Nathan Francis Zuchlinski's Blog

The living altar emerged from her fears and doubts like a butterfly escaping its chrysalis. Bruised, bloodied, and utterly exhausted, she should have been too weak to fight, but her spirit was fueled by true love. 

Elthwyn pulsed with arcane energy when it sensed her noble intent. The ancient enchantment infused her with courage and might. Sneaking from behind, Lakhyna thrust the elven blade clean through a demon’s torso, sending it screaming back to hell.

One of the others retaliated with a blast of telekinesis, throwing the yedenite across the grotto and pinning her against a cluster of crystals.

The post Crystal Grotto appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls by Nathan Zuchlinski.

“My son, you fancy yourself a hero like the monarchs of old, who forged this kingdom in the shadows of cataclysmic evil, but those days are now but shadows themselves. Perhaps a king who does as he should instead of what he wants is as much a hero, for does his virtue not then inspire greatness in his subjects? My reign as sovereign monarch of Ermoc has endured for five hundred years, I can assure you with confidence, a king is only as great as his subjects,” declaimed King Elgonast.

“Maybe so, but a king is still mortal, and mortals are too oft mistaken. Yourself included,” argued Prince Elmorand.

Elgonast’s usual expression of stone-cold temperance was marred by wrinkles of consternation. “Yes, and when the burden of that reality is yours to assume, you will better understand my ruling on this matter.”

“You gamble the altar’s wellbeing on pretty rhetoric. Where is the prudence in that?” demanded Elmorand.

“I wager nothing where the gods are concerned. The prophecy has remained consistent for thousands of years. Why should any of us question the will of the gods? They wrested us from the ruinous ways of our ancestors. Our entire existence is owed to their mercy. We honour that debt with faith.”

“Blind faith!” scoffed Elmorand.

The king responded to his son’s predictable retort with unassuming patience, “Yes, even when that faith is blind.”

“That’s a fine romance if all goes well, but if not, I should like to know that I did something more than cushion my backside on a cloud of hope!” said Elmorand.

“Noted…and commendable…and even heroic…but unnecessary. Your application to search The Scar for the living altar is denied forthwith and formally. That desert is no place for mortals, least of all my only son,” declared Elgonast.

Elmorand fumed with angst but to no avail. He turned on a heel and exited his father’s chamber with an impatient flourish, but the argument persisted in his head. If the desert was no place for a company of soldiers, it was even less a place for the living altar of the gods. The seers proclaimed her return to the mortal reality would signal the gods’ vigilance against an imminent evil, but what if that evil found her first?

There was too much at stake to rely on faith alone. The prince committed himself to finding and shielding the living altar of the gods, with or without the king’s consent, and no matter the peril to himself. His rucksack was already packed accordingly. It had been sitting in the back of his closet for weeks. Stories bred by the desert were many and dreadful. This quest was going to test every pound of Elmorand’s constitution, and every wisp of his cunning.

A farewell note which disclosed his intentions was found the next day. Careless handwriting betrayed a severe impatience. The royal guard was dispatched at once, but it was too late, Elmorand was gone.

The Scar was aptly named for its fractured plateaus and ragged canyons, but more so for the indelible aches it left on anyone foolish enough to enter. For Elmorand—whose fair, elven skin was ill-adapted to the oppressive radiation of the desert sun—the first mile in this barren wasteland was more painful than all four hundred that preceded it. Not entirely for the blistering heat, the skin-paring wind, nor the arduous footing—though these were terrible blights in their own right—but for the sudden recognition that he might never again see the verdant canopies of his woodland country. Worse still, it seemed doubtful he could achieve a sustainable afterlife in so arid a setting if he were to die—elven spirits persisted in trees that sprouted from their remains.

