it.
“Listen to me carefully.” the cool voice said.
“Who are you, where am I , what’s going on, are my friends allright, where’s my sword and why are you dressed in all black?” Talitha demanded.
An elegant black glove descended and slapped her firmly across the face.
“You instructions were to listen. That is all. Are you listening?”
“You hit like a girl—”
The black glove came down, and Talitha skipped to the side grabbing the incoming wrist the way that Master Fin had taught her. She twisted her body, and bent like a reed in the wind.
An elegant black boot swept her feet out from under her. Talitha’s head hit the stone floor. Pain overwhelmed her, her hands sliding weakly against the floor. She pulled her hand up, and saw there was frost on it, even though it was a perfectly balmy afternoon.
“Now you are listening. You will wait in this room. Food will be brought to you.You will eat it. You will not try to escape, or we will give you pain.”
The black glove tossed Talitha roughly onto a stone bed.
“I’m sure you are a nimble climber, but don’t try. You won’t like your neighbors.”
Talitha stared blearily at the finely tailored black coat as it turned to leave the room. On the back of it was a white circle, decorated with a cresting black wave.
The young girl turned over in fitful sleep, and waited for her heroes to come and rescue her.
Sorry that all of the pieces I’ve been posting are crazy scattershot. No particular order, beginning and ending abruptly with no context. A lot of the stuff I’m pulling from 
Lodestar is going to be like this unfortunately. Scout’s honor, I’m going to be posting some fresh, longer pieces in a few weeks when my creative life calms down.
Feel free to judge the scenes a la carte and drop a comment, and let me know what you think!
spell-sword.com 