Wow after about a year and a half from Storm Front to Battle Ground I feel like I have been on a journey. The growth of the characters and expansion of the world really feels like we have come a long way. The loss of Murphy is going to hurt in the next few books as I am sure Harry will take a long time to get over that if he even can. I'm not sure what is next but I am hear for it.

Maybe is just sifi, but since is a quest i though is good to share here

(If You prefer to liest to, here is the audio version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nk5RprPrkiU)

Thousands of years ago, in a certain kingdom in the far south, there lived a man who always wanted more than he had... wanted to be more than he was. His name has been erased from the records, but the wise people who know this story call this man "The Insatiable One." He was born into a family of servants of a nobleman. His parents trained him from an early age to take their place one day. They always told him, “Look how lucky you are! You could have been a slave on some plantation, but you are a servant in a rich man's house! Moreover, such a good man. He lets us eat the leftovers from his table and only beats us when he gets really angry. You will have a real paradise with him!” But this young man was not satisfied with the scraps from the master's table. He wanted to have everything his master had... And more. But he had no idea how to get it. Years passed, the Insatiable One's parents grew old, and he passed out of adolescence. He took his father's place and became the most trusted servant in the house. This gave him access to every nook and cranny of the large household. One day, while cleaning his master's bedroom, he came across a scroll hidden under his pillow. He immediately took it in his hands, unfolded it and began to look through it. He mastered the art of reading enough to understand the general meaning of the written words. And these were extremely significant words. The lord of the house conspired with another nobleman, an aristocrat from an ancient family, against the prince ruling the province! Insatiable One was shocked, but after a while the feeling turned into excitement. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for for so many years! He could finally rise above his miserable existence... Over the corpse of that wretched, fat pig he had to serve! The man rushed to the stable and, without asking, took the best horse and forced it to gallop towards the prince's residence. When he reached the fortress, his horse was barely breathing, and the animals's flanks were covered with thick sweat. But the rider had no intention of pitying the creature. He immediately jumped off his horse and ran towards the gates of the fortress. And there he was stopped by armed guards. The warriors had no intention of letting a stranger into the castle. They declared that if he had any important news for the prince, he should pass it on to them and they would see to it that it reached the ruler's ears. Then the Insatiable One fell into panic. He couldn't give the letter to the guards. After all, they could have taken part in the conspiracy themselves. But even if they were loyal to the prince, it didn't change much. When they warn the aristocrat about the threat, they will receive all the glory - and all the rewards - and the poor informer will be forgotten. He had been so close to exaltation... and now the opportunity might have slipped from his grasp. Therefore, the Insatiable One began to protest loudly and demand to see the prince. The guards had enough of this and were already starting to force the intruder away when the head of the castle's ruler leaned out of the window of one of the chambers. "If this man wants to talk to me so badly, let him," said the prince. Hearing such words, the guards had to bring the newcomer into the castle. And he, assisted by them, marched through the corridors of the fortress. Despite his excitement, he continued to observe his surroundings. He saw riches - works of art on the walls and expensive carpets on the floors. He passed the prince's servants, many of whom were more lavishly clothed than his own master. Of course, he immediately felt the desire to own it all… to rule it all. But that was the distant future. First, the Insatiable One had to secure a more modest ascension. He stood before the prince. He prostrated himself before the magnate and then handed him a letter informing him of the conspiracy. The aristocrat unfolded the scroll and began to read. At first he frowned. Then he started grinding his teeth. Finally, he rolled the scroll into a ball and threw it aside, while he angrily punched the wall. The Insatiable One feared that the prince's anger would turn on him, but the magnate did not intend to punish the messenger, but the real culprits. He immediately ordered the arrest of all the conspirators. The armed riders moved at every horse's speed to various corners of the principality and the machinations of the traitors were nipped in the bud. And the square in front of the castle was soon decorated with poles on which the participants of the conspiracy - including the former master of the Insatiable One - twisted in agony. The prince also showed his justice in another way. He gave the household where the Insatiable One was once a servant and the surrounding lands to the man who warned him of the danger. The informer now had a great fortune and a host of servants at his command. But that wasn't enough for him. He remembered the splendor of the prince's castle. He swore to himself that he would possess it. A plan began to form in his head. Well, the prince was slowly getting older, and he still had no male heir, only a daughter. The Insatiable one knew that whoever took her as his wife would become the heir to the princely title and the splendors associated with it. But the prince had no intention of marrying his only daughter to a former servant. When the Insatiable One gently suggested this possibility during the conversation, the magnate's face took on an expression almost as stern as when he read the fateful letter. “It is only out of gratitude that I forgive you this insult,” the aristocrat said through his teeth. The Insatiable One bowed and apologized for his impertinence, but he did not abandon the plan. He knew that there was a key that opened even the most closely guarded doors - including the one to the prince's daughter's alcove. And that key was gold. The Insatiable One devoted the next years to accumulating a fortune. He was looking for every possible business opportunity. He lent money at interest. He raised the tributes imposed on the villagers. He mercilessly exacted high fines for every, even the smallest, offense. But it must be admitted that he did not spare himself either. He tried to eat and dress as modestly as possible and not waste money on luxuries, which helped him increase his wealth faster. The knowledge of the growing mountain in the treasury gave the Insatiable One a certain pleasure. There were times when he would come just to look at its glow. But he still believed that it was just a means to an end. At the same time, he took some actions to make the prince need money. The Insatiable One devoted a small part of his fortune to arming bands of bandits who began to prowl the prince's domain, burning villages and attacking merchant caravans and tax collectors. The magnate was helpless. He could not trace the bandits' employer, because the cunning vassal contacted the thieves very rarely and only through intermediaries. The Insatiable One did not demand that the robbers give him part of the loot - it was enough for him that they ruined the prince. And the magnate's financial situation was getting worse and worse. Cut off from his sources of income, the prince began to look for help in loans. Of course, the Insatiable One came to his aid. He granted loans generously, at high interest, but with a long repayment period. The prince used the funds obtained to deploy more troops to patrol the province - and this drained his treasury even further and forced him to incur further debts.

