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When a community comes together to support one of its own, the result can be powerful and uplifting. Win in the End is a new anthology born from such a spirit. This collection of 34 stories by 34 different authors offers hope, warmth, and inspiring endings. It honors Annmarie SanSevero, a talented writer facing her second cancer diagnosis and treatment. All proceeds from this anthology will go directly to support Annmarie in her journey. This post shares the story behind Win in the End , highlights its contributors, and explains why this book is a meaningful read for anyone who values resilience and community. The Story Behind the Anthology Annmarie SanSevero is a respected writer known for her engaging stories and generous spirit. When she faced her second cancer diagnosis, a group of fellow authors decided to rally around her. They created Win in the End as a labor of love, donating their stories to form an anthology that reflects hope and positive outcomes. The goal was clear: to provide Annmarie with financial support and to remind her and readers that even in difficult times, there is strength and light. Each story in the anthology ends on a hopeful note, offering comfort and encouragement. The anthology is edited by Leslie Bridgwater, with Sam Knight serving as executive editor. Their leadership helped shape the collection into a cohesive and inspiring read. How to Get Your Copy Win in the End is available now on multiple outlets such as Amazon. Purchasing a copy supports Annmarie directly and allows readers to enjoy a collection of stories that inspire and uplift. You can find the book here: Win in the End on Amazon Whether you are a fan of short stories or want to support a worthy cause, this anthology offers both. Why This Book Matters Books have the power to heal and connect people. Win in the End is more than just a collection of stories; it is a symbol of hope and community strength. For readers, it offers: Inspiration : Stories that remind us to keep going, no matter the challenges. Connection : A chance to be part of a larger effort to support someone in need. Joy : Uplifting endings that leave readers feeling positive and encouraged. For Annmarie SanSevero, this anthology is a reminder that she is not alone. For readers, it is a chance to experience the power of storytelling to bring light during dark times.

The Lord of Crows is now live on Campfire! Though the world of Ulinara has been in development for nearly four years, this epic is the first complete novel to be released to a broader audience. I recently chatted with the Campfire team about the development process, project planning, and balancing several cups of coffee with this whole life thing. One of the biggest components of the story was creating a Design Brief. This was my one stop shop for managing such a large worldspace and story. To learn more about my process, and my new novel, check out Author Spotlight: The Power of Coffee in The Lord of Crows.

The adventure begins in November. Campfire Technology recently announced a select monetization period for authors through the end of the year. Mind of Fire's The Lord of Crows is one of just 50 authors accepted for this trial period, with the published work on track to go live beginning of November. About the Story Being a thief requires more than just skill, and Sif’s had failed her miserably. After an ill-fated theft in a Fae ruin, she found herself cursed and on limited time. Were it not for the kindness of a relative stranger, Regis, she would have starved into undeath in the Red Basin. And then he died. Now, all she has left of his sacrifice is his bow, a rare vanawood relic taken all the way to the Kingdom of Vaspal. Sif journeys there in search of closure, and instead finds herself at the mercy of slavers. Though this misfortune isn’t quite her fault. Grim was Mechthild’s best war trophy, an orphan of the Eromani Civil War. Adopted into her mercenary company at an early age, his life has been one of brutal battles and humiliation. But when their company is betrayed and sold to the Lord of Crows, Grim finds himself as the only one who may save his Brothers from lifelong slavery. Together, these two find themselves in a nest of vipers, where survival takes many forms among the collared and even those they trust can betray them. There’s Rhys, a former Faithman and a slave of twenty years, who takes Grim under his wing. The Vaspali Dreamer, Frey, whose magic bends reality to her will. Then there’s Slygut, the dwarven overseer who cuts at old wounds for his own amusement. Apart, they and Grim’s Brothers are forever cemented as slaves. Together, they could find a way to break free and flee to the free country of Uswain. Perhaps even find the Brotherhood’s traitor in the process. One thing is for sure, the Lord of Crows won’t make it easy, and their every step is marked by the shadow of black wings. If their group is truly to survive, they have to break away from more than just their chains - they may have to learn to live.