Skilled with swords, and a capable mage, the young prince would overcome many hazards, but he was unequipped for the psychological stresses caused by unstinting loneliness, frequent indecision, and unsettled feuds. Nighttime in The Scar was even less appealing. Flocks of wailing spectres emerged from the dust and migrated across the sandy plains like a rising tide. Their decayed forms of neon vapor were dressed in archaic vestments, tattered remnants from a forgotten age, and their eyes were chilling fissures. Stare too long at those loveless voids and you might stare at them forever more, or so cautioned elvish folklore. Taking no chance at all, Elmorand warded himself with circles of magic, but these required an exact mixture of spell components, most of which could not be foraged from the desert. It was only a matter of time before he ran out.

Having little else to do while trudging across the desolate wasteland, Elmorand questioned his own judgement. The bitter sting of irony would spawn a half-hearted smile on the prince’s face. He had spurned his father for acting on blind faith, but was that not what he himself was doing? There was no reason or knowledge to guide his feet. No, he assured himself…his was not blind faith…it was mad faith! What hope was there in locating the living altar of the gods in so vast a setting without even a hint of direction? The passage of time became a sharpened edge of obsidian that whittled his confidence, his belief in the possibility for success. There was just one device by which he might yet achieve his goal. Destiny. Fate would choose the outcome of his noble intent.

By the end of the second month, there was little to distinguish Elmorand from the restless ghosts that haunted his progress. The omnipresent cacophony of lament was too piercing to ignore, and altogether too depressing to abide. Thoughts of home, friends, comfort, and joy were confiscated by misery just as quick as they formed. Even so, Elmorand continued the search, though he would often forget the object of his toil.

Venturing deeper in The Scar, a lone voice emerged from the usual raucous, barely perceptible at first, but growing steadily night after night. Unlike the others, this one was cheery, youthful, and feminine—a sound sweeter than bliss, and calmer than heaven. Elmorand pursued her voice with rediscovered vigor. This was surely the living altar of the gods calling him forth.

Six months more and Elmorand’s robes were all but disintegrated, and he was surrounded by an entourage of imaginary courtiers. They bickered and bantered about the chef’s cooking, the weather, the minstrel’s garish clothes, and the guard’s poor posture.

It was lunchtime. The sun’s incessant rays felt especially hellish that day. Whirlwinds of dust and tumbleweed were dancing on the dunes. Elmorand’s skin was scarred with blisters; his joints were painfully chafed; and there was nothing to eat or drink.

“Lay back, noble prince. Close your eyes. Rest…at least you tried,” whispered the courtiers.

They had been saying it for weeks, but this time, Elmorand was ready. He was alone now; the courtiers were gone. It was going to be a peaceful end, though not without regret. There was time enough to reminisce all those he had left behind without so much as a wave. They were the real victims of his brazen arrogance, a sin for which he could not now atone. He could well imagine his mother’s devastating grief, and his father’s unquenchable confusion.

Dying on the warm, desert sand felt inebriating. All sentience was blurred by a perceived acceleration of time. There was a lulling detachment between mind, body, and spirit. The world was still there, but incomprehensible. Nothing mattered anymore. Peace eternal.

“Please help me!” someone whimpered.

It was the same voice Elmorand had been chasing all those months, but closer than ever.

“Help me!” he shouted back with a hiss of ire.

The only response was the scratch of sand drifting across the empty plains. Elmorand rolled onto his flank and glared at the wafting haze. A frown cracked his burnt forehead, but he was too distracted to register the pain. The smooth contours of the wavy dunes were pockmarked with artificial shapes, right angles, and straight lines. These could be none other than the lost ruins of Toronomoc, where lived the altar of the gods. The site was shrouded by a mysterious nimbus of smog, a dense shadow, a foreboding presence.

Elmorand clawed his way to the top of a mound, the tallest in sight. It seemed like some sort of dais. There was a broken sarcophagus surrounded by the footings of giant pillars. His bare feet detected subtle vibrations in the stone platform, and a mild buzzing drew his attention to the opposite side of the mound. Floating at the base of a sheltered depression was a disk of utter blackness. Or was it a hole? Elmorand repositioned himself to get a better look, but no matter where he moved, the phenomenon retained the properties of a two-dimensional circle.