Finally, it was time to pay off the debts. The Insatiable One presented his patron, and debtor, with numerous promissory notes. Once again he saw the prince angry - but the rage quickly gave way to embarrassment. The magnate was a strict, but also very honorable man. Refusal to fulfill the obligations was not an option. But he simply didn't have the funds to pay off his debts. Fortunately, the Insatiable One had a solution for that. “Your Highness, give me your daughter as my wife and make me your heir. In this way, debts will be written off. After all, as an heir, I will not collect debts from my own future inheritance.” The prince thought for a moment and then gave his answer. “I won't pretend that I like this solution. But I will not pretend that you are not once again a benefactor of my family. Perhaps the fact that you save it from falling again is a sign from the gods that they want you to become its continuator." Soon the wedding and reception took place. The Insatiable One paid little attention to his young wife's charms. For him, she was just another trophy - and a means to achieve greater honors. As a princely heir, the Insatiable One vigorously set about fighting the plague of brigandage. And he had an easier task. Without the support of their secret patron, the bandits began to lose strength. And this patron - the Insatiable One himself - knew a lot about his former charges. Thanks to this, he began to destroy their bands - one by one. Sometimes he even led armed men into battle. People in the kingdom began to admire him "He may have been born a servant, but he has the heart of a leader!" – they said. "The old prince couldn't deal with bandits, and this man cleansed the province in no time! This is proof that sometimes it is worth introducing some new blood into old families.” The Insatiable One couldn't wait to inherit the title and lands. That's why he bought herbs from a suspicious old woman with bright blue eyes as cold as ice, which were supposed to help his father-in-law move to the other world. And so it happened. A bit of powder added to the wine turned the Insatiable One into a new prince... Almost. There was still one formality left - paying official tribute to the king. The Insatiable One went with his retinue to the capital. He had never seen such a bustling city before. Even the largest stronghold in the princedom could be merely its suburbs. And the royal palace... Every doorknob was made of gold, and the contents of one chamber could buy half of the prince's residence. During the feast, the tables were full of dishes that the Insatiable One had never even heard of before. Like the king, who was bent under the weight of a golden crown and ornaments made of the same metal during the ceremony. Falling on his face before the monarch and then repeating the words of the oath on his knees, the Insatiable One swore to himself that one day he would take his place. The Insatiable One returned to his castle, and one thought occupied his mind - what to do to become king. He took an oath of allegiance... He didn't feel the need to keep it, and his conscience could easily cope with betrayal. But the remaining vassals would probably prove more loyal to the monarch. Instead of supporting the Insatiable One in the fight for the throne, they would side with the old king. Then the Insatiable One remembered the glances the king had cast towards his young, beautiful wife. The monarch himself was old, but his wife was even older. No wonder the ruler looked at younger women... For now, he held back his lust. This had to be changed. From then on, the Insatiable Prince tried to visit the royal court as often as he could. He always took his wife with him. The young princess was pleased with these visits. Her husband treated her harshly and provided no entertainment, so each visit to the palace was a pleasant change for her. Insatiable, he also tried his best to ensure that his wife and the king stayed just the two of them as often as possible. For example, when the royal couple were being shown around the palace garden, the Insatiable One asked the queen, known for her herbal passion, to step aside for a moment and give him advice on an embarrassing issue. The Insatiable One saw that his actions were bringing results. When too much time passed between one visit and the next, his wife began to ask when they would visit the capital. And when the visit took place, the prince noticed some furtive glances and sometimes even accidental touches between the princess and the king. As for the queen, age had dulled her senses a bit, so she didn't seem to notice anything. Until the romance finally matured. The king could no longer contain his desires, which his elderly wife could not satisfy. And the princess, neglected by her husband, fell under the monarch's charm. A pair of lovers were found in bed, The Insatiable One did everything to spread the news of this scandal throughout the kingdom. He had a good reason for this. According to ancient law, adultery between a ruler and a vassal's wife gave the vassal the right to terminate his allegiance to the monarch. The Insatiable One loudly expressed his indignation and portrayed the monarch's meanness in such terrible colors that soon the king began to be perceived in the kingdom as a disgusting lecher and a tyrant who could not respect the family ties of his subjects. The prince managed to gather several other nobles under his banner and together they started a rebellion. The king was completely surprised by this turn of events. He tried to negotiate to the last. The Insatiable One enticed him with messages and letters giving hope for peace, while he himself marched towards the capital at the head of the army. The rebel troops descended on the city like a hawk on its prey. The royal guard was unable to resist the advancing horde. The Insatiable One personally beheaded the king in the square in front of the palace, and then placed on his own temples the crown that the cut head once wore. Later, the man sat on the throne. The kingdom was his. But it still wasn't enough. As he looked at the map, he saw that his domain only occupied a small part of the known world. It bothered him. Over the next months, he gathered troops and recruited mercenaries. Blacksmiths across the country worked day and night forging weapons and armor. And finally the day of departure came. The Insatiable one declared war on the surrounding countries. For the next few years he led a major campaign. He clashed with enemy armies in the field, plundered villages and conquered cities. If the blood he spilled had not soaked into the ground, it would have probably flooded the world. His body became covered with scars acquired in various skirmishes. He collected a large collection of crowns and other insignia of power taken from defeated monarchs. When all the countries on the continent had been conquered, the Insatiable One returned to his capital and declared himself emperor. Celebrations in his honor and in honor of his victories continued throughout the week. It was seven days filled with feasts, balls, tournaments, performances by artists and magicians, and thanksgiving ceremonies. Wine, almost as red as blood, flowed in streams. At night, the light of torches was reflected from the piles of looted treasures, as large as mountains. The world has never seen such a lavish celebration before. For several weeks the Insatiable One rejoiced in his triumph. He was so happy that he even moved his unfaithful wife from the prison to a proper room as a mercy and honored her with his visits several times. But soon the familiar anxiety returned. The Insatiable One still wanted to have more than he had, he wanted to be more than he was. The servant became a rich man, the rich man became a prince, the prince became a king, and the king became emperor. What is left for the emperor? Just one thing. Become a god. The Emperor ordered all the most important priests from the various cults scattered throughout his new empire to be summoned before him and ordered them to proclaim him a god. Many clergy were outraged by this blasphemy. They shouted loudly, invoked the vengeance of the gods and cursed the proud ruler. The emperor ordered them to be taken away and beheaded. Others begged the Insatiable One to abandon his sinful desires and not bring condemnation upon himself. He only ordered these to be flogged. But one of the priests, a follower of a little-known deity from the northern reaches of the empire, an old man dressed in a green robe, really surprised the ruler when he uttered these words: "You want to have more than you have and be more than you are. These are noble desires. They distinguish humans from animals. But you believe that you are entitled to everything, by virtue of your very existence - and therefore in the end you will have nothing." The emperor took so long to consider these words that the priest managed to leave the throne room before the ruler could have him arrested. Some of the flogged clergy came to their senses, others were ready to comply with the request immediately. And the Insatiable One replaced those who were beheaded with others, more obedient. Throughout the country, in all temples, prayers began to be offered - not for the emperor, but to the emperor. In every holy place, even the smallest chapel, there were monuments or at least statues of the ruler. The Insatiable One was pleased. He finally reached his peak. Even the fact that his son was born in the meantime did not give him as much pleasure as this apotheosis. But this joy did not last. Several months after the announcement of imperial divinity, the Insatiable One happened to fall asleep on his throne. A figure appeared to him in his dream - its outlines were hazy, but one thing stood out clearly - bright blue eyes with a look as cold as ice. The ruler heard a mocking voice: "Do you think you are a god? That's what they call you. But a name does not make an entity. Just like the decree. If you told people to call you a giant, would it make you grow taller? Or if you were called a bird, would you learn to fly? To become a god, you must live like a god.” The Insatiable One woke up and sprang from his throne, looking for the figure that spoke to him, but in his waking state he found none. But her words stuck in his mind. He wasn't a god at all. He had to accept that even his subjects, his alleged followers, bowing and praying, realized deep inside that their emperor was human. Very powerful, maybe even the most powerful in the world, but still human. Not a god. The emperor again called a meeting with the priests. He asked them a simple, specific question - how can a man become a god. This time, none of the clergy tried to criticize the imperial aspirations, but their replies were in no way helpful. Some talked about gods who had always existed and took part in the creation of the world. Others about gods who were born that way, as descendants of divine parents. Still others about people who became gods thanks to heroic deeds... but only after death, when they reached the afterlife. As you can easily guess, neither of these options was avalaible. So the emperor turned to less orthodox advisors. He asked village witches, secret sorcerers, heretical occultists and wandering charlatans. They were more willing to present practical ways to achieve divinity. One of the mystics taught the emperor a meditation technique that required the right way of breathing and maintaining the same body position for several hours. After some time, the Insatiable One was visited by beautiful visions of divine powers... unfortunately, they disappeared immediately after finishing the meditation. However, the back pain persisted for the next few days. In turn, a certain herbalist prepared potion for the ruler. After drinking it, the Insatiable One almost tested for himself the truth of the theory about people becoming gods after death. The emperor quickly came to the conclusion that this tactic did not make much sense, for a simple reason. If any of these sorcerers knew the true way to achieve godhood, they would have claimed it for themselves long ago. Knowledge about the true apotheosis had to be, by definition, secret and difficult to access. So the Insatiable One sent his servants around the empire, ordering them to obtain all kinds of books on theology, mysticism, occultism and magic. Messengers searched libraries, temples, and the ruins of fallen civilizations. They bought books, stole them, took them by force. They sent all of them to the capital. And the emperor sat over them and looked through them. But he didn't find a solution. The Insatiable One spent many years searching for divinity. But he also had to deal with other matters. One day he visited his son while he was being taught by one of the court sages. The emperor ordered that the student and teacher conduct their lesson as usual and pay no attention to him. He himself sat down to the side and, as was his custom, absorbed himself in meditation on the pursuit of divinity. However, he could still hear fragments of the lecture. Today the sage taught the prince about nature. At one point the boy asked, "Why do we kill and eat animals?" The sage replied, “Beings who are higher in the hierarchy of beings have the right to feed on those who are lower. Animals eat plants and humans eat animals." The Insatiable One unconsciously repeated the words in his mind, and then suddenly jumped to his feet, shouting "Finally!", much to the surprise of his son and his teacher. Higher beings ate lower ones. Animals ate plants, people ate animals... Therefore, one who ate people was someone higher than man. God. Not just in name, but in nature. The emperor immediately issued new orders. From then on, criminals sentenced to death were to be sent to the palace kitchen instead of the scaffold. These orders caused outrage among the subjects. Some even rebelled against the cannibal ruler, whom they viewed as a monster. Funny thing - you kill a person and others are willing to accept it. But if you eat it, it is an unforgivable crime for them, although eating it will not harm the deceased. Some of the subjects even dared to take up arms. With force, he suppressed these riots, and the rebels joined the convicts who were sent to the spit or to the cauldron. Insatiable one ate portions of human flesh and drank blood every day. For several days he was unsure whether this would truly make him a god, but one morning he woke up filled with certainty that he was on the right track. He didn't know what exactly he dreamed, all he remembered was two blue eyes, cold as ice, shining in the darkness. However, the emperor was sure - he had become a god. By absorbing the bodies of ordinary people, he unquestionably proved that he was a higher being than them. Soon, disturbing news reached the emperor's ears. Other inhabitants of the Empire followed in his footsteps. Hypocrites, and first of all they themselves were outraged at his new menu! Rich people bought the bodies of dead poor people from their families. The poor people attacked their neighbors to devour them. Everyone hoped for divinity. The Insatiable One flew into a rage. If everyone starts eating the divine diet, it will no longer be special. He will no longer be special. He will cease to be a god. If everyone is god, no one is god! The Insatiable One introduced harsh penalties for cannibals. But this did not stop the new fashion. Of course, it also reached the royal palace. When the emperor heard that one of his stewards was secretly eating human flesh, he decided to punish him as an example. He summoned all the courtiers to the throne room and ordered the guards to bring the chained steward before him. “You dared to take what belongs only to me as a god!” – thundered the Insatiable One. The steward began to beg for mercy, and when the pleas did not calm the emperor's anger, he decided to hand over the other cannibals, pointing to the secretary and the equerry. These two immediately began informing on other courtiers to save their skin. And they released others. And so, with each passing moment, the circle of the accused was expanding. At one point, to his horror, the emperor realized that all his courtiers were man-eaters. Officials and priests, ladies-in-waiting and soldiers. Everyone, from the lowest slave to the highest-ranking ministers. The insatiable one didn't know what to do. He couldn't punish them all, and who would obey this order anyway? The men-at-arms were themselves the culprits. What's worse, at some point the courtiers themselves realized the situation. Each of them realized that the rest secretly shared his new culinary preferences. There was silence, and all eyes went towards the emperor sitting on the throne. Despite the shackles, the steward raised his hand and pointed at the ruler, saying: "If animals eat plants, people eat animals, and god eats people... What will we become when we eat god?" A month has passed. The provincial governors began to worry that there had been no news from the capital for many days. They sent their soldiers to check what was happening in the imperial city. When the armed men entered the metropolis, a terrible sight met their eyes. Piles of gnawed human bones. Skeletons of gods.