This story was originally published on Vocal+. To read the original submission, click here. “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” Cedric prattled on. “In fact it wasn’t until the turn of the second age that there were sightings. Odd really.” “Why?” Yaro asked. He didn’t care and, frankly, he knew his answer didn’t really matter. If the past two weeks were anything to go by, the scholar would continue regardless. “Well, the Valley isn’t known for having large deposits of cattle. Or people even. Imagine going to a tavern and ninety percent of the food was spoiled.” Cedric bent over the flower cluster, thumbing over the gentle blue petals that twisted around an almond center. He pulled out a kerchief and clipped a bud for safe keeping. “Odder still.” This time Yaro ignored the man. Cedric’s way of thinking was mostly out loud, even for minor processes. It was useful for the collaboration of his colleagues - in the homely and well-populated halls of the Citadel. Out here however, it made Yaro flinch. They had already tested their luck traveling through the south as Northmen, and their luck had ensured their passage through the wilder portions of the Plains. But now they came to the true fringes of their goal, and the air had grown thick with unease. The Valley of Souls. Yaro grimaced. Our ancestors couldn’t pick something like, ‘The Valley of Definitely-Safe-Wilds’? What, did they see the fog and decide only the dead could be happy here? A part of him couldn’t blame the assessment. The Valley hung in the shadow of the Grey Mountains, and was nestled in a wild pocket of forest so dense and untamed that neither Eroman nor Uswain had claimed it. There were barely any paths, and those that had once been laden with stones had cracked and coiled beneath thorny thickets and weeds. The trees threatened to cover the sky and their branches reached out to them as if they were gnarled hands ready to drag them into their hollows. And if the looming dark circles of a dragon didn’t make one uneasy, the thought of the village further in certainly did. “There could be other creatures around.” Cedric’s voice broke Yaro’s thoughts. “What?” The scholar stood a few paces ahead and scanned the wilderness, frowning. “For the dragon’s food supply. I suppose smaller creatures like wolves and voxlings could supply a dragonling for a time, but as they mature, they would need larger and more robust forms to subsist on. The average draconid can devour a whole herd in a day, bones and all.” Yaro folded his arms over his chest. “And you thought marching into a starving dragon’s territory was the perfect research project?” “But that’s the point!” Cedric hissed. “What’s kept it alive here? We’ve seen barely anything since the last village. And do you feel that…” The scholar waved his hand through the air, and Yaro felt that deep gnawing chill in his core assert itself. On reflex, he rubbed his chest to soothe the ache. “Magically saturated air.” He agreed. “Not just saturated.” Cedric returned. “It feels… wrong. Angry.” Yaro groaned. “You do realize it’s called the Valley of Souls, right? We’re not vacationing on the Vaspali coast.” “For someone who served the Citadel as long as you have, you’re remarkably uninterested in asking questions.” “Because we’ve been over this for months.” Yaro said. “I’ve heard the stories a hundred times, from beginning to end, left, right, and backwards. All of this is just speculation until we reach the village to prove your so-called theory. And as long as we keep standing here talking about it, the likelier we are to attract your dragon’s favorite snack.” “The broaches should protect us.” Cedric puffed his collar out, pushing the yellow runic crest closer towards Yaro. Against the faded blue of his traveler’s cloak, the markings shone like the glint of light off a feline’s eyes. “You’re betting your life on that trinket?” “On my research.” Cedric corrected. He reminded Yaro of an indignant child, so sure of his own theories that he believed himself invulnerable. He even sucked in part of his lower lip. With the dark mustache and goatee, it was almost comical. Yaro arched his brow at him. Cedric’s brow deepened and he relaxed completely. “...but not needlessly.” He added. He adjusted his leather tunic and cleared his throat. “Once we reach the village we should turn directly towards the Grove. Better to not stay past sundown.” Pompous idiot. “Let’s just keep moving.” Yaro muttered. He began looking for additional road markers. Amid the harsh terrains and frequent storms, signs like paint or carvings would have been lost in only a few short months. Instead, the residents had left small circular blue gemstones embedded in the path and along a couple of trees. They glowed faintly, which helped among the wilds, and provided small beacons to lead visitors to what they thought to be safety. Yaro could imagine it easily; refugees from the civil wars, bruised and exhausted, their clothes chafing as they clawed their way through the wilds with little blue eyes watching their every hopeful step. He wondered if they had been terrified of the lights. Their glow reminded him a little of the will-o-the-wisps that flickered on the edge of the Red Basin in the far north. He had only seen one once, from a distance, and to him it seemed more like a burst of lantern light than anything magical. The Valley could be nothing more than superstition too. He thought. It wasn’t like tragedy was alien to the continent - they had seen almost three centuries of it, and a long slow death of tragedies for over a thousand years of subjugation by the Fae. True, their captivity wasn’t used as blood sacrifice for the eternal youth of one depraved woman, but the story of Bleakwind wasn’t entirely unique. “These gemstones are intact.” Came Cedric’s voice. To his credit, he was quieter in this announcement. “At the risk of blowing your mind, I noticed.” “I would think thieves, or even merchants, would try to take at least one.” That made Yaro pause. “Superstition?” “Mm.” The channeler ran his fingers over a gem, brushing away the leaves and dirt until the glow turned his brown eyes blue. “They don’t appear to be runes.” Cedric murmured. “They remind me of the crystals in far northern caverns, or deep in the trenches of the Dwarven kingdoms. Those were always underground. I wonder…” He reached beneath the stone and tried to pry it away from the ground. His fingers clawed and scrambled, knotting around dirt as he clenched his jaw from strain. Yaro rolled his eyes and moved to help him. The two clasped around the stone plank and heaved. A gasp of freezing air cut through the trees. It struck Yaro straight in his chest. The impact sent him reeling backwards, his torso radiating with fractals of ice. He cursed as he scrambled back to his feet, drawing his blade with the frantic scan of the wilderness. The tall grasses and thickets clicked and rustled together. The gnarled hands of the trees waved with the lull of the wind as it died, but Yaro couldn’t see anything trailing through the wilds. No birds took flight, no insects rushed away. Maybe… No. He shut the idea out of his mind. “Some kind of defense mechanism.” He muttered. Cedric laughed dryly and rubbed his chest. “I think that was Lady Madigan’s greeting.” Yaro clenched his teeth. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck, but he shook it away. It was the unease of what lay there, the unknown. Nothing more. He helped Cedric up from where he’d been knocked back, and the two continued on. Following the glowing trail, it did not take them long to see the first signs of the village. The wilds thinned around it, the tree arms creating an embrace of an archway to the entrance. Without the strange light roads to guide them, Yaro would have said it looked like any abandoned pocket town. Hopeful, slanted cabin homes were built right on top of each other and side by side a few feet away from a tall spiked fence to keep out… what? Absent wildlife? Invaders? A few portions of the fence and homes had tried to make use of the old Fae columns and towers, making the new buildings appear like tumors crawling out of the old ruins. How long since it was abandoned? Yaro thought. Ten years? Twenty? Wagons laid forgotten with spoiled food that by now was more brick than bread. Pens held the partially-buried bones of once loved livestock. The few villagers they found had all been buried in their own cemetery, but the animals had been left right where they had died. Surprised it wasn’t the other way around. He grimaced. He kept his blade close, scanning the doors, windows, and roadways for any signs of activity. Tracks, scratching, broken pieces of the buildings. But there wasn’t much, truthfully. The only occasional odd thing was the small archways of stone, shaped like looping gateways no taller than Yaro’s waist. The stone was as white as the animal bones. Almost… clean. In comparison, the wilds had crawled over the cabin logs and thatched roof huts, and thorns and flowers alike bloomed. The blue roses Cedric had marveled over ran in long streaks between stones, wood, and grass, bolstered by the glow of the central path. When silence met his thoughts, Yaro turned around. Cedric stood at the entrance to the village, his brow woven in a mixture of awe and… what? Sadness? “What is it?” Yaro asked. “I feel it.” He murmured. “Feel what?” “The Valley. What happened here.” Cedric exhaled, his eyes scanning every building, every arch and fragment. “They said when the army marched to stop her, all they found were ten villagers, already dead. Their bodies were almost… frozen in time, as if they had died in one sudden instant. It sounded too fantastical, even to me. But standing here… I can feel it. Like the village is holding its breath, waiting.” Yaro had to resist his grimace. “The magic saturation is stronger here than the wilds. We should limit your channeling so we don’t risk wild spells.” Cedric clenched the strap of his travel bag, seemingly ignoring him. “Look, there’s Solismar - the fortress of the noble family - there on the small rise.” It was only a fraction larger than the other buildings, and perhaps that was due to the elevation more than the construction. It was definitely one of the wider buildings, and it was made entirely of the icy Fae stone. Unlike the other buildings, it had none of the blue roses on it. Though there was a significant patch at the building’s entrance. Cedric must’ve noticed the same, as he immediately quickened his pace towards it and fell into a kneel. He drew out the clipping he’d taken from the wilds and held it against the other blooms. The ones in front of the tower were lush and vibrant, easily twice the size. Cedric grinned and laughed, then looked around at the buildings again. “Yaro, tell me, do you see any track marks? Any signs of battle?” Yaro nodded. “The footfalls of the soldiers and their movements.” “But the reports never mentioned a dragon being attacked. Or the scholars collecting blooms.” “Not that I recall.” “Then this is recent.” “This?” Yaro echoed. Cedric held up the blue bloom. “Dragonwing. These only grow in soil saturated by dragon’s blood. It’s incredibly rare to find them so… well… everywhere.” Yaro clenched his hand tighter around his blade, and once more scanned the village rooftops, the paths, the grass… Gods, what could attack a dragon? Let alone bleed it this much? And why would a dragon stay? He grimaced. “This Solis family is getting worse and worse.” “It could be unrelated.” Cedric said. “You don’t sound sure.” “I am not. My theory is getting more complex… dragons, blood rituals, and then there are these arches..” Cedric pointed. “I’ve seen Lorocan landmarks in a similar style. They called them spirit gates. They were meant to allow ghosts and essences of magic safe passage. The Solis family was believed to be afflicted with madness… but they could have been in close communication with spirits.” “I thought you knew everything about them.” Yaro frowned. “Hardly. Barely any records before the soldiers were found. It wasn’t as if Lady Madigan wrote out ‘Dear Diary, behold my master plans.’ All we have is the few escapees from sacrifice and the assaults against the village.” Cedric gave a thoughtful pause. “My theory is that Lady Madigan was trying to understand a Fae ritual site in Bleakwind Grove and it was twisted to be about her search for immortality. Using blood to force magic into being never ends well. Dragon’s blood would be potent, in more than just a few ways. It could explain the sudden death and disappearances of the villagers.” Yaro scanned the skies overhead, listening carefully for the beating of wings. He heard only a soft hum of wind in the thickets and against stones. Abandoned places always had a different form of quiet. The Citadel had it when the scholars went to sleep - a quiet that made the mind lightly buzz, and every sound become acute. “We’re losing daylight.” He said quietly. “Let’s find this grove, and quickly.” Cedric grinned a little, and his eyes drew up to Solismar. ~*~ Yaro had followed two rules in his life. One was to knock on door frames before he entered. The second was to never lose sight of the goal. That wasn’t to say ignore other observations - far from it - but panic and awe were quick ways to lose one’s bearings during an expedition. One thing Yaro appreciated in Cedric was that when it came down to it, he listened and refocused. There were times when his mind would stray back to theory, but he could be brought back. They clung to the roadsides and the small shadows of the buildings as they drew closer to the village’s heart. Cedric drew out his research notes and maps, chattering quietly about the Solis family madness - and the debate over if it was biology, or pursuits through cruelty labeled as such. A part of Yaro was grateful for the