Vic Savage was born into a prosperous merchant family in a major regional center. However, his parents’ business was ruined by an outbreak of plague and they were essentially forced into the street, winding up with relatives in the bad part of town. He spent a large part of his late childhood and adolescence on the street, running with urchins and impromptu thieves’ gangs. Those pursuits resulted in an athletic and dexterous temperament, while his family’s fall from grace meant that he slipped easily into the role of a rogue and sometime thief, though their former station means that he prefers to steal from people he believes deserve it.

Somewhat impulsive, Vic tends to speak before he thinks, and often rushes into situations as well. While he’s quick to claim that he has a silver tongue he actually stumbles somewhat with words and has a hard time convincing anyone of his point of view. He’s also easily distracted and prone to daydreaming. His prosperous background means that he had a relatively good education as a youngster; he also tends to prefer gaudy and expensive clothes for that same reason.

Vic wears his dark hair short (to keep anyone from getting a handhold) and tends to be unshaven despite his pretensions to a more noble appearance. He is of average height.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Gravelines link all cemetaries, charnel-houses, catacombs, mausoleums, ossuaries, and tombs, and are the primary method by which the Pale travel from place to place. Be they Pale of substance, like ghouls or ghasts, or Pale lacking substance, like ghosts and banshees, all Pale may use the gravelines by their very nature. To the living, they represent a mystery that cannot be plumbed.

Travel is not instantaneous, and the Pale may be tracked or the course of a particular graveline mapped (though they tend to be difficult to follow, proceeding ramrod-straight through bush and earth, rock and house). The most reliable way is to obtain a togdove, a bird only born in a textile fire that claims at least one life. Togdoves by their nature are half of the Pale and are sensitive to the charnel smell and lambent ectoplasmic glow of a graveline. One may provide a trained togdove with a bit of the Pale to be tracked or simply turn it loose and hope that the graveline it follows be the correct one.

The togdove will soar along the graveline as best as it is able, and is often bound by a fine and flameproof chain around one leg. It will signal that the destination has been reached by bursting into sudden flame, which (again due to their nature) is neither painful nor fatal.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

I even tended to refer to him with the informal pseudo-affectionate nickname “Teddy” even though I knew through a little bit of research that he’d hated being called that by anyone who wasn’t a close family member. Then again, Theodore Marlowe was the sort that knew the value of a name: born John Theodore Marlow, it had taken the judicious dropping of a too-common first name and the addition of an unnecessary vowel to make his a name fit for literary immortality.

Deerton held its annual Marlowe Days events at the same time as the county fair as the only vestige of tourism a tiny burg like that was able to eke out. After all, Teddy had been born at what was then Deerton General (now Infrared Health Systems Mid-Michigan Campus no. 27) and attended what was then Deerton Elementary (now John T. Seymour Elementary) until the age of 10, when his family had moved to Grand Rapids and thence to Detroit. He’d been shortlisted for a Nobel, his novels and stories were still in print, and film adaptations had made millions of dollars over the years.

I prickled a little under the management role I had in Marlowe Days, though, for the simple reason that Theodore Marlowe hadn’t been all that find of Deerton at all. Biographies tended to give us a sentence, if we were lucky, before going into exhaustive detail on Marlowe’s days in Grand Rapids and Detroit. I had been through reams of interviews, and all the man ever had to say about us was negative. There was the CBS interview from 1969 where he talked of “escaping the stultifying atmosphere of small-town mundanity,” for instance, or the 1978 radio talk where he said “everything that made me who I am is of the furniture and automotive cities.”

As in not Deerton.

After moving away, he hadn’t visited once despite plenty of Marlow and Higginsfield relatives. Invitations to speak at DHS commencements or other events were returned unopened. His books, powerful as they were, spoke to the salad days of Michigan industry giving way to the rust belt.

Big city problems.

Only in death, it seemed, did Teddy have anything for us. His estate agreed to Marlowe Days less than two months after the author died in 1980.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The old Segumbi empire had, before its destruction, employed a group of warriors called the Kersaati to protect the royal family and the nobles in charge of each of the empire’s seven traditional provinces. They had led the fiercest resistance to the encroachment of outsiders; most of the Kersaati had been wiped out in the Battle of Quri in 1677 by the Portuguese. In a sign of how closely fought the battle had been, the Kersaati had actually made it to the musketeers firing on them and engaged in melee combat; the Portuguese had lost 110 musketeers, while the entire company of Kersaati, over 1000 warriors, was slaughtered.

After the old Segumbi heartland gained its independence from France as la République de Côte d’Ébène, the first president attempted to link the tradition of the new state to the old, forming the Kersaati Guard and stocking it with the country’s most experienced soldiers, many of them veterans of World War II. The Guard were to form not only the official bodyguard for government officials but also the nucleus of the new state’s army. A link both to the past and a prosperous democratic future, much like the constitution that was based in equal parts on the US Constitution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

Two years later, in July of 1964, the Kersaati Guard murdered the president, who had suspended the constitution and declared himself in office for life, and seized power for the military.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The Volodnes call themselves the Deigra (“who lives here”) and their language is called Deigrap (“of who lives here”). Deigrap is a language isolate that has attracted intense study of the few (less than 10) remaining speakers.

Linguists are especially intrigued by the fact that there are separate number systems and declensions for physical and metaphysical concepts. The Deigrap word for “many physical things” (“proticu”) and “many spirits” (“epsych”) are completely different, for instance. This distinction extends throughout the language; Dr. Andscun of the Broughton Institute for Comparative Linguistics has even made the controversial claim that Deigrap is essentially two languages, one for the mundane world and one for the spiritual.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“They found a greenish residue all over the place, though.”