Source: https://www.reddit.com/r/WanderingInn/comments/hy1r3v/spoiled_readers/

(Here You can listen to audio version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCdlph835qc )

Today I’m going to tell you about a necromancer… Not just any necromancer, but the Necromancer… The one who was the first to make a pact with Death, who was the first to learn its dark secrets, who coined the creed of the ancient brotherhood of graveyard sorcerers….

But let’s start at the beginning. Centuries ago… No, more than centuries, thousands of years ago. It’s hard to say how long ago, because there are no chronicles so old as to date back to that time… In some country in the East; the name of that land, the name of the people who inhabited it, the language that people spoke, the names of the cities they inhabited. All this is lost in the darkness of oblivion….So, as I say, thousands of years ago, in some country in the East, there lived a man. An ordinary craftsman. He made pots out of clay. He couldn’t be called rich, but he certainly wasn’t poor. Well, he earned enough to provide a decent living for himself, his wife and two sons. And he could even afford small pleasures from time to time, such as a jug of wine for dinner or a small trinket for his beloved….

But, although his wife was beautiful and diligent, and his sons were healthy and diligent too, this man was deeply unhappy. What was the reason for this?… His profession.

First of all, when a man sits at the potter’s wheel performing monotonous and familiar motions by heart, he often does so in passing, while his mind is sunk in contemplation. Secondly, the potter’s life and work provided him with plenty of material for musings that were not very cheerful.

But before I go any further, you should know something : the people among whom the man lived have always been afraid of wraiths( the cursed corpses that walk the earth to harass the living). Ironically, the people feared the undead at a time when there was still no necromancer who could summon them from beyond the grave…. Therefore, they did not bury the corpse as we do today. Each body went to a pyre made of dry wood, which the priests set on fire. The pyre burned until all that was left of the deceased was ash, at which time the assembled family praised the merits of the deceased and raised a lament. The conflagration ritual was meant to ensure that the dead would not take revenge on the living, and the annihilation of the body was meant to prevent them from doing so, should the rite itself not be enough. When the fire was extinguished, the priests would collect the ashes and pour them into a clay urn, which was then buried in the ground.

We should remember that the future Necromancer was engaged in the processing of clay. But, as you already know, his creations were not only used to store wine, beer, water or milk… They were also a resting place for the dead members of his community. So, the Necromancer was not only a simple potter, but also a bit of a mortician. Every time someone died, the family of the unfortunate person would come to the potter’s workshop to order a new vessel in which the ashes would be placed. Therefore, the craftsman was aware of every death occurring in the area.

At first, this man felt a certain pride in the important role he played in society. After all, he ensured the souls of the dead a peaceful rest, and guarded the boundary between the world of the living and the hereafter… He had a stake in this as much as the priests .After all, they knew what prayers to say during a funeral, but they themselves could not create urns that were at least as important as the prayers they offered.

It was not uncommon for a potter to go to a funeral to watch what was left of the deceased’s mortal shell go into an urn. A person’s body, his entire earthly life, was finally housed in the vessel that his hands had made….Yes, at first this reflection was a cause of pride for the craftsman. He was young and foolish at the time. But over time, the thought that everyone, sooner or later, would become just a pile of ashes enclosed in an urn buried in the ground, became a cause of anxiety and bitterness for him.

Everyone was dying. Everyone. There was no turning back. This thought did not leave the future Necromancer day and night. As he caressed his wife’s hair and skin, he couldn’t relish it – he kept thinking about how her beauty would one day begin to fade as the inexorable old age arrived, until it would disappear completely when the inevitable death came. Looking at his sons, full of joy of life and strength, he couldn’t be proud of them ; all the time thinking about the fact that their youth was merely a postponement of judgment. While molding another urn, he couldn’t rejoice in his future earnings. He kept thinking about the fact that one day someone would pour his and his loved ones’ ashes into such a vessel. When he went to bed, he thought about how sleep was similar to death. When he woke up in the morning, he thought about how pointless it was to get out of bed ;after all, everything he had done was just a plaything in the face of what had to come. He might as well lie there and wait to die.

And so the thought of death flavored every moment of the potter’s life with bitterness. He raised prayers to the Gods to send him solace, but the Gods remained silent. Besides, what was the point of praying? Although the powers were said to have meddled in human affairs and lives, had anyone heard of the Gods saving anyone from the inevitable fate of all beings: death? No. As everybody could see, even they were powerless against it. Or did they not exist at all? After all, he didn’t see them with his own eyes.

But… Even if the Gods did not exist, there was another force ruling the universe. Impetuous, all-powerful… It could not be doubted because every day it showed its power. The only certainty in all the chaos was death itself.

And so the Necromancer stopped praying to the Gods and started making supplications to Death. And this time, he was heard.

What really happened then? The modern necromancers tell it differently. Some say: “Yes, there is such a thing as the God of Death, the Terrible One, an all-powerful being from whose hand no one escapes. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of matter, hidden deep in the inaccessible, primordial layers of eternal Chaos. It rests and observes the world and mortals, its subjects… And sometimes, when its gaze rests on a promising being, its makes him its prophet… Who will comprehend its intentions?” Others shake their heads, answering: “No, Death is not a deity. It is something more. It is the fundamental power in the Universe, It is the basic nature of everything that exists, it is the force that drives the spokes of the Great Wheel… One can try to oppose it, but what is the point? It won’t accomplish anything. Nor is it possible to win its favor. But… Just as a ship going with the tide, positions itself so that the wind blows in its sails, plows the waves unhindered so you can follow this great power that is Death… And then its strength will become your strength, and the currents of life lost by others will flow directly into your soul.”

Anyway, great changes have taken place in the Necromancer’s life. At first he didn’t notice them, until one day he accidentally grasped which way was the way to realize his dreams. His wife asked him to buy a goat so that their family would have fresh milk every day. The necromancer went to a nearby farm, where he exchanged freshly fired pots for the animal. He led the goat towards his house. At one point, the creature stopped. Tugging on the halter didn’t help, shouting didn’t help, the goat didn’t even think to move. It just stood there and barfed. Seeing that his attempts were to no avail, full of anger the Necromancer sat down on a nearby stone.

“Damned cattle!” – He growled at the disobedient goat. “Life is so short, and because of you I’m wasting a chunk of it on a stupid jerk!” – he muttered, unloading all his grief to the world on the animal. What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Maybe you could somehow make up for my lost time, LOST LIFE!” .He yelled, extending his hand toward the goat. Unexpectedly, the animal, which until then had remained insensitive to reproach, made a despairing moan, much louder than before, and took a few steps back.

At the same time, the Necromancer felt… strength. The fatigue disappeared. He felt crisp, as if he had just gotten out of bed. This feeling was so sudden that it seemed suspicious to the man. And his suspicions were going in a certain direction….

“Well, calm down now, come here, I won’t hurt you…” – he tried to make his voice sound soothing and reassuring as he approached the terrified goat. Finally, he ran his fingers into its fur.

“Well, give me some of your life, little goat…” – he muttered. He tried to imagine the force flowing from the animal’s body to his own. And indeed, the longer he did this, the better he felt. The energy was buoying him up. To say he felt rested is an understatement… Now he felt like he had lost years! Yes, he knew that wasn’t quite the case… He wasn’t getting any younger… But maybe… Maybe if he tried harder… He would make it! At that moment he realized that the poor goat was barely standing on its feet, trembling and moaning quietly. He pulled his hands away from her. After all, he did not want to put the animal to death. “ Don’t be afraid, little goat… Just in addition to milk, you will also give me something much more valuable”. – he said. This time there was sympathy in his voice – after all, this animal gave him hope to overcome his fears.