distraction, even while the rest of him was on constant alert. When he had been restricted to the boredom of Citadel patrols, it had been Cedric’s research stories that brought him out of the tower. He liked to think that his listening provided the scholar with some level of validation as his research took an increasingly cursed turn. The Citadel had wanted nothing to do with the Solis family, and Cedric’s colleagues were convinced of the superstitions - if not the outright danger. Lady Madigan had killed an estimated 123 victims - one for each month of her reign. Any channeler could tell him that a place filled with so much death, especially death at the hands of sacrifice, could shape the lands around them with toxic crystalized magic, twisted creatures, and volatile spell casting. The sighting of a dragon in the area had cemented the futility of reclaiming the Valley. “The Grove can be accessed through the Solismar mines… Ah! There.” Cedric pointed. The entrance was buried beneath scaffolding, right next to a slumped building that had barrels surrounding it. Explosive powder, Yaro guessed. A half-loaded cart even sat beside the building with added barrels waiting to be carried off. There were plenty of similar mines in the Grey Mountains - Ebonfall came to mind - where dwarven firestones and byron metals for runes could be extracted. From the lack of heat, Yaro guessed that Bleakwind mine had to be the latter. I hate caves. Yaro thought with a grimace. Always feels like something’s watching us. Cedric stood at the adit, glancing between his reports and maps, then down the dark passage. Long metal bars extended from the mine mouth and were nailed to the exterior rock, creating a spider-leg look to the entrance. “The Grove is through the mines?” Yaro repeated. “Do these go to the other side of the mountain?” Cedric shook his head. “No, there appears to be a break in the mountain pass - see?” The scholar showed Yaro the yellowed parchment. He could see the large blots of the mining tunnels, alongside dwarven elevation markers and symbols for natural dangers. Cedric had marked a darkened portion of the map that went far into the mountainside. “It doesn’t have an elevation marker.” Yaro frowned. “Are you sure that isn’t a dragon nest?” “All the other passages go deeper into the earth, not higher. I believe this is the underground Grove, a ritual site of the Fae that the Solis family used for their sacrifices… Do you have a torch, Yaro?” Yaro grimaced, already rustling in his pack to pull out two. He glanced around the mine, first checking for any spilled explosives before he lit them. The darkness skittered back against the cavernous rock. The yellow orange flames glowed against the rusted mining tracks. A few feet within the entrance sat a cracked old bird cage with a tiny avian skeleton within. Yaro glanced at Cedric; for the first time in their journey he looked like he was containing himself. He’d sucked in his bottom lip, and his knuckles had turned white around his torch. “One last leg.” Yaro said. “I can take the lead. We’ll be at the Grove before you know it.” Cedric nodded, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you want to turn back?” “No.” He said immediately, then steadier, “No, we’re here. We’ve come too far.” The spider-like metal bars had been used for hoisting old lanterns and supplies. Molded backpacks, helms, pickaxes, and rope had been left by their previous owners and made the passage feel all the more cramped. Netting had been strewn across the top of the tunnel and suffocated the rock. Rusted chains had fallen from their hooks and felt like heavy arms bumping against their bodies as they weaved through. Yaro could smell the dry, dusty air. At least there isn’t water, running or otherwise. He thought. The last thing they needed was toxin exposure on top of the eerie passage. Though that could have provided some answers to the village’s death rates. The deeper they went into the mines, the more Yaro felt like he was being watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The chains bumping into him passed and faded, the tracks guiding them further and further into the bowels of the mountain. The miners had left markings at regular intervals at each curve of the passage as it wound down or branched off from the main track. Yaro had seen them before in Ebonfall - ways to check composition, or to mark a venturing party’s progress. One mark per day, with the top additional marks for the number in the party… If the Lady sacrificed people here, wouldn’t they have left marks of their own? He frowned. Did they have their own passage to this Grove? Cedric shrieked. Yaro jumped out of his skin, readying his sword as he turned back. The scholar was pale-faced and heaving, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Something just ran past me!” Yaro held his torch higher, listening to the darkness. He heard a faint movement back behind them and his heart pounded. Slowly, Yaro crept back behind the scholar. As the orange glow brightened up the tunnel, Yaro saw one of the chains swinging back and forth. “For gods sake Cedric!” He groaned. “It’s just the equipment.” “No! It wasn’t a chain! It was colder than ice. I felt it!” Cedric clawed at his clothes over his chest, as if some growth had attached there he was desperate to pry off. Yaro sheathed his sword and placed his hand over the scholar’s. “It’s just the saturation! I’m not a channeler, I don’t feel it the same. If you want us to go, we can. But I need you to stay focused with me.” Cedric’s panicked gaze turned to resentment. “I know what I felt.” He shoved Yaro’s hand off. Instead of turning back towards the swinging chain and the entrance, Cedric faced towards the winding down tunnel with an ever-hardened grimace. Yaro tried to swallow his own pride, but it was difficult. Don’t lose sight of the goal. He reminded himself. It was a long moment before the tunnel shifted and changed. By then, Yaro had felt the slippage of time. He knew when they had descended that they had a good five hours of daylight left, but time got funny underground. They had followed the markings of a mining party with four others, winding down and down and down until the feeling of pressure overhead made Yaro’s head spin. The natural rock guided them until eventually, their passage started to smooth. The spidery metal bars stopped. Netted rock was replaced with an intricately carved weaving design. The tracks fell short, unfinished, and the clay became replaced with pockets of bright pale stone. It reminded Yaro of the spirit gates on the surface of Bleakwind, or the tower of Solismar. Eventually the smooth stone completely overtook the cavern, and they stood amidst a cold passage of a Fae ruin humming with a soft blue-green glow. “You were right then.” Yaro murmured. “If there’s a Fae ruin here, then there’s likely a ritual site not far.” Cedric said nothing. Instead he adjusted