“Greenish? What…what did the lab work say?”

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

“Not if you don’t tell me. What did the lab work say?”

“It’s…cornstarch, water, and food coloring. Someone was messing with us, chief.”

“Is…is that all? Don’t scare me like that. I…just don’t.”

“What’s the matter, chief? Expecting it to be something else? I hate to tell you but chances are the perp isn’t a giant snail or a ghost.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The treaty could only be described as one that angered everyone equally. Creatures borne of the Creator, such as man, were to live in the logical world of Terra while those borne of the Cycle, including most of the fair and mystical beings, were to live in the illogical Ether, and the realms were to be separated so as to make travel between them difficult and so prevent another war. As part of the treaty, all the fair beings on Terra and the mortals in the Ether were rounded up and forcibly exchanged.

For the most part the arrangement worked well, save in one place: a village in the Riftlands called Mirage. As the Rift was a chaotic admixture of Terra and Ether, with aspects of both, neither side could agree to whom Mirage belonged. Its population included all sorts of creatures from both sides of the divide, most of whom strongly resisted any attempt to break up uncountable years of peaceful coexistence. War loomed again and the treaty was imperiled by a village with less than 1/20th the population of the great cities for which hundreds had fought in the war.

Eventually, a compromise was forged: the Riftlands were to be set apart from both Terra and the Ether, to exist in a sort of betwixt and between. All who remained were bound to stay, though all who wished could leave before the treaty took effect. Unsurprisingly, most of the inhabitants chose to stay and were accordingly sealed away. They remain so to this day.

But just as the chinks between Terra and the Ether were never completely closed, the occasional link between Mirage and the other worlds can sometimes be found…

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Dear [name unreadable],

Well, here’s the thing. The Dark Lord Eden Soulrune was supposed to attempt to take over the word and from thus the cosmos in 1988 as foretold by the great prophet Victor Paradox. You might have heard of him; he had a stage show in Vegas for a while.

Anyway, prophecies are generally pretty ironclad about stuff like that, but there was a…well, a hiccup. Let’s just say that two things no prophet has ever been able to predict are the Dow Jones Industrial Average and stress-induced myocardial infarctions. Lord Eden’s financial empire was wiped out by Black Monday in 1987, and he died of a heart attack (the man was evil but he did love his donuts) while raising money and manpower in Zaire.

So the upshot is, there won’t be a need for another Chosen One until the next Dark Lord arises after the next Great Cycle of Being starts in 2024. And the thing about Chosen Ones is that thy kinda need to develop their powers before a certain age. You know how kids can’t talk if they don’t get taught before a certain age? It’s kind of like that.

So we’ve kind of got a Chosen One that we can’t really do anything with. Sorry about getting your hopes up and all that. Mind living an ordinary life from here on out? Thanks.

Yours,
No-Au Ogkrug
Grand Celestial Architect Wizard Esquire

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Ethical Question the Fifth:

You are in a store and a nearby customer drops a cheap glass cup, which shatters. They pretend to ignore it, and no one witnessed the accident except you. Do you:

A. Confront the customer and demand that they take responsibility for their actions?
They can easily afford to pay for a cheap piece of glass and should learn a lesson about honesty.

B. Report the customer to the store? It is the store’s merchandise and they should be the ones to decide what action to take, if any, against the customer.

C. Report the breakage to the store but not mention the customer?
The broken glass could injure someone and its cleanup is the main priority.

D. Do nothing? The glass is not valuable enough to justify doing anything; the story will discover it in time and confrontation with the customer is pointless.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

I was thrust into a back room, illuminated only by a single overhead bulb. I think Œ sat casually slouched on a folding chair directly beneath it; I’m not sure because the figure there was clad in baggy cargo jeans, an oversized hoodie, a ragged baseball cap, big dark Ray-Bans, and a drawn bandana with a skeletal grin printed on it. It was impossible to tell their age, gender, or anything else about them, other than the fact that some kind of flesh filled those tattered raiments.

“A little theatrical, don’t you think?” I said. One of the others, dressed similarly to Œ, set out a folded chair for me and I took a seat. “If you really wanted to be anonymous we could have talked more on the phone.”

“But you want theatricality, Mr. Cummings,” Œ said. Their voice was distorted by one of those vox boxes you sometimes hear in cheap horror movies, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disconcerted by it. “You’re enough of a narcissist that you have to see your little investigation as a titanic struggle between you, the hero, and us, the blackest evil. If I were sitting here, ordinary and unmasked, you’d be devastated.”

I stung a little from that observation. “I just want the truth. What is this ‘Project’ you’re working on, and how do all these little bits and pieces fit together?”

“The truth?” Œ’s laughter was modified into an ominous chuckle. “It’s never been about the truth. It’s been you tilting at windmills from the start, sacrificing what little journalistic integrity you had for the sake of bad puns. The fact that you can’t see the bigger picture is indicative of your failings as a person: petty, narcissistic, lazy, with a latent but distinct fascist bent.”

Who was that rag-clad hobo to call me all that? I was trembling by now, the way I always do during any kind of a confrontation. “If you wanted to insult me you could have just sent a letter to the editor. Now either give me something about your ‘Project’ or crawl back into whatever hole you came out of and go back to sharpening your hammer and sickle.”

Œ laughed again. “The Project is the perfect small-scale experiment. What is a university but an ironclad despotism, with a vast disenfranchised population at the whims of a privileged few, just like any other system? Those people have the power to be awakened and moved to action. That’s what we’re doing, and it’s just the start.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!