From then on, the Necromancer regularly fed on the goat’s life force, trying to draw enough to keep her from dying. Besides, she was not his only “feeder”. The potter became a regular at cattle markets. He could be spotted going from one animal to the next, occasionally patting down a particularly mature piece to check its fat and muscle. Curiously, he never bought any. One day the Necromancer thought: Since I can receive, maybe I can also give?. He began to conduct tests. He kept some of the strength he took from the animals for himself, and sent some to his wife and children. It worked.

Good days have come for the potter. Yes, he had not yet found a way to avoid death, but he finally gained hope that it was possible! All he had to do was fill his body with the life force he had taken from time to time. What’s more, he could also feed his loved ones with it!

The potter rejoiced that his wife was always full of strength and rest, that she was endowed with new life and became even more beautiful, full of energy and joy. He rejoiced that his sons were becoming healthier and stronger than all the other young men, that they were leading among their peers. He rejoiced when he worked and his hands did not get tired. He rejoiced when he went to bed, knowing that he would wake up crisp and rested. He rejoiced when he got up, knowing that with his new powers he would be able to do so much today.

He hoped it would always be like this.

He knew perfectly well to whom the thanks for these changes were due. Oh, yes, he still pretended to worship the gods to avoid condemnation from his countrymen. But for the silent, powerless deities, he had only voiceless lip movements, while during each prayer, deep in his heart, he sang grateful hymns in honor of Death, who deigned to move her punishing hand away from him.

The day came when his new faith was put to the test. He sat in his workshop, quietly preparing the next batch of pots to be fired. He whistled while working – why wouldn’t he? Everything was going perfectly. Suddenly he heard some shouting. He went out in front of the house to see what was going on. Imagine his horror when he saw his son being carried in his friend’s arms. The rag tied around his head was soaked with blood. Climbing onto nearby rocks, he had fallen and hit his temple.

The friends carried the unconscious young man to the home of the potter’s family and laid him on a bed. The priest came, but all he was able to do was wave his incense stick over the boy and recite a few formulas. An old healer came, but all she was able to do was soak the bandage in an infusion of herbs , because the wounded young man wouldn’t be able to swallow it. The unconscious man’s mother and brother kept vigil at his bedside, but all they were able to do was cry and lament.

At the time, the potter was looking for a way to REALLY help his child. He could sense the life force leaving his body like blood oozing from a wound. He tried to replenish the cavities with his own, but to no avail . It was like trying to fill a leaking bucket with water poured through a tiny colander.

The man was overwhelmed by despair. What good was it if he was not able to protect himself and his family from old age and loss of strength, if they could still die from a simple mishap? Liberation from the fear of death was only a naive dream…

Suddenly the potter realized that he had to give his son enough strength in one fell swoop to get his body to heal before he lost it again. At the same time, the Necromancer felt that he was unable to do so. He had already given away too much, if he tried to give the rest to the child now, he would die himself, and he would not help the wounded. He needed more strength… With all his speed, he ran in front of the house, where a goat stood tied to a post. He hooked his fingers into its fur like a hawk sinking its talons into the flesh of its prey, and began to scoop. And he didn’t stop even when the animal fell dead, he kept scooping until he squeezed out the last “drops” of energy, so that the goat’s corpse became a shriveled, decaying corpse into dust. Then he returned home.

It was already night. His wife and second son, tired of watching over the wounded man, were drowsy. The potter leaned over the unconscious man, then gently touched his head right next to the wound. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began to give his son his gathered strength. After a while, it began to have an effect. Of course, the potter was not a trained doctor, he did not know the principles of the human body, but thanks to his power over life energy, he sensed instinctively what was happening. The body, which had received such a great boost, was beginning to fight back with redoubled strength. He could feel his son’s body starting to produce new blood to replenish losses, he could feel the wound on his head starting to heal slowly and the bones to knit together. It wasn’t an immediate process, but it was a step in the right direction. When the potter took his hand off the child’s head, he knew the child would survive.

He went outside to bury the goat carcass. The sight of it might have aroused someone’s suspicion. The potter had no remorse. Since animals were killed to eat their meat, wasn’t it all the more justifiable to sacrifice the life of a cattle to save his own son?

Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed with magic. He didn’t attach any importance to it, especially in view of the joy the whole family felt the next morning when the wounded man opened his eyes and, in a weak voice, asked what had happened… But, looking back on what would happen later, it was the first step into darkness.

More days passed, and the potter was even happier than before. Because now he knew that he could protect his family from any threat. As long as he could find the right source of power…

Of course, this is not the end of the story. A plague swept into the land. People were languishing by the dozens. There were so many corpses that not even a dignified burial was cared for according to ritual – bodies were thrown on a pile to burn together, and then the ashes were poured into a mass grave. Dying people lay in the streets, covered with hideous boils. Their relatives threw them out of their homes, hoping that in this way they would protect themselves from infection. Priests circulated among the houses, singing hymns and brandishing their incense sticks. The saying “It helped like incense to the dead” fits here perfectly.

Of course, while Death was reaping such a bountiful harvest, its chosen one avoided a terrible fate. But not without cost. Day after day, without fail, the potter had to pump energy into his body and the bodies of his loved ones, so that they would have the strength to fend off the disease’s attacks at any moment. Sucking the life out of animals was not enough… He had to get a new and better source of power. Fortunately, the streets were full of it….Potter became a true angel of mercy. He walked from one sick person lying on the cobblestones to another, leaning over each of them. To each he whispered a good word, to each he stroked his head… Each of them died quickly and painlessly. As you can probably guess, the Necromancer helped each of them to transfer to the after-world.

The potter had no remorse. These people were dying anyway. Their life force would evaporate on its own if he didn’t suck it out. He didn’t let it go to waste. What does it mean to shorten the life of a dying person by a few hours in exchange for the opportunity to ensure a long and healthy life for his own family? In addition, he was shortening their suffering. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Nevertheless, the necromancer had crossed a line. He started killing people with magic. And while he only sacrificed the lives of those who had to die to save those who had a chance, from a later perspective it was another step into darkness.

News spread among his countrymen about a man who walks among the sick and dying, bringing them solace at the moment of death, while the plague itself did not touch him. Some began to murmur something about , “chosen by the Gods”. The potter paid no attention to this. He had other things on his mind.

Although he was drawing power to the right and left, he realized that he couldn’t last long like this. He was not able to continually strengthen all the members of his family, day in and day out to remove from each of them the threat of developing the disease. He realized that if he continued to do this, he himself would fall from his strength, succumb to the disease… And then who would save his family? He couldn’t try to save everyone .If he wanted to save anyone, he had to decide who to sacrifice.

His choice was his younger son. He was weaker than his brother. And… he loved him less. No, not that he didn’t care about him at all. With a heavy heart he destined him to die. But someone had to.

He simply stopped giving him life force. Within a few days, the younger of his children developed the first patches of skin. Soon the son was only able to recoil in pain and moan. The potter’s heart sliced in his chest as he watched this… But he knew it was necessary.

The moment came when the Necromancer’s wife and his older son left the house to get something to eat. He himself was to stay with the sick man to tend to him. He sat right next to his bed, ready to give him water or serve him in some other way if necessary. Admittedly, this was not necessary… The dying man fell into a restless sleep, probably haunted by delirium because he quietly moaned. The potter sat down right next to him. Looking at his son’s face, covered with signs of illness, he began to feel remorse again. Perhaps he had too hastily sentenced him to death? Perhaps he would be able to keep his entire family alive after all?

While he was pondering like this, suddenly his descendant opened his eyes and looked at his father. He also parted his chapped lips and whispered in a voice full of suffering and despair , “Help me, father!”.

And his father helped him as much as he could. It was too late to change his plans, to try to cure his son, the disease had wreaked too much havoc in his body. The only thing he could do was to shorten his suffering….

The necromancer began to suck the life out of his descendant. The young man was so weak that after just a moment he lost consciousness and did not regain it until his death.

A few days later, the plague ended. Although so many of the land’s inhabitants died a horrible death, those who survived managed to rise from the calamity.

People remembered how the potter tended to the sick in the streets, while he himself did not succumb to illness. It’s true that he didn’t cure any of the poor, but still many people thought he was a man , “touched by the Gods”. Some people were hinting that he was touched by demons rather than the Gods… He offered his son to the evil spirits in exchange for his own life, they said. Suddenly it appeared that the potter was on everyone’s tongues. Unfortunately, his opponents were becoming more numerous… and louder. Much louder than those who thought he had been favored by the Gods. Well, whenever a severe calamity befalls a community, people are eager to find a scapegoat….The potter realized that he had to do something about it if he didn’t want to wait for the day when the hysteria would become so strong that someone would set fire to his house at night… He chose a few provocateurs, and then began to “work” on them… He systematically sucked the life force out of them so that they became apathetic and lethargic… They lost the will to incite the crowd against him. Except for one of them, a local butcher. Full of envy, the man kept spreading rumors about the potter. The necromancer realized that he had to silence him for good. At the time, he had already learned to suck the life from a distance. One day, as the butcher was strolling at noon between the stalls set up in the marketplace, he suddenly fell to the ground. When others ran up to see what had happened, they found that the man was dead. No one was surprised. The old fat man was not enjoying the best of health, and it was a sultry and sunny day… Such things happen. When the butcher died, the potter’s opponents, deprived of the provost, quieted down. The atmosphere definitely improved. The necromancer didn’t think he had done anything wrong. The victim was a fool and envious… What’s worse, his stupidity and envy posed a danger. The world became a better place after the death of the butcher.

Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed a person who was not doomed to die, whom he himself had chosen as a victim. And although the potter was convinced that he had killed an individual who was unnecessary or even harmful, from a later perspective, this was his final step into darkness…

From then on, he happened to kill those who stood in his way – a drunkard who harassed his wife, a stingy rich man who wasn’t going to pay him for a new vase, a haughty warrior who looked at him with contempt… a man who wanted to set up a rival pottery workshop.

At the same time, he increased his knowledge and power. When he realized the weapon he had got his hands on, he longed to strengthen it even more. He greedily absorbed any crumbs of knowledge he was able to acquire.

He visited the old quack healer in her hut, bringing wine. As the old woman sipped to herself, grateful for the gift and overjoyed with the liquor, she spun him tales about good and evil spirits and how to win their favor.

He long had some contacts with the priestly caste, thanks to his work as a funeral urn provider. He found some clergyman, a wise, though vain man. He pretended to be a simpleton before him, stunned that he could interact with such a great sage and curious about his knowledge (the latter was not pretended). So the priest, in a condescending voice, introduced him to the secrets of his art He told him how to know when the stars are in the right position and the veil between the worlds becomes thin. He talked about the gods and the hereafter. He taught the basics of writing. Doubtless he was convinced that the potter would understand nothing of this, just let the humble commoner have the pleasure of listening to the sage’s tales… And let him feel awe of his wisdom.

One day a man who called himself a wandering fortune teller and enchanter came to the settlement. For a few days he drove out evil spirits, sold amulets and divination from his hand. Then he moved on with his journey. The potter waited for him in a nearby ravine. He went out to meet the enchanter. He proposed to him that they seek knowledge and power together. The magician laughed at the crazy villager who stood in his way. What was the Necromancer to do? He sucked the life out of the enchanter to the core. I guess the wanderer was not a real magician, otherwise he would have been able to defend himself. But even if the dead man turned out to be a charlatan, meeting him helped Necromancer expand his knowledge. In the corpse’s bag he found several scrolls about magic. Most of it was occult gibberish, full of bizarre metaphors and symbols intended to bewilder the reader… But between the lines he could read something useful.

So the potter collected scraps of secret knowledge. And then he tried to put them together into some kind of whole… and put them into practice. He meditated on the secrets he had learned, drinking decoctions of the herbs indicated by the quack, reciting in half-voice the formulas handed down by the priest, gazing at the symbols scrawled on the scrolls of the enchanter. He did this for so long that he fell into a strange half-sleep, during which his senses opened up to hitherto unknown phenomena… In his ears… Not in his ears, directly in his mind… resounded the whispers of strange, inhuman voices that promised him power and might beyond all comprehension…. In the background, he could hear eerie music – he could feel it at the limit of audibility, its source seemed more distant than the farthest stars, but at the same time he felt every slightest tone with his whole being… Full of dissonances and chaos, but mesmerizing and gripping his soul….

Sometimes, at night, the potter would sneak out to the cemetery, where thousands of urns – many of them created by his hand – were buried underground. He would draw ancient symbols on the cemetery ground and intone a song of invocation. And then he would fall into a trance. When he began to hear the music, he would move into a dance, spinning pirouettes on the graves of the dead… And then he had the impression that out of the corner of his eye, in the midst of the darkness, he could see the indistinct shapes of beings dancing along with him… The outlines of wings, claws…. Ghastly maws opened in bloodthirsty smiles – so terrible that he felt that if he looked at them for too long, his heart would stop with fear… And beautiful faces with features so wonderful that he felt if he looked directly at them, his heart would burst with happiness.

The man had come a long way. He was no longer the same man he once was – a simple, if somewhat bitter and over-thinking craftsman. He had become haughty and cynical. He used his powers to subjugate others. Some people still remembered what he did during the plague. Some still thought he was the chosen one of the gods (the opponents quieted down with the death of the butcher). One day, one of the neighbors came to the potter asking him to try to help him heal his sprained wrist. I don’t think he himself believed that the artisan would grant his request… Just in case, he asked him, because he was anxious to be able to return to work and was grasping at anything. The potter touched his neighbor’s injured hand… And the next day it was as good as new!

And so the Necromancer gained his first follower. The healed man told his friends about the miracle, and they soon went to the potter, asking him to help them with their problems. And the potter helped. The people of the settlement began to treat him with great respect. Even before, as a person who had a part in the funeral ritual, he was treated as someone connected with the spiritual world… But now, in the eyes of his countrymen, he had grown to be a sorcerer, a miracle worker, a mystic.

Anyway, he was no longer sticking pots. In his workshop he hired several “followers”. They did all the work. He only engraved on the prepared vessels the secret symbols he saw in the spell books, looted from the slain spell caster. This still added to his majesty and mystery.

He tried not to arouse suspicion among the priests. And he succeeded. They treated him with great leniency. In those days there was nothing strange, if for example the father of a family or the leader of a community performed religious rites by himself. They were many ecstatic mystics and self-proclaimed prophets roaming the world. The clergy didn’t fight it – as long as someone didn’t exhort people to stop offering sacrifices at their temples and paying tithes to support them.

Potter only revealed scraps of his knowledge to a handful of his most faithful and trusted followers. He dosed it carefully, at first throwing only enigmatic and insignificant remarks to gauge their reactions and views… And when he saw that they were ready to accept his teachings, he initiated them into them. He told them about the powerful force that is Death. He said that it is a force that benefits those who deserve it – after all, it is Death that eliminates the weak to make room for those who are worth something. Sometimes he surprised himself at how smoothly he came to formulate thesis like that.

Yes, indeed, he went the second way… He evolved.

At the same time, using the craft of reading and writing, the basics of which he learned from a vain priest, and which he developed by poring over scrolls taken from a spell caster, he began to write down his knowledge. And so were the first beginnings of a great work that countless generations of necromancers, witches and warlocks later developed. And finally they became the book that today some call the Necronomicon… The Dead Law… The Lark of Demons…

And others are afraid to talk about it at all.

What’s worth mentioning is that the Necromancer was careful not to involve his family in these dark affairs. His wife and son knew that the father of the family was gathering acolytes, and suspected that he was initiating them into some strange practices – but they didn’t know the details. Paradoxically, while the Necromancer had no doubt that he was following the right path, he was also aware that he was touching the dark Void that lies beyond the material world and interacting with the incomprehensible and dangerous beings that inhabit it. He did not want his loved ones to come into contact with these entities or even know about them. It was enough for him to get his hands dirty… and his soul. They were to remain clean. After all, he was doing all this for them.

Well, mostly for them.

The day came when the Necromancer decided that several of his disciples were ready to take part in the cemetery rites with him. He announced to them that they were to report to the funeral field after dark. Everyone he invited showed up . With excited voices, they asked their “master” what he had also planned for tonight. He answered them that they would see for themselves. He sat down in a crouch and then began to meditate. The students stood around him, not understanding what he was doing. The necromancer was already beginning to hear unearthly music. With a mechanical movement, he pulled out a simple pipe from behind his gown, and began to play. He was not a gifted musician, and the sounds he produced from the instrument were only a pale reflection of those that resounded in his mind… But it was enough to put the assembled people into a trance. After a while, the students circled around their teacher in a somewhat awkward but ecstatic dance. What’s more, the Necromancer sensed that his friends from the Other Side were joining them… And he even saw the first signs of their presence. Perhaps his acolytes were unable to notice the strange shapes drawing in the gloom right next to them… Or perhaps they were so mesmerized in the dance that they didn’t mind.

It turned out that a ritual performed in a group works even more magnificently than one performed alone. Perhaps the Necromancer drew strength from the bond with his acolytes… Or perhaps the spirits rewarded him graciously for gaining new followers?

In any case, the mage felt wonderful. A sense of power filled him, and his senses expanded to incredible limits. He could hear every breath, every heartbeat of the students whirling around him. And not just theirs. In some way incomprehensible to himself, he perceived every living thing in the vicinity… He was aware of the field mouse trembling with fear in its burrow, sensing with animal instinct that something was happening right next to its lair that should not be happening. He noticed how the moths and mosquitoes crisscrossing the air around him lost their flight paths, stunned by the intensity of the power.

In addition, he perceived clearly the life force of each of these creatures. Luminous auras surrounding and permeating the bodies of his pupils… Smaller dots symbolizing minor creatures… He felt he could draw from these sources at will. At the same time, he reached for the life of all the animals and insects in the area and absorbed them, like a drunkard tilting his pint in one gulp. After a while, the only living creatures in the area were himself and his disciples (though it was difficult, he refrained from sucking out their energy… they were too useful to be sacrificed so foolishly).