his map and continued walking. Yaro sighed. Had he truly insulted the scholar that much? Or was it another childish game? Focus on the goal. Even here, Yaro could see the marks of the miners. Some were even carved into soft blue crystal growths that hung in alcoves or poked out of a few cracks in the stone. The miners had marked five days, with three miners. Three? What happened to the fourth? “These crystals are sick.” Cedric murmured. “This color isn’t right.” “What do you mean?” “Natural growing magic is a deep, radiant blue. This is more like… a seafoam.” He said. This time Yaro heard the hurt in his voice. “I feel watched.” “...I do too.” Yaro admitted. Cedric glanced back at him, his lips thinned. “...do you feel the chill too?” “I do.” “Then we’re close.” Those three words hung over them for what felt like ages, until at last the ruin came to a staircase leading down. The crystal light had grown to where their torches were no longer needed. The passage yawned open to a large tower-like room where the magic grew like veins up towards a ceiling woven with pulsing light. More tunnels and staircases all descended down towards a central platform with a spirit gate, this one far larger and decorated with the same glowing blue gemstones that had decorated the path into Bleakwind. The faint hum of the crystal had grown in a dark corner of Yaro’s mind, scratching at his consciousness with words he couldn’t place. When they stood at the top of the staircase, Yaro swore it almost formed music. “Gods.” Cedric breathed. The gate’s stones pulsed. Yaro felt the fractal chill strike his chest again, this time not knocking him back but bringing him to his knees. Cedric clawed at his chest, seething in pain, his torch fallen to the stone. “I feel it.” He rasped. “Gods I feel it…” The hum was ringing in Yaro’s ears now. His core felt like it was exploding with frost. That gnawing longing for magic now replaced with fire. What the hell? The gate’s gems were glowing, no - calling. It sang out into the darkness, pulling them closer, closer… Then, the silence deafened. Yaro panted, and for a moment everything felt unreal. He looked over to Cedric, whose eyes were wide and locked on the gate. The scholar’s breaths were short and frantic, like an animal caught in a trap. “Cedric? Cedric?” He ran up to his friend and pulled him to his feet. The scholar’s eyes wouldn’t break away from the gate. “Cedric, focus!” Yaro yelled. The scholar’s lips trembled, and one hand rose to point back at the gate. That’s when Yaro heard them; the crystalline hum, one note at a time as if sounding off. Each grew louder and louder until the music became a crescendo and the freeze inside Yaro’s core felt near to bursting. The other passages began to glow as humanoid, crystalline figures shambled towards the gate. Yaro had never seen anything like them before - their bodies were ashen yet glowed with the same sickly green-blue of the crystals. Their bodies were thin with the skin stretched over bumps and crags, all leading to a triangular featureless head with blackened tendrils that trailed behind them like smoke. Some crawled, others walked, all with a strange grace like dancers meeting center-stage. “I feel them. I feel them.” Cedric rasped. “Oh gods…” Yaro could stand it no longer. He twisted the scruff of Cedric’s collar and pushed him back down the way they’d come. The song stopped. Yaro looked down at his runic broach - the symbol had cracked. They could be seen. He forced the scholar into a run. A primal terror gripped him. No longer superstition, no longer goals or research. He felt every inch of his body screaming to find the mining passage again. The hum of the creatures beat against the walls of the ruin, amplified by the crystals. They were catching up, Yaro could feel it. “What the bloody hell are these things?!” Yaro drew his sword, but it felt like straw. Cedric was hobbling, and the further they drew from the gate the more the scholar reached for the walls to pull himself forwards. “Come on Cedric, run!” Yaro growled. At last they reached the fringes of the mining passage. Yaro dared a glance behind him. The creatures were nearly floating in their grace to follow. Yaro could see a single line of crystals embedded in their triangular head, trailing up from a thick neck towards the smoke radiating from their bodies. Their blasted song burned against his mind, clawing under his skin and pushing against his fingernails. One of the creatures raised a hand, and Yaro felt the chill deepen as magic was brought into being. Yaro shoved Cedric to the ground. The spell loosened an electric bolt of sickly green energy. The blast flung Yaro back against a cavernous wall. Chains raked against his back and metal scraped against his armor. His mouth felt bitter and burned, his body twitching with agony as that fire lanced across his mind. The song became so loud that for a moment Yaro’s ears felt warm and wet. “Yaromir!” Cedric ran up to him, and Yaro could barely see him through the haze of pain. The scholar looked down at him, then back at the still advancing creatures. Yaro felt the weight of Cedric pressing against him, pulling him up to his feet again. He felt the frigid chill of another spell being cast, and this time the cry wasn’t theirs. Yaro blinked away his pain enough to see that several of the gate creatures’ chests had burst open, exposing green-blue crystal embedded in a ribcage. Like organs. Yaro scrambled to his feet and pushed Cedric ahead. Only a little farther, only a little farther to the surface. He felt the crackling of energy and threw one of the mining lanterns back at the creatures. A light broke up ahead, and Yaro’s heart soared. The explosives! “Keep running!” He yelled to Cedric. The scholar was stumbling against the walls and chains. When they reached the adit, Cedric nearly collapsed - and in the clarity of daylight he could see why. Cedric’s arm had been completely cut open. Blood stained his clothes and his skin had gone pale with the loss. The spell’s success in the cavern flashed through his mind. “Are you insane?” But there was no time. Yaro handed his torch to Cedric and ran back towards the mining building. He heaved an explosive barrel to its side and rolled it up towards the adit. The song was howling, screaming, no longer the gently oppressive hum of the caverns. The melody repeated again and again. Yaro grit his teeth and pushed against it with his own thoughts; focus on the goal, focus on the goal… He rolled the barrel towards the main entrance, then turned to Cedric for the torch. The scholar looked up at the sky - and Yaro’s heart dropped into his stomach. The beating of wings rushed against the village, and an enormous shadow blotted out the sun over the Valley. Yaro glimpsed a flash of fire, and a roar brought the gate creature’s melody into a terrifying reverb through their cores. Kith, kith, kith The dragon had come to feed.