What could this be if not the final punctuation of existence? An obnoxious period that marked the end of Elmorand’s verse. Without earth and water to nourish his afterlife tree, his spirit was rootless. He slid down the sandy slope to gain a tighter perspective. Rhythmic oscillations pervaded his flesh and instilled a lingering sense of doom that doused the warmth of his being.

“Help me,” pleaded the voice.

Her voice quivered with loneliness, a sentiment to which Elmorand could well relate. Even so, the latter was not so foolish to ignore the possibility of trickery—a sleight of heart meant to lure his soul into oblivion. It took but a single breath of contemplation to resolve his worry. If it was the living altar of the gods, there was no danger too great to excuse reluctance, but if it was death, should he not meet it with the same dignity and courage as he had in life?

Since both cases required Elmorand to enter the disk of shadow, there was really no choice at all. The elven prince brandished his sword and stepped into the blackness. It felt like walking through a wall of molasses, and the air was colder than ice, reducing the speed of his motions and the strength of his limbs. This was a dimension of existence far removed from the mortal reality. There was nothing but darkness and fear in every direction. The ground—if it could be described as such—was a hodgepodge of spongy resistance booby-trapped with moments of nothingness. Regardless of intended bearing, each step was a step down. These jarring, unpredictable drops caused Elmorand’s gut to churn with motion sickness. A few stumbles more and he found his first moment of nothingness. Panic expelled the air from his lungs, and his muscles were stiff as stone. The fall was as much a spiritual collapse as it was physical; and arriving at the bottom was less a material collision than it was a gradual braking of time. Expecting to see a glimpse of the desert through the gate above, Elmorand squinted through the shadows, but saw nothing.

“Altar!” he hollered. “Where are you? Can you hear me?”

No answer.

Elmorand continued onward. Something like stray spiderwebs brushed against his cheeks in passing. Heavy breathing, not his own, followed closely behind. He could feel it on the nape of his neck, the hunger, the hatred. The prince was dizzy with fear. Every sensation became an omen of ruin amplified tenfold. Hope was an empty promise, and safety—an obvious lie. It was only by virtue that Elmorand pressed on, etching his vector with sharp steel and righteous persistence. The living altar of the gods was owed his breath and blood, to the very last, and so he continued.

A lone instance of light lured the elf’s attention deeper in the void. He indulged a brief notion of salvation, but this would prove to be an unwise distraction. Unseen tendrils of malice coiled around his ankles, pulled him to the ground, and dragged him away. Elmorand screamed as the light dwindled in the distance. A throng of whispering entities groped his flesh with callous hands as he shrank farther into darkness. The demons would fight each other to claim his body and soul, but so would the elf.

Words of magic surfaced in Elmorand’s mind. An explosion of glittering sparks dazed his foes, weakening their grapple. The prince liberated his ankles with a well-aimed sword chop, and then sprinted back towards the light, hacking and slashing at anything that came between.

The diabolical whispers became a symphony of maddening shrieks. Elmorand was fast approaching the source of radiance. Something shiny was laying at the center of the illuminated space —a golden scepter molded with figures of gods and spirits. The prince recognized it from drawings passed down through the ages. This was the Rod of Communion, a holy implement of worship wielded by the Arch-Clerics of Toronomoc. It was lost, same as the living altar, during the cataclysm of old.

Elmorand swung his sword in wide arcs, desperate, heart pounding, lungs heaving, terrified. A final daring dash brought him safely inside the pocket of light. The ominous entities crowded around, attacking the radiance with horns and claws, but Elmorand beat them back, teeth gritting, mind racing, and fingers grasping at the scepter.

The rod’s light died at the touch of his hand and all was quiet.

When Elmorand opened his eyes, the altar was at his feet, living no more.