Oh, yes. There were still ghosts, but they probably could not be called living creatures…

Necromancer’s perception continued to expand and take on new aspects… Now he could enjoy the full sound of the afterworld symphony. Each of its tones vibrated all the members of his body. He recognized the individual sounds and saw with the eyes of his soul where they came from. Somewhere across the sea in the middle of the bush, a shaman painted with the blood of his enemies was beating his drums steadily. Somewhere out there on the plain, a trumpeter intoned the signal for the soldiers to march – the Necromancer felt that none of them would survive this battle. Somewhere out there in another world, a crazed violinist with an inspired face and madness in his eyes played his instrument, using his own veins as strings. Somewhere in Hell, the damned wailed and the demons retched – the voices of one and the other were equally filled with suffering. Somewhere out there, in the Void between worlds, lightning bolts of power crackled during astral storms.

Perhaps the Necromancer would have completely lost his soul and mind in contemplation of the amazing phenomena that had been revealed to him, had it not been for the fact that something suddenly disturbed his trance and snapped him out of his ecstasy. He instantly narrowed his perception to the immediate area. Yes, that was right… Near the cemetery, he sensed two new clusters of human life force that did not belong to his followers… Two profanes were hiding in the bushes, watching the ceremony! They couldn’t be allowed to tell the people of the settlement everything!

The necromancer stretched his hand toward the bushes and shouted the words of command. Surprisingly, the demons obeyed his words and rushed in the indicated direction. The bushes obstructed the view, but the shrieks coming from behind them proved that the spirits had caught up with the voyeurs. The voice of one of them seemed familiar to the Necromancer… very familiar! He felt his heart go up to his throat. He immediately ordered the demons to leave the two profane men alone. The spirits refused to obey, excited by the pain and fear of their victims, but by the force of his will, he forced them to go away, back to the Void and the infernal worlds that float in it.

One of the peepers certainly survived. Out of the corner of his eye, the necromancer noticed a figure fleeing toward the settlement, but he didn’t care. Just like the fact that his followers, stunned by the sudden snapping out of trance and terrified by the sudden awareness of what they were participating in, scattered around the area. The mage paid no heed to this, all that mattered was to find the dying man in the bushes as quickly as possible. When the Necromancer reached him, his worst guesses came true.

The son of the former potter lay in a pool of his own blood. Probably he and one of his friends had slipped away to suspect what his father was also doing nights after nights. The companion slipped away, but the mage’s child was not so lucky. His body was marked with red welts from the claws of demons. His face had an expression of terrible pain and horror. The necromancer wanted to immediately attempt to heal his descendant, but it was too late. The young man released his last breath and the essence of his life began to evaporate.

The mage stood by his son’s body for some time. Eventually he shook off his despair – it was not so great that he himself wanted to follow in his child’s footsteps. Therefore, he had to return to the settlement as soon as possible and make efforts to avoid self-judgment from his countrymen. Probably a friend of his dead son had already managed to describe to them in detail the terrible rituals he had witnessed.

When the Necromancer returned to the town, he heard some voices coming from the main square and saw the light of a torch. It seemed that the residents were already awake… Probably the whole settlement already knew about his dark arts, and now people were conferring about what to do with the mage. There was no point in trying to talk to them, it was necessary to run away. The necromancer wrapped himself in a cloak of darkness and sneaked through the streets to his home. There he found his wife – she had woken up, and was now listening worriedly to shouts from afar. He was lucky that she wasn’t talking to anyone – he could give her his version of events. Of course, for her sake, he didn’t want to multiply her pain. He lied to her, saying that his enemies had incited the population against him. Their son had died at the hands of the rampaging mob, and any minute now the haters would approach the house with torches. The woman began to weep and lament the fate of their last child, but the Necromancer managed to reason with her enough for her to understand that they must flee. The wife wanted to pack at least the most necessary things, but at that moment angry voices of people walking towards their home could be heard outside. They had to leave immediately. The mage shielded himself and the woman with darkness so that no one could see them as they fled the city.

They ran, without looking back. Finally, already in the morning, the woman stood up, panting heavily. She asked for a moment’s rest; she was no longer able to stand on her feet. The necromancer agreed – firstly because he still loved his wife despite everything, and secondly because he realized that he himself was also already falling from fatigue.

They squatted on some stone. The man began to look around. He realized that in fleeing, they had left the inhabited and reasonably fertile areas around the settlement and were now in the middle of nowhere… He did not know where exactly. What he did know was that they were in the desert, without water or food, exhausted after a night’s run, and soon the sun would rise high and begin to roast, which would only make things worse. They had to find some shelter and a watering hole… But they were unable to.

The necromancer looked at his wife. She was half-lying with her eyes closed, probably asleep exhausted from the night’s experiences. The mage hesitated for a moment, but decided he had no choice. He had to take some of his wife’s life force so that he himself would be able to go in search of shelter and water, and then return for the woman and lead her there to regain her strength. Otherwise, they would both die.

He began to draw. Slowly and gently, so as not to wake his wife and so as not to hurt her. He felt the fatigue disappear, but said to himself: , Just a little more, just a little more… Nothing will happen, and I need to make sure I have enough strength for the search. He drew until finally his wife was left with only a sliver of strength, a tight core that kept her alive… With the eyes of his soul, the necromancer saw it as a heart-like pulsating weave of energy… He couldn’t help himself, he wasn’t able to. He also devoured this last reserve, drained his wife’s strength to the bone. The pulsing stopped – both of the energy and of the true heart – and the woman slumped to the ground.

When the Necromancer realized what he had done, he fell into despair. He realized that he had just killed the last person he loved – and who loved him. He also realized the cruel irony of fate. Here he had surrendered himself to Death in order to protect his loved ones from her… and as a result, all his loved ones had died at his own hands!

But…

Perhaps not all was lost?

After all, he could not only take power away from people, he could also give it to them. It worked both ways. Therefore… Since he could kill… he could also resurrect!

He immediately began to give energy to his wife. To his joy – it worked! The woman opened her eyes. She even began to move. But… although he could sense the donated forces in her body, he could not sense this pulsation of energy… He could not sense life… And her open eyes looked blank and mindless.

He may have been able to restore his deceased wife’s vital energy… But that something ephemeral we call , “soul” or “mind” had gone irretrievably. His beloved was merely a mindless puppet. She was not alive. She was at best … un-dead.

The mage stood up and started walking with a quick step, to get away from the filth he had turned his wife into. He heard footsteps. He turned around. The woman was following him, with a slow, clumsy step, looking dully ahead.

“Go away! Leave me!” – he yelled. The undead woman made a slow backward turn and then began to walk away from him. She stumbled on a stone, almost toppling over, but continued her march, faithfully following the orders of her … husband? Master? The creator?

“You are responsible for what you created,” flashed through the Necromancer’s mind.

“Come back.” – he said. The woman turned toward him. He walked out to meet her. When he stood in front of her, he put his hands on her shoulders. They stood like that for a while. Finally, the Necromancer burst out laughing. He retched hysterically, as if he wanted to spit out his own lungs, retching in such a way that all the jackals went limp in their burrows in fear. His wife stood, calm with the serenity given by Death, and in her glassy eyes the man found approval for his plans.

“Come on, dear! Let’s go home!” – he shouted, and then in gusto pressed a kiss on the woman’s cold lips. Still laughing, he moved toward the settlement, and his undead companion faithfully followed him step by step.

What was so entertaining about the former potter?

Why did he become a Necromancer? Because the need to make funeral urns inspired him with unhappy thoughts, which led him to a pact with Death. And why did he have to make urns? Because his countrymen believed that cremating the dead would protect them from the living dead.

Well, it won’t be long before their worst fears take real shape. “Soon you will have company, dear! Many servants… And who knows, I may even be able to make our sons return… Admittedly, one of them has already overtaken a bit, but what is not done for love?” – exclaimed the Necromancer. And then, in a sudden flash, he uttered the words that were to become the credo of all necromancers, to the ends of time, until the world desiccates and returns to the Void from which it arose: ”Life grows out of death. Life feeds on death. Life toward death follows.”

I really liked the Black Magician trilogy. I'd love to read more books that have 'evil' magic as a major component of the plot, preferably with some kind of trope subversion.

Hi, I am on a driving trip and downloaded a recommended books, "Best Served Cold" and then the reviews say read the original trilogy first. After several hours of "The Blade Itself" there is no sense of a plot or where the characters are going, they are just meeting up.

I understand that this is a common criticism of his early works. Should I finish the Blade Itself or go on to the sequel standalone novel? I got a bit of the sense of the world.

Incidentally, I loved "Project Hail Mary" and started "Three Body Problem", but the pronunciation of the chinese names turned me off, so I'll read the book instead.

Will Wight's cradle series is one of my all time favorites. It got me to then binge read every other book the man has written.

The best part of this Kickstarter (IMO) is while reading his books the first time I just kept thinking how AMAZING the series would be as an animation and even talked with my friends about how we really wanted something like ATLA for this series.