One day beneath the willow We’ll meet there as friends One day beneath the willow When all the fighting ends I ask with what you carry Could you guide me safely there My arms have grown too heavy And the weight is hard to bear One day beneath the willow We’ll drop what needn’t stay One day beneath the willow No bodies will there lay - Northern Lullaby, 2nd Age of Man in the height of the Mourning War Ask a handful of northerners what the legend behind a willow is, and each of them will give you a different answer depending on where they are from. In the northeast, they will tell you about the frozen souls starting with Gilgaren; the old warrior who had spent his life devoted to Imren who in one fateful winter slowly froze to death as he tried to escape a forest. Despite the goddess's cruel season, his tears were because he would go to the side of Tetin and pass into the great void presented to the Old-Faithers at death. It is said that his sadness moved the goddess herself to manifest and shape the frost around Gilgaren into a weeping tree, cradling him in nature itself for eternity. If you ask the middle-north about the origin, they would tell you about how the winds of Laranth over the Ages has crafted all manner of strange trees and fungi to grow over Eroman. These are the same winds that created the legendary Harwood; trees afflicted with corrupted storm winds and the breath of the Sunfire that becomes so highly resistant to the elements and magic that it may as well be unaging stone. Even fire would need ages to kiss it, which is why only the fallen branches and loose logs may ever be gathered. Willow trees do not hold the same strength as Harwood, but even the most young green-scholar will tell you that channeling spells always seem to go smoother under the shade of a Willow. It is why many northern mages find solace there when learning new spells. Now, if you ask the northern elves what the legends behind a willow entails, they'll tell you the story of Issan Deranna - The Place of Weeping Trees. In an Age when the Fae subjugated and bred the elves for slaughter, there was a slave named Dylar who managed to escape. But, as legends go, he did not stop there. Under the cover of darkness or personas of other slaves, Dylar would sneak into fortresses across the northern Plains and help other elves escape. Eventually, he had gathered nothing short of an army of his own people, and they took refuge in a grove of silver trees. Some elves add the embellishment that they had begun to build a city there, but most call it a haven encampment. Until the Fae managed to track them down. The elves were massacred beneath the willows. Blood saturated the soil as they fought to maintain the little freedom they had. When it was done, the silver trees wept for the poor souls, dropping their branches to shield the bodies from desecration. Those silver trees became willows, and that grove became Issan Deranna. No scholars have been able to identify the grove, but that is hardly the point of a legend. What remains true is that, across the young races, willow trees remain a sacred symbol worthy of one reverence or another and are often associated with mourning. Perhaps this is due to the legends being borne out of tragic times - the Sunfire, the Fae occupations, the Mourning War itself, etc. Whether it is a small tragedy or a larger cultural one, the trees mark a sort of vigilance and otherwordliness associated with magic that has become less prominent in Nialios with each passing age. Tragedy and loss so profound that the gods - or even the world itself - is moved to action.

In this collection of writing resources, explore a list of "first lines" which could open the next story. See which premises get the ideas flowing and ask yourself, "What comes next?" Death was not at all what I'd imagined. To my left, a demon ready to destroy it all. To my right, the angel ready to save the world. And there in the middle, was me, holding my turkey sandwich. My captor had terrible knot formation, but impeccable taste in rope. The stasis pods were holding nicely. A shame. "Stop offering me croissants. No amount of sugar is going to make me incite a rebellion against Turon." The dreams were the perfect training ground. After three apocalypses, two invasions, twenty guilds and half a dozen uprisings, Andy thought he'd seen it all. And, he'd seen it all with Reymi. But after being left behind in the monster bog, he'd seen something he could never come back from. "Exercise them." The blood was everywhere, but that wasn't what terrified her. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the cities in the forest. This post is part of a short prompt series meant to help the up and coming writers with potential project ideas, or to help brainstorm more elements of their own existing stories.

Getting started is one of the hardest parts of writing, next only to keeping up the project for the long haul. Below I've gathered several writing prompts and exercises, all in one place. If looking to try something new, or add something to your current project, see what you can brainstorm below! Search through a book you've read recently. Pick out some key words that jump out at you. Then, use these words as a basis for a short story, poem, or premise. Choose a "Word of the Day" - there are words posted on Mirriam-Webster. Write a paragraph of thought centered around that word and its meaning, themes, or feeling. The character has spent their whole life searching for something - a place, a person, a specific object - and it is suddenly revealed that something doesn't really exist. What happens next? In a world of magic or sci-fi, characters discover affinity for things opposite their personality. For example, an individual raised as a hermit has the ability to control metal. What is this world like under antithetical powers? How would your character seduce the Devil? In your world, all are eventually called into a meeting with the High Overseer. No one knows when, or even why, these meetings happen - only that citizens emerge in a new light. What decisions are made in this meeting, and why are its contents forever secret? This post is part of a short prompt series meant to help the up and coming writers with potential project ideas, or to help brainstorm more elements of their own existing stories.