The post The Scar That Lingers appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Another day, another first. The paperback edition of Glaydanah’s Forge showed up on my doorstep like Moses in the reeds of the Nile River. A physical manifestation of my imagination, the summit of a life-long quest, to see my work printed in a proper book. Now this whole writing business feels real…my goals, once distant dreams floating on the edge of thought, now seem attainable. 

Work on the sequel has begun.

The post The Paperback is Alive! appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Last friday, I revealed my first iteration of cover art for Glaydanah’s Forge to a Facebook book club. I knew the content and style were risky, but it did reflect the main characters, so hoping for a mature reception, I hit the submit button and walked away. Well, it turns out people do assume the worst. Without any interest at all in why my female character was so scantily clad, I was ridiculed for conceiving what some thought was a proposperous painting. It was nerve-wracking enough to put myself out there and share something very personal, but to experience that magnitude of outrage was really unlike anything I have ever experienced.

I decided to try an alternative cover, not because I’m afraid the original is offensive or innacurate with respect to the characters, but because it was misleading readers about the subject matter within the writings of the book itself. People see skin and chains, they assume erotica. Glaydanah’s Forge is the beginnings of an epic fantasy, and I want people to know what sort of story they are getting into, even if the cover is not technically as accurate as it could be.

And so, without further adieu, here it is!

The post Cover Art – Take 2 appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Silver, blue, and white flashed against a grey backdrop of overcast sky—Manorrah’s silken cape was flapping in the wind. She was poised atop a low rise which provided substantial reconnaissance of the surrounding country. The dense woodlands around Ruffingham were behind them, and in its place was a rolling prairie dressed in a smatter of thickets. Nothing short of invisibility would permit an enemy to approach their camp without being detected by the vigilant eyes of the elven princess. From her vantage, she saw that Naznoak was still sleeping, and the early-rising altar was practicing with the glaive.

The tranquility of the moment gave Manorrah time to reflect on the events of recent days. The living altar was, in many respects, exactly as she had envisioned—humble, devoted, pure, and pious—but in other ways proved to be quite unexpected. In retrospect it was a silly notion, but she never anticipated the altar would be so subjective, so…susceptible. This did not diminish Manorrah’s deference, however, quite the opposite, it heightened those feelings, for it was all the more impressive that the yedenite altar was committed to chasing her perilous destiny.

Naznoak was a pleasant surprise as well. Sure, he lived up to many zemju stereotypes, but his actions demonstrated noteworthy virtues as well. Whether driven by zeal in service to the gods, or by the irresistible call of Suuma’s Curse, Manorrah could not completely tell—perhaps it was a blend of both—but his courage and kindness in the defense and care of the altar was inspiring. The princess bemoaned having to part ways once they achieved Nuuthrogh.

Dark clouds over Ermoc had been rolling towards them since before dawn. Symptomatic flashes of white light, and the low-pitched rumbles which followed, grew ever more fearsome as the storm neared. Manorrah’s shimmering shawl flapped wildly as the force of the wind intensified. Billowing over the camp, the clouds contracted a sickly green tinge. Raindrops exploded on the unyielding surface of Manorrah’s ornate steel breastplate. A particularly abrasive crack of thunder jolted Naznoak from his sleep. Reflexively, he gripped the axe resting at his side. Undeterred by Tylaruun’s rage, Manorrah and Troshander held their ground. With nowhere to hide, there was little else to do but wait for the storm to pass.

The post Dark Clouds and Bright Hopes appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Lakhyna’s eyes blinked open to a scene of unexpected circumstance. The marble container within which she normally slept was gone, and the entourage of devoted celebrants who should have greeted her wakefulness with reverent praise were nowhere in sight. The living altar of the gods sat upright to gain a better sense of her surroundings. She was sitting on a wide plain of tawny sand, naked except for the sacred tattoo and chain-link body harness unique to her station. The hot sand felt good on her skin. Scooping a palmful, she watched it sprinkle through her fingers. This was too real to be a dream, but if it was otherwise, then, where was she?