But if I'm honest, if that show or movie was made by the normal folks who always seem to destroy my favorite pieces of literature when adapting them to film, I'd be sad. So I'm really glad that this is being done straight by the author.

This month I've been rereading Halo: Primordium. Good book but just as depressing as I remember. I've also started working my way through the OpenLDAP Admin manual trying to wrap my head around LDAP.

So what have you all been reading? What did you think of it?

Top-10 books I read in 2023 (links lead to goodreads). Ordered by date read.

1. The Weirkey Chronicles by Sarah Lin
2. The Captain by Will Wight
3. The Last Echo of the Lord of Bells by John Bierce
4. Scion of Storms by Samuel Hinton
5. Waybound by Will Wight
6. Mark of the Fool by J.M. Clarke
7. Harper Hall of Pern by Anne McCaffrey
8. Mother of Learning by Nobody103 (Domagoj Kurmaić)
9. Silvers by Brian J. Nordon
10. A Coup of Tea by Casey Blair

My reviews can be found in the article link.

Got my badge today for Dragonsteel 2023. I hope anyone else that is going has a great time as well. This is our first time attending any sort of convention so really not sure what to expect.

I hope this is allowed here, if not, feel free to remove my post, mods

My name is Richard Silva, I'm a young Brazilian writer(17) who just published their first book. Since I was a kid I wrote things, but for the first time, I made something I am going to share with the world. Currently, I'm finishing Brazilian integral high school, which in other words, wastes 9 hours of my day with mostly nothing. It's very stressful, and leaves me with not much appropriate time for actually writing quality content, so you might imagine how many reviews this book had to get before I felt like I was satisfied.

I would like to encourage you to read my book, and share your thoughts on it, of course, it's me first one, so constructive criticism is very welcomed. My desire is to be able to make a living out of my art, and when reading this book, you are helping me make this dream possible :)

And please, if you did enjoy it(even if it's a little bit), leave me a review on google play saying how much you like it, and why you like it. As for you, fellow Brazilians, a version in Portuguese is coming soon!

cross-posted from: https://lemm.ee/post/14974738

> > Anybody who uses the Internet should read E.M. Forster's The Machine Stops. It is a chilling, short story masterpiece about the role of technology in our lives. Written in 1909, it's as relevant today as the day it was published. Forster has several prescient notions including instant messages (email!) and cinematophoes (machines that project visual images). > > > > -Paul Rajlich > > Seen on this comment.

I stumbled upon this story ages ago and I can't remember the name of the website anymore. It was a collection of fantasy stories taking place in the same world written by two people. The story I started reading starts with a man waking up in a field with a dagger wrapped in silk laying on his chest. When he looks around he sees other people laying in the field as well with similar bundles on their chests. He gets up and walks to a nearby tree row. As he is looking in the trees someone else comes to tell him that the others are waking up too. As they start talking and forming small groups a wizard appeared and announced to everyone that "the trial" was beginning. A large tower had also appeared behind him. The people were then teleported into a dark room that was presumably inside the tower. The people started calling out to each other and fumbling around in the dark and that's where I stopped reading. I was really excited to read those stories because it seemed like there would be a lot of world building. I would very much appreciate any help finding the story or the website it was on.

Was just checking to see if anyone else is going to be attending Dragonsteel in a couple weeks. The better half and I are going and this will be our first convention of any type.

Does anyone have any pointers or thoughts on how to make the most of a convention like this?

Side note if anyone knows SLC we booked for a few extra days so always looking for recs that way as well.

I just finished Death Masks by Jim Butcher, 5th book of The Dresden Files. Really enjoying the series.

What about all of you? What have you been reading or listening?

When Britain was gripped by 'fairy mania'

"Fairycore" may be trending on social media today but 100 years ago supernatural sprites were a national obsession. Holly Williams explores fairy fever.

Imagine a fairy. Is the picture that appears in your mind's eye a tiny, pretty, magical figure – a childish wisp with insect-like wings and a dress made of petals?

If so, it's likely you've been influenced by Cicely Mary Barker, the British illustrator who created the Flower Fairies. 2023 marks 100 years since the publication of her first book of poems and pictures, Flower Fairies of the Spring – an anniversary currently being celebrated in an exhibition at the Lady Lever Gallery in Merseyside, UK.

The Flower Fairies' influence has endured: they have never been out of print, and continue to be popular around the world – big in Japan and in Italy, where Gucci released a children's range featuring Barker's prints in 2022. Billie Eilish recently had Flower Fairies tattooed on her hand, while their whimsical, floral aesthetic can be seen in the TikTok "fairycore" trend.

!image

(An exhibition at the Lady Lever Art Gallery explores the Flower Fairies phenomenon, and features pantomime costumes (Credit: Pete Carr))

Barker's delicate watercolours certainly helped cement several tropes we now consider classic – almost essential, in fact – in the iconography of the fairy: they are miniature, sweet and youthful, they are intertwined with plants and the natural world, and they are distinctly twee. Yet her drawings were also "firmly footed in realism" points out Fiona Slattery Clark, curator of the show. "The children were all painted from life [and] her plants and flowers are as realistic as possible." Barker drew children from the nursery school her sister ran in their house in Croydon near London; each was assigned a flower or tree, and Barker's detailed illustrations were botanically accurate – she would source samples from Kew Gardens, says Slattery Clark. Even the petal-like wings and fairy outfits were closely based on plants: an acorn cup becoming a jaunty cap, a harebell becoming a prettily scalloped skirt.

> For many hundreds of years, fairies were not necessarily tiny and fey, but grotesque or fierce elemental forces

The Flower Fairies were an immediate hit – but Barker was far from the only artist of her era to find success with fairies. In fact, fairy fever swelled within the United Kingdom for over half a century, reaching something of a peak around the time the Flower Fairies emerged in 1923. Over 350 fairy books were published in the UK between 1920 and 1925, including in Enid Blyton's first fairy foray, a collection of poems called Real Fairies in 1923. Fairy art even had the stamp of royal approval: Queen Mary was a fan of Ida Rentoul Outhwaite's ethereal drawings, and helped popularise them by sending them in postcard form.

Fairies have long been with us – in our imaginations, at least. But for many hundreds of years, they were not necessarily tiny and fey, but grotesque or fierce elemental forces, capable of great darkness. "In 1800, if you thought your child was a fairy it would have been like demonic possession – you would have put that child in the fire to drive out the fairy," points out Alice Sage, a curator and historian.

!image

(Each of Barker's fairies corresponded to a plant, tree or flower – pictured, the Silver Birch Fairy (Credit: Estate of Cicely Mary Barker 1934 Flower Fairies))

Yet within 100 years, the whole conception of fairies completely changed. "Throughout the 19th Century, fairies became increasingly miniaturised, sapped of their power – trapped in the nursery," says Sage. As the Victorian era progressed, they are increasingly associated with childhood; as their popularity grew, they shrank.

But first, fairies became a fashionable subject for Victorian artists, often taking inspiration from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest. John Anster Fitzgerald, Edwin Landseer, John Everett Millais, Joseph Noel Paton, Arthur Rackham and even JMW Turner – among many others – painted supernatural sprites from the 1840s onwards. But there was still a sense of otherworldly strangeness in many of their depictions – as seen in the work of Richard Dadd, who made his hyper-intricate fairy paintings while living in a Victorian asylum after killing his father.

Then two wider cultural developments came along that changed fairy reputations forever. One was that "children's literature happened", says Sage. The Victorians promoted the idea of childhood as a time of innocence, requiring its own entertainment. Illustrated children's books really took off from the 1870s, with fairies a staple, and increasingly cutesy, feature. The second was pantomime. "Every Victorian pantomime would have this big spectacle of transformation at the end, where children dressed as fairies filled the stage," says Sage. The standard fairy fancy dress outfit today is basically the same as what these Victorian children would have worn: think tinsel, sparkly sequins, and translucent, gauzy wings.

Huge popularity

Moving into the 20th Century, fairies showed few signs of buzzing off – if anything, they cemented their place. "In the Edwardian era, Peter Pan started to be performed [in 1904], and that carried on for the next 25 years," points out Slattery Clark – enough time for several generations of children to learn to clap their hands to show they believe in fairies.

And as the new century lurched through global upheaval via World War One, fairy mania continued – if anything, widening and deepening. "That golden age of children's literature is really an upper middle-class phenomenon," points out Sage. "What happened from World War One onwards is it explodes beyond that, and becomes an adult concern."

!image

(The costumes displayed in the exhibition are based on the Flower Fairies illustrations (Credit: Pete Carr))

Having been whisked from the woods into the nursery, fairies then made their way to troubled adults on the battlefield or waiting at home. Consider the huge popularity of a print, Piper of Dreams by Estella Canziani, during World War One: a wispy image of a man playing a pipe and surrounded by tiny fairies, it sold a staggering quarter of a million copies in just 1916.

"It's about belief and it's about hope – that's what fairies represent in that time," says Sage. "The supernatural becomes a way of finding some luck and brightness, [when] people don't have control over their lives, their future, their families."