When I crossed the Grenadan River, my cart nearly spilling with wares, I had expected to be received by some mayoral figure or emissary. Instead I found before me a village carved out of the mountains. Caves had been scooped out of the hillside like honeycomb, and little rock structures lined the roads. Without knowing what the village was, one could hardly call it a village at all. There was no sound of voices, or signs of movement, or the energy that came from a place of life. A small line had been laid out with pebbles to mark the threshold. I had my mule halt just outside of it. The rock piles remained still. Silence ebbed over the scenery. Up close, I could see the glitter of exposed mineral veins peeking out from the caves. Now that I sat still, that familiar scent of silver filled my nose, bringing back a hint of home. “Hello?” I called out. “Hello?” My voice echoed back. With this, I smiled and climbed down from my cart. “I come in peace!” I shouted. “Come in peace!” My echo returned. The ground rumbled up against my feet. The pebble line danced in place, and as the energy grew they folded away from the center of the village entrance. I tucked my hand to my chest and gave a low bow. “Dr. Sergio Vallez, for the emissary of Sela Terra.” The earth rumbled again, this time from farther off. Stone hissed on stone, clamoring and clacking together. I trembled with excitement, but I didn’t look up. No, I had to obey their customs. You might think a peek would have meant nothing but innocent curiosity. To a human yes, or perhaps a dwarf, but in all our knowledge and traditions, we did not know the extent of the Golem’s eyes. And stories of less polite visitors were often strewn over the mountainside. I kept my head and body bowed. I contained my excitement. I kept my arm outstretched until the rumbling could no longer distract me from the ache in my shoulder. I heard the whirl of wind and stone approach. With it came the sensation of being watched. A deep, rumbling mrrrr emanated before me. “My lord, I am your humble guest.” I replied. “Mrrrhrrr.” Stones tapped the ground before me. Once, twice, thrice. I exhaled relief and looked up. The golem was a construct of whirling stones all encircling a runic plate. Dozens of rocks encircled the plate like earthen shields. Immense energy radiated off the core, the fixture - Its eye. This one was a shimmering azure blue, like the purest of sapphires. For a few moments I could only marvel. The runes that held the stone in place reminded me of the ancient Fae writings back in the capital. “Hrrrr.” It’s eye shifted in place, “looking” over my form. I stood up fully and rolled my shoulder. “Err - yes, of course.” I straightened my tunic, smiling as politely as I could manage. “My Lord, I am an archivist from the Tower of Adall, from the East. I have spent my life studying--” The golem raised a series of stones. Five smaller ones encircled a larger one, as if to mimic fingers surrounding a palm. “I -- right. The point. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of an interview, my lord.” The blue energy core behind the eye glittered. It moved between me to the cart at my side. “Mrrrr?” “Yes, I brought wares as well my lord. Some are provisions, some artifacts and gems…” The golem moved forward. At first, it floated, and the stones surrounding the core whirled in place like a tornado. But as it gained momentum larger rocks moved towards the left and right sides, then the bottom, forming appendages to carry the core. The stride reminded me of the great apes that walk on their knuckles and smaller hind legs. As it approached the cart, the Eye shifted in place, the stones carrying it to move up and down as it browsed the goods. “M-my lord, if I may?” I offered. I kept my stride slow and visible, though it took some effort. A spring met each step as I moved beside the enormous creature. Oh if my mentor could have traveled with me, he would be tickled pink at the sight. I grabbed some of the tarps that had kept my wares shielded from weather and pulled them aside to reveal the cart’s contents. The creature made a soft, almost trilling like sound. It was not quite a rumble, but rather a deep and pleasing sound. The golem’s eye flashed with energy, and I saw the collection of cooking pots glow with a soft blue aura. “You… want a pot?” The golem made a second pleased sound, and I nodded. Privately I made a note to thank Dr. Ramsay, who had mentioned golems often traded for such pots. “My lord, I’d be happy to grant you all of them. In exchange, would you answer a few questions.” “Hrrrrrrr.” The golem replied. It turned its eye towards me. I saw the inner blue flash and twist. The inner threads of white light shifted. As I watched, I saw them join together, like paint drops in water, until their swirls joined to form the image of a humanoid sitting down beside the golem nearby one of the caves. “Of course,” I replied. “I will set up our seats promptly.” The golem did not respond. It’s eye turned back towards the cart of pots and wares, it’s motion completely stilled. Without the thrumming of the magical core it would have been completely still. I turned back towards the front of my cart and gathered two chairs from it. Did golems even sit as we did? I suppose they could form a rear end to sit on, or even the chairs if wanted. I had brought with me one of the metal benches our archivists prized so dearly. A simple thing, with its own locks and hinges so it could be folded for travel. Still, looking at it now I could only imagine the snap of metal under the crushing weight of mountain boulders. I glanced at the stilled village, then at the emissary at the cart. Then, keeping the bench close to my body, I waved an incantation across it’s length. The metal glowed briefly with soft creation light. As I held it, I could feel a slight heft within, as the spell took to increase the metal’s strength. It would only last a short while, but were it used, it would hold. A few minutes later my cart was gently guided into the golem village. With an affirmative hrrrrrn from my interviewee, the bench was set up near the base of the leftward hill with the cart of wares completely unveiled. Some of the other golems had roused themselves at the spectacle, though instead of coming closer, they moved up into their caves. A few others moved deeper along the mountain pass, and briefly I wondered what further structures these creatures might have created. “Hrrrrrrn.” The golem leaned over the bench. In a whirl of energy, the creature’s form closed in on the runic plate. A few stones were discarded like stray hairs until it had thinned itself. A rock the same size as the plate moved up the form and sat atop the core. Thinner stones had moved outward to be slender appendages, and the golem’s eye came to rest at a squared out center. “You honor me.” I replied, offering a small bow. The golem’s stones shifted around him, the core remaining inhumanly still, as if it adjusted for the interview. In its own way, I found the gesture cute. I moved to my cart and folded down the wooden lip that I could sit on. I shuffled through my travel robes to pull out my notebook, then got myself comfy. The golem’s eye fixated on these moments. The vigilance would have been terrifying in my novice days, back when a hawkish gaze was isolated to children watching the stumpy little dwarf rush to classes. After