He was Pallin Kask. That Pallin Kask. The last of the Mourning Swords. The terror of Yann, he who tamed the great Beast of Mal. He was trying to decide on a drink. The barmaid stood there, trying her best not to tap her fingers against the table. The knight was a nice enough sort. Nice enough to look at. Golden flowing locks over burnished silver plate armor. Melancholia was buckled across the back of

The Wall and Judith Mackowitz I know the government would like a glorious story. A tale that makes us heroes, and sometimes we were. Sometimes we were villains, a hated breed. Others we were nothing at all. Here’s the truth of it. Over eight hundred years of it. The bombs fell. And it sucked somethin’ awful. Fire and death and poison that choked the world on its own bile. Something that couldn’t be ignored. Brother was

On Thursday it was Mrs. Lana Milkshade’s turn to host the monthly dinner party. It wasn’t really, but poor Mrs. – excuse us, Ms. – Glory Nalus’ house was the latest of recent conflagrations, and she simply did not have the necessary living room to host the event. Mrs. Milkshade’s house also had a lovely view of the suburban areas where the elemental spirits were currently vying for control. The electricity and magma were mixing

“Spells. Sparks. That’s how the story starts.” Professor Metteus ended his class every day with the exact same words. They didn’t seem to be a quotation, or even have some deep meaning. Certainly the man never explained the words or why he said them every day. Every day, just like this one, he would lean against the front of the desk, stare ahead into the class, and wait. He would almost expect an answer to

His name was Rel. Harsk found him in Angel Town, where there were no angels, and wasn’t even a town anymore. A group of kids on a dare had decided it would be funny to try and summon a demon. The demon thought burning everything down was even funnier. When Harsk and his Riders rolled through, Rel was holding himself upright in the center of town. He stood in ashes. The demon was already gone;

We all remember when the bombs fell. When the world was consumed in blood and ash. A century of violence, every man destroying his sister and brother for the last little resource left to them. Wars were fought until we lost track of who was fighting, and for what. The true tragedy was when we lost the books. I picked my way through the woods. The sun had just crested over the oaks, and if