There was blue sky, white clouds, hazy dunes, and eroded plateaus—the desert landscape of her country—but where was her city, Toronomoc, and its dense populace? More shocking than that—Tylaruun, the golden sun, was blazing vigorously, but where was his radiant brother, the white sun, Ahktaruun? They should have been side by side, sailing the azure heavens and warding the planet against doom, as they had since time uncounted.

Gauging correctly by the distinct silhouettes of the barren horizon, Lakhyna should have been at the very heart of Toronomoc, where stood the splendid temple complex dedicated to the pantheon of creation. Chief among the many shrines was a soaring tower called The Sunspeak—Lakhyna’s home since early childhood—but it was all gone. Profound worry thumped in the girl’s chest. How could this be? How could an entire civilization, never mind a celestial god, disappear without a trace during the span of a single night?

No more time to wonder, a dire thirst was chapping her lips. Lakhyna stood with a grimace, her joints were stiff as though she had not moved in a long while, but each step was a little easier than the last. Where did one find water if not from a fountain? Lakhyna, whose monastic upbringing imposed strict confinement, knew almost nothing outside the context of her spiritual function.

Even so, she was not without reason. She understood that gravity forced water to pool in low depressions, especially where the surface was impermeable. With respect to the latter, Lakhyna headed for the nearest bit of rocky terrain that she could see. Her feet sank in the soft sand, each step taking the effort of three, and the windswept dunes swallowed the signs of her passage long before she reached her objective.

Water…not a lot—barely enough—but enough for the moment. The living altar of the gods stooped at the bottom of a narrow cleft and licked a small puddle right down to the gritty bottom. Relief was fleeting, hunger was next in line and came swiftly. There were a few scraggly looking shrubs scraping a living from the bare rocks, but they were mostly thorns and rough bark, inedible.

Sound reason prevailed again. All animals needed to eat. They would show her the way to food. Distant birds baited Lakhyna across another stretch of sandy dunes. The heat was insufferable, but there was nowhere else to go. After all the effort, she found the birds feeding on some sort of rotting carcass. Sickened by the putrid stench, and tired from the arduous trek, she withered to the ground with a sigh of disappointment.

Lakhyna could not help but wonder what offense she had committed to incur this unfavorable punishment? Had she unwittingly offended the gods by neglecting her spiritual obligations? The living altar of the gods was a station of singular prominence bestowed by the Arch-Cleric of Toronomoc—the highest religious authority in all the lands—failing at so great an honor was intolerable.

This inner strife was rudely interrupted by a searing pain on the bottom of her foot. Lakhyna winced in agony, clutching her swelling appendage as the scorpion that stung her scurried away. Anger prompted the girl to give chase, even if only to look it in the eyes and scold it for wanton cruelty. Rounding the corner of a stony crag, she came upon a column of marching ants. The scorpion was nowhere in sight. Strange, there were no obvious nooks by which it could have escaped.

It was then that she noticed the ants were coalescing on a fleshy plant. A closer inspection showed they were feasting on a sticky secretion on the surface of the plant’s leaves. She gathered a dab with the tip of her finger and sucked it clean. The taste was sweet with a hint of tanginess. Without a second thought, the girl plunged her face into the bush and joined the ants in their sugary banquet. When the honeydew was depleted, she harvested a leaf to sample a bite. The texture was spongy, and the flavour was palatable.

Praising the gods for their merciful bounty, Lakhyna leaned back against the foot of the crag and slept through the afternoon. It might have been the scorpion’s venom, or something she ate, but when she woke during the night, she was haunted by ghostly figures wandering in the darkness. They were little more than drifts of wispy vapor, but the chilling tone of their mournful whines caused enormous fear. Lakhyna could do nothing but curl up, close her eyes, and wait for Tylaruun to banish the apparitions come morning.

Who knows for how many days she carried on in this manner—blown like tumbleweed from one dried out gorge to the next? Days became weeks and still there was nothing to help explain the disappearance of the white sun, nor her city. If Lakhyna were truly the last of her people, she would charge herself with the wellbeing of their restless souls. For this, she besought the gods’ benevolence, praying feverishly that they guide the dead to a proper afterlife.