years of hyper-vigilant archivists, professors, and tutors, the golem’s gaze was simply… larger. Faintly I wondered if these creatures saw humans, dwarves, or elves as the same. Or if their vision even worked the same as ours. But well, perhaps I could find out. I swallowed a grin as I settled. My host sat patiently across, unblinking. “Thank you very much for agreeing to this.” I started. “I’ve studied quite a few magical creatures in my time at the Tower, but I confess that I have always wished to have a conversation with you in earnest.” A small rumbling sound emanated from the creature. Not quite the rumbling, pleased sound that came at the sight of the pots, but perhaps a polite response to the statement. “Among the races of flesh and blood, our people have given names. Such as my own, Sergio Vallez. Is there such a thing I can call you?” The golem stilled, as if considering this. Its eye lowered. Then, after a few moments of quiet passing, it replied with a series of small click sounds. It reminded me a little of the tick-tock of a clock. I did my best to repeat the sound. The golem made a “Hrrrn” reply, then repeated the click-clack-clock. I listened carefully, sucking in my cheeks to more precisely mimic the sounds. At the second attempt, the creature’s makeshift rock head gave a single nod. “I’m curious… your language… The clicking is similar to some sounds within the dwarven dialects. They are of similar roots, aren’t they?” “Mrrrr.” It replied. The eye swirled with smokey figures, and short stout humanoids stood hammering against piles of stone. “Of course… many early rune smiths were dwarves, weren’t they? Did dwarves live in the village with you for a time?” The golem replied with a short, firm, negative huff. I nodded. Perhaps from travelers, or even their earliest creators? “And the rest of your language; Is it largely based on feeling? How much does the core convey?” The golem’s makeshift rock head tilted. After a few moments, the eye at the being’s core shifted again. The smokey magic within swirled and danced as if in bursts. It surrounded ghostly figures of humanoids and dwarves, then retreated back to a central core. “I see… you get a sort of sense from the creatures around you, and the core in turn produces a sound we can recognize.” “Hrrrrrrrn.” The creature replied. This made me smile in turn. “The Tower - where scholars such as I come from - haven’t much made this journey, but this pass has often been visited by merchants, has it not?” “Mrrrrrrn!” The golem said, the core glowing with warmth. It extended a swirling arm of rocks, making a few other sounds. The core flashed with images of figures and the large rock formations arriving, conversing, and passing smoke items between each other. The golem before me straightened then and gestured to my cart. I hid a grin. “You… would you like a pot now?” “Mrrrrrrrrn.” It replied. I set aside my notes, then turned to the stack of pots and pans. I scanned over each one briefly, using my sleeve to quickly polish off any stray dust or grime. I chose a small but wide copper pot with a braid carved around its middle. When I turned I saw the golem’s eye brighten, shifting over its center of being as it examined the gift. I held it out for the creature. The golem’s front limbs mirrored my own and hovered in place, waiting for me to drop the pot in its arms. I gently set it there. The golem continued its inspection. Small clicks, clacks, clocks, sounded from within the core. It was like the smaller stones that made up the creature were rushed together quickly, chattering with excitement. After a few moments, the golem brought the pot up over its head and let it rest there like a bowler hat. Once there it folded its arms in the lap of stones, the golem looking back at me expectantly. “It matches your eye quite nicely.” I replied. “Mrrrrrrr.” I chuckled to myself, and carefully pondered my next question. ~*~ In my travels and subsequent studies of the rock formed creatures known as “golems”, I would like to amend earlier essays on the brutish nature of such beings. Rather, in my experience, I found them to be more mischievous than the lesser cousins of the Fae. I arrived in the golem village with a cart, a mule, 29 pans, 13 pots, three weeks of supplies, a tent, a broom and dustpan, two notebooks, a satchel of charcoal, ink, three quill pens, and a length of rope. Upon leaving the village I had my mule, my backpack of basic food supplies, my notebooks, ink and one-and-a-half quill pens. Where did the rest go, you might ask? To the Golems. My visit intent was to observe, interview, and adhere to the highest levels of respect. I too had heard stories of rock giants who crushed the unlucky bandit, or the traveler who dared to trespass into the creature's territory. I remembered the stories of the last scholar, whose surviving letters to the Tower about the brutality of golem attacks kept me awake at night as a child. Still I attempted to put such thoughts out of my mind, for in other studies I had heard of merchants who had long-standing connections to such remote places. These same merchants, who had grown rich from rare gems exchanged for meager wares and polite conversation, cautioned the opportunistic fools who had been crushed in those mountainside attacks. The golems, in amusement, or perhaps even delight at the wares I had brought, allowed me within their village. Over the course of my interview with their emissary, I relinquished one pot after the other, in exchange for answers to my questions. The golem adorned the objects throughout their person. A pot as a hat, then pots as shoulder pads, the broom as a scepter, the dust pan like a slipper… so on. Until, as you guessed, barely the cart itself remained. As I wandered into the mountains once more, I noted several other golems take form as humanoids and shared in the new items. The emissary relinquished his adornments easily, and these stray objects decorated the mountainside. The behavior made me think of magpies, but with a community of sharing, like how our poorer villagers would pass around food during harsh winters. But here rather, these constructs of magic and ancient craftsmen, found delight in these simply made things that so often we creatures of flesh and blood discard. And, after the slow slog through the mountains and forests without my cooking pot, this creature in particular felt great appreciation at the first inn I was able to find. --Dr. Sergio Vallez, professor of mythical creatures at the Tower of Addall Found in a private letter to the Tower’s Administrator of Study

Become the writing sponge you were always meant to be! Finding writing resources can be a challenge, and there are so many out there that can help with the day to day projects. Whether for reference, for community, or for fun, these are some pocket tools that have come in handy for my projects. All organizational images belong to their respective creators, and are intended for education purposes only.

Become the writing sponge you were always meant to be! Finding writing resources can be a challenge, and there are so many out there that can help with the day to day projects. Whether for reference, for community, or for fun, these are some pocket tools that have come in handy for my projects. All organizational images belong to their respective creators, and are intended for education purposes only.