A storm of tremendous violence was gusting in from the ocean. Green clouds, earth-rumbling bellows of thunder, and a tsunami of airborne sand. Lakhyna sprinted across the desert plains—the raging elements were hot on her heels. A tempest like that could easily suffocate or bury anyone caught within for too long.

Rescuing the living altar from such an end was a limestone cavern, but the shadows inside were terrifying in their own right. The menacing, fang-like shapes of the stalagmites and stalactites did nothing to improve this impression. This was surely the abode of a monstrous demon, or perhaps it was itself a demon waiting patiently for a hapless meal to stumble in. Still, she favored her odds inside the grotto, and so, ventured deeper as the storm’s wrath probed the cave’s gaping mouth.

 As feared, the cavern contained more than just shadows and rock. Lakhyna was not alone. She was awoken later that night by a party of mysterious entities closing in on all sides. Magic lanterns illuminated their strange features. Short, stout, hairless, grey skin, stony ridges on their brows, cheeks, and chins, and milky irises.

Dwarves—a race of subterranean dwellers completely unknown to the people of Toronomoc. Their underground cities were scattered along the length of the Frawdstyn Mountains, a geographical landmark that bordered the western edge of Lakhyna’s desert homeland.

The living altar of the gods discovered quickly, and appreciatively, that these people were not to be feared. They brought her to a magnificent city carved from the marble innards of a humble mountain. She was fed and clothed, indescribable luxuries after weeks of starvation and exposure in the desert. At first, the language barrier made complex communication difficult, but for the girl’s benefit, the dwarves spoke the continental common tongue—the grammar was virtually identical to that of Lakhyna’s tongue, and so it was only a matter of learning the vocabulary. Her speech was adequate some months later, and hoping to repay her hosts’ kindness, she volunteered to work for a cobbler named Pronome. It turned out that his mother, Itheglene, was a respected oracle, and when she learned of Lakhyna’s whereabouts, she sent a written invitation to meet.

Lolkyn was only a medium-sized city, but Lakhyna could never come to grips with its layout, which felt an awful lot like a labyrinth. Pronome, who was as much a friend as one could hope to make among the dwarves, was happy—if a dwarf could be happy—to guide Lakhyna to his mother’s dwelling. Like many nooks in Lolkyn, the doorframe was embossed with decorative patterns and lit by magic bulbs. Dwarves had an aesthetic fondness for textures.

“Should I knock, or?” Lakhyna was unsure how an oracle aught to be treated, but the door opened just then.

“Come in,” beckoned Itheglene. She was dressed in robes of grey wool and a long scarf trimmed with bone baubles.

Aside from the distinctive ridges of cartilage that protruded from their facial features, dwarves were difficult to distinguish from each other. That there was no outward difference between the males and females only added to this problem. A tonal variance in speech was the only indication of gender.

“Mother,” Pronome acknowledged Itheglene with a subtle bow, and then encouraged Lakhyna to enter.

The oracle’s home was strewn with strange items. Implements of prophecy, spell components, obscure artifacts, clay tablets, and piles of crusty scrolls. She seated her guest by the cooking hearth in the kitchen and poured a cup of mineral water.

“Thank you kindly,” said Lakhyna.

Itheglene sifted through the pile of scrolls.

“I have never met an oracle before…actually, I’m not so sure I know what an oracle is,” said Lakhyna, whose nerves were not helped by the enduring silence.

“An oracle’s thoughts are the mortal parchment upon which the gods describe their vision of the future. At least, that is what my great, great grandfather told me,” Itheglene replied evenly, and then after locating the scroll she had in mind, sat across from Lakhyna. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, raising the scroll.

Lakhyna glared at the aged document with genuine curiosity. “No, should I?”

“It is a volume from The Glayd Scrolls. A compendium of prophecy going back many thousands of years. This one speaks of a sun-kissed girl driven from the sand by a storm of lost memories,” explained Itheglene.

“Wow, do you think I am that girl?” speculated Lakhyna.

“There is only one way to know,” hinted the oracle.

Lakhyna waited patiently for the dwarf to elaborate, but the latter appeared to be pending a response. “And that is?”

“Magic,” declared Itheglene, throwing a handful of crystalline dust onto the embers of the hearth. Radiant smoke, violet and cyan, billowed upwards, twisting around like a pair of wrestling snakes.

Lakhyna was startled by the explosive reaction and pressed backwards against her chair.

Itheglene inhaled the smoke with great enthusiasm and then chewed on a fibrous root of unknown nature. A bright green froth bubbled out from the corner of her mouth. The smoke shifted into a stream that spiraled around the oracle like a coil of rope. “You have lost something, what was it?”

Lakhyna was filled with awe. It took a moment to answer, “My city, my people, the white sun.”

Mild convulsions shook Itheglene’s body as the spell of divine truth imbued her mind with celestial notions. “Heaven’s duty awaits thee north, where frozen tears embrace the heart of Uuinta’s love below. Glaydanah’s Forge with embers bright shall forge anew the truth of light.”

And not a breath later, the smoke returned to the coals of the hearth. Itheglene wheezed for air as the magic receded from her lungs. Lakhyna tried to help by patting the dwarf on the back, but a steady hand waved her off.

“What does it mean?” wondered Lakhyna.

“The gods need your help,” Itheglene muttered weakly.

“I don’t understand,” Lakhyna admitted apologetically.

“When the time is right, the true nature of your task will unveil itself. You must go north.”

It was an ambiguous destiny, to be sure, but how could the living altar of the gods deny a vocation like that? This was her chance to atone for whatever sins might have caused her people and beloved sun god to vanish. She would need time to prepare for the journey—Glayd was not without its perils.

“I will do as you say, but I should warn you, I don’t know much about the outside world.”

“You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish. Take your time, learn what must be learned,” answered Itheglene.

Many months would expire while the living altar practiced the basic skills of survival, and all the while, her grasp on the common tongue improved steadily. When she was finally ready, the dwarves brought her to the northern limits of their kingdom, six hundred some odd miles away from Lolkyn. It was the least they could do to advance her fated quest before she ventured out on her own.

Metal gears rattled and banged as the granite slab constituting a gate lifted open. Lakhyna squinted when Tylaruun’s golden rays pinched her pupils for the first time in over a year. The radiation on her skin was immediately soothing and did much to assuage her apprehensions. Sprawling out from the foothills of the Frawdstyn Mountains was a vast forest doused in a glorious palette of autumn colors. From so lofty a vantage in the hills, the changing leaves looked like a dragon’s hoard of precious gems. Riding the brisk winds in the sky above were puffy clouds and flocks of geese migrating south to their winter feeding grounds.

A sharp gasp and wide eyes were vivid testaments of Lakhyna’s wonderment. Hailing from a barren sandscape, she had never beheld so much life, even if it was on the brink of winter’s dispossession. It was an encouraging omen at the start of her mission, a sign of heavenly attendance.

“Here, take this,” said Pronome, who had become one of Lakhyna’s dearest acquaintances. His mother was there too, along with dozens of tribal representatives. This was a momentous occasion that deserved proper decorum.

“What is it?” asked Lakhyna, taking the canvas backpack.

“Tools and food, mostly, but I crafted something special too,” replied Pronome.

“Thank you, friend, I will miss you most of all,” said Lakhyna, kissing the dwarf’s wrinkled forehead.

He wiped the girl’s spittle with the cuff of his sleeve. “I would go with you, if it was permissible,” he stated.

“I wish it were so, then I might not be so frightened,” admitted Lakhyna, glancing out at the wide world of Glayd.

Itheglene interjected then, “Trust the quakes of intuition, the gods know as well as I do, you’re a clever girl.”

“I will do what I can,” Lakhyna pledged with a curtsy. “Now then, which way is north?”

“At dawn, plot your course with Tylaruun on your right, and then, in the afternoon, let him sit on your left. At night, look for the great worm living in the sky and follow the stars in its eye,” advised Itheglene.

Pronome pointed northwards. “That way,” he clarified.

“Bless you all,” prayed Lakhyna, and then, with a final wave goodbye, she started out.

Dwarves were not known for sentimentality. They did not weep at her departure, nor cheer with exuberance. There were drums, the steady beatings of which evoked the pulsing heart of The Mother Goddess, Glaydanah, and there were cavernous nasal chants in homage to her benevolence.

The sparsely vegetated slope outside the dwarven gate was a hallowed cemetery. Lakhyna meandered through the field of remains with a bowed head. Unlike other living organisms, whose bodies decomposed into earth and dust, dwarves became solid stone, monuments of their former selves. These tokens of mortality were carried out from their subterranean homes and exposed to the elements. In time, they would disintegrate, and in so doing, return to the mountain whence they came.

It was already dark by the time Lakhyna reached the bottom of the slope. Unfamiliar with this strange environment, she jumped at every little noise and shadow. A squirrel dashing over dead leaves sounded like a pack of hyenas, and the groans of trees bending in the breeze inspired nightmares of hell. A shelter and fire would have helped, except, she had pushed too long into the night, and it was now too dim to set camp—a mistake she would not soon repeat. The only barrier from the darkness was a knitted blanket and fervid faith in cosmic providence.

Exhaustion might have induced a few episodes of sleep, but come morning, Lakhyna felt no less tired. The pre-dawn glow of the rising sun roused the girl to action. She rummaged through her pack in search of breakfast, and in so doing found Pronome’s parting gift. It was a pair of high-heeled shoes—peep-toes, platforms, and pink satin straps—the exact styling she had wistfully described to her crafty friend in a bygone conversation. A joyous smile spread between her cheeks as she tried them on. The fit was perfect, and despite the rugged terrain, she felt completely stable—a consequence of magic, the shoes were enchanted.

As per the oracle’s directions, Lakhyna shifted the sun’s radiance onto her right shoulder and then continued the journey north. The ceaseless solitude afforded much time for introspection. Itheglene had given Lakhyna direction, a vector of purpose that spanned the mysterious gap between a hidden past and a vague future, but months of preparation and tutelage now felt thoroughly underwhelming. The realities of wilderness survival were far harsher than Lakhyna ever imagined. It seemed like no matter where she stepped, her feet got soaked; no matter how she tried, wood gathered from the forest would not kindle; and, somehow, her improvised shelters always leaked, even when it was not raining.

These troubles were not enough to dissuade the girl’s progress, however, for as the oracle had so ominously stated, the gods were calling her forth. Whenever her stomach grumbled with dissent, she would nourish herself with holy hymns; and when her feet ached, she thanked the pantheon of creation for contriving a destination, even if it were an obscure one.

Still, she was not without those lowly moments when despair coaxes tears of self-pity and wallows of doubt. The mystery of her lost city, her people, and the white sun, Ahktaruun, remained unsettled.

The post Chapter 1 appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Maps completed:

The post Maps appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Happy Thanksgiving Earthmates!

I thought some people might like an update regarding the publication of Glaydanah’s Forge. Proofing is proceeding well, almost at the halfway point, and the cover should be ready by the end of the week. I am hoping to have this novel ready for puchcase by end of October or early next month. Shortly beforehand, the first chapter will be made available to everyone.

The post Getting Warmer appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Concept art for Naznoak. You can learn about his unique race, the zemju – part man, part bear – in Glaydanah’s Forge.

The post Cover Art – Part II appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.

Concept art for the cover is now in progress:

This is Lakhyna, one of the main characters you can read about in Glaydanah’s Forge.

The post Cover Art appeared first on The Glayd Scrolls.