> For Conan Doyle, it was all about a search for another realm of being that related to life after death, vibrations, telepathy, telekinesis – Alice Sage

Today, we associate fairies with little girls – but this was an era when fairy art was popular with grown men, too. And technology helped spread it: there was an explosion in sending postcards around this time. They were cheap to buy, and free to post to a serving soldier abroad. "Suddenly everyone can send fairies, and they're flying through the air and across the seas. You can’t underestimate the practical aspect of it," says Sage.

Indeed, Barker herself cut her teeth illustrating such postcards: she produced a patriotic series showing "Children of the Allies", in different forms of national dress, in 1915, followed by a series of characters from Shakespeare, before teasing the Flower Fairies with a set of "Fairies and Elves" postcards in 1918.

Barker never made any claims for fairies being real – "I have never seen a fairy", she wrote in a foreword to Flower Fairies of the Wayside. But it is worth noting that she first published the Flower Fairies at a moment when the desire to believe in magical beings was at a rare high. In 1920, Britain was gripped by the story of the Cottingley Fairies, after two girls claimed to have photographed fairies at the bottom of their garden in West Yorkshire – and were widely believed.

Their beautiful photographs were created by paper cut-outs, floating on hat pins. Although many were sceptical, they nonetheless also fooled many of the great and the good – the photographs were brought to prominence by no less than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of Sherlock Holmes, who wrote a whole book about it, The Coming of the Fairies, in 1922.

!image

(The Crocus Fairies from Flower Fairies of the Spring – the watercolours are still popular today with “fairycore” fans (Credit: Estate of Cicely Mary Barker 1934 Flower Fairies))

Cousins Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths were aged 16 and nine when they took the first photos. Many years later, in the 1980s, they admitted it was a hoax, explaining that they kept up the pretence that the fairies were real a because they felt sorry for the middle-aged men, like Conan Doyle, that so wanted to believe. There was, at the time, a serious resurgence in spiritualism in the UK, with seances and attempts to contact the dead proving understandably tempting for the bereaved. Conan Doyle himself became interested in a spirit world after his son died in the war. And for believers, this wasn't "woo-woo" nonsense – it was supposedly based in science. After all, scientific advances were genuinely explaining hitherto unknown and invisible aspects of our world.

"For Conan Doyle, it was all about a search for another realm of being that related to life after death, vibrations, telepathy, telekinesis – this fascinating world on the edge of the limits of human perception," says Sage. "And obviously that's connected to the loss of his son in World War One."

Like the Flower Fairies, the Cottingley photographs further reinforced the association between children and fairies, as well as cementing what a fairy looked like in the public consciousness. Yet aside from Tinkerbell, Flower Fairies are probably the only image from the fairy-fever era still instantly recognisable today. Why, of all the fairy content out there, have Barker's images endured so strongly over the past 100 years?

"They were [originally published] in full colour, and a lot of books were published in black and white," begins Sage. What looked novel at the time, now seems charmingly period – but the delicacy, intricacy, and imagination of Barker's pictures can still cast a spell. "It's like dolls houses – things that are very miniaturised, but very detailed and realistic, scratch a certain itch," suggests Sage. "They are absolutely beautiful, which helps."

"It's a real celebration of nature – there is a strong educational aspect to her work," puts forward Slattery Clark, emphasising the botanical accuracy of Barker’s drawings. The educational argument might sound absurd given we're discussing fairy art, but as a child who was obsessed with Flower Fairies, I can attest to the truth of it: all the wildflowers I know the names of I learned from these books.

!image

(Cicely Mary Barker's exquisite illustrations were hugely popular in the 1920s (Credit: Estate of Cicely Mary Barker))

Having each fairy very specifically related to a particular plant was also commercially canny – whether Barker intended this or not, it created space for identification, for collectability, for a kind of innate brand franchising. "In children's culture, we create series that are collectable, that you identify with… It's like Pokemon or something!" laughs Sage. "When I speak to people about the Flower Fairies, especially groups of sisters, it's always 'which one were you?'"

Still, Sage is pleased to see the Flower Fairies exhibited in a fine art context at the Lady Lever gallery. For a long time, men painting fairies has been considered art – but when women do it, it's just silly flowery stuff for children.

"This is fine art – it's mass, popular fine art," insists Sage. "I think a lot of the diminishment of fairies and children's illustration is from a misogynist, snobbish and elitist art historical tradition. I'm so excited to see this kind of exhibition, that reclaims this history." Consider this a beating of wings, then, that takes fairies back out of the nursery – and into the gallery.

Flower Fairies is at the Lady Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight Village, UK until 5 November.

Holly Williams' novel What Time is Love? is out in paperback now.___

cross-posted from: https://kbin.social/m/13thFloor/t/520422

> > > > > > Opening Statement of Mr. Harold Schoff, attorney for Mr. Coyote: My client, Mr. Wile E. Coyote, a resident of Arizona and contiguous states, does hereby bring suit for damages against the Acme Company, manufacturer and retail distributor of assorted merchandise, incorporated in Delaware and doing business in every state, district, and territory. Mr. Coyote seeks compensation for personal injuries, loss of business income, and mental suffering caused as a direct result of the actions and/or gross negligence of said company, under Title 15 of the United States Code, Chapter 47, section 2072, subsection (a), relating to product liability. > > > > > > > > Mr. Coyote states that on eighty-five separate occasions he has purchased of the Acme Company (hereinafter, “Defendant”), through that company’s mail order department, certain products which did cause him bodily injury due to defects in manufacture or improper cautionary labelling. Sales slips made out to Mr. Coyote as proof of purchase are at present in the possession of the Court, marked Exhibit A. Such injuries sustained by Mr. Coyote have temporarily restricted his ability to make a living in his profession of predator. Mr. Coyote is self-employed and thus not eligible for Workmen’s Compensation. > > > > > > > > \-Coyote v. Acme by Ian Fraizer > > > > > > --- > > This is one of my favorite editions of this anthology series. It's also one of the hardest to find - this PDF was the only copy available on Anna's. If anyone has alternative file formats available, offering a free boost and upvote if you link them in the comments.

cross-posted from: https://kbin.social/m/13thFloor/t/510179

> > > > > > In the depths of the mutant rain forest where the water falls each afternoon in a light filtered to vermilion, a feline stone idol stands against the opaque foliage. > > On the screen of the monitor it rises up from nowhere, > > upon its hind legs, both taller and thicker than a man. > > See how the cellular accretion has distended its skull, > > how the naturally sleek architecture of the countenance > > has evolved into a distorted and angular grotesquerie, > > how the taloned forepaws now possess opposable digits. > > In the humid caves and tunnels carved from living vines, > > where leprous anacondas coil, a virulent faith calls us. > > A sudden species fashions godhood in its own apotheosis > > > > > > > > * from Return to the Mutant Rain Forest by Bruce Boston and Robert Fraizer, page 160 > > > > > > Wikipedia on the Anthology

cross-posted from: https://kbin.social/m/13thFloor/t/473436

> > > > > > Long ago, so the Storyteller claimed, the evil God Torak sought dominion and drove men and Gods to war. But Belgarath the Sorcerer led men to reclaim the Orb that protected men of the West. So long as it lay at Riva, the prophecy went, men would be safe... > > > > > > Wikipedia > > --- > > * Pawn of Prophecy > * Queen of Sorcery > * Magician's Gambit > * Castle of Wizardry > * Enchanter's End Game > * Alternative formats > > --- > > This series remains some of the best fantasy I've ever read, and it's often very hard to find, as it's been out of print for a while now in most places. > > Content Warning: David Eddings has a checkered past regarding the abuse of his adopted son, which he served a year in jail for in 1970. There are likewise dark themes in these novels that some readers may find disturbing. That being said, I believe the work stands on its own as a masterpiece of world-crafting. Please note I present it on those grounds, not as any endorsement of Eddings himself.

Copying from the weekly thread, over at [email protected] :

Finished Summer Knight by Jim Butcher. Fourth book of The Dresden Files. Things keep getting worse, stakes keep getting higher, Harry keep going through hell. Same old, same old.

Currently Reading Sleeping Beauties by Stephen King and Owen King. It was recommended on reddit for books similar to the comic Y: The Last Man. I didn’t used to like Stephen King much before, but I can understand why. Book is 700 pages long, and first 100 or so pages were pretty much just a set up. I didn’t use to have patience for such slow books in my youth, though I am enjoying it now.

What about you guys? What have you been reading?

P.S: I have mentioned the [email protected] (and the weekly thread) a few times here. Didn't see any rules against that, and am just trying to increase engagement for books-related communities, but if there's any issue with that, I can stop doing it. (Disclaimer, I am a mod there)

About

Mother of Learning is written by Nobody103 (Domagoj Kurmaić).

Blurb

>Zorian Kazinski has all the time in the world to get stronger, and he plans on taking full advantage of it. > >A teenage mage of humble birth and slightly above-average skill, Zorian is attending his third year of education at Cyoria's magical academy. A driven and quiet young man, he is consumed by a desire to ensure his own future and free himself of the influence of his family, resenting the Kazinskis for favoring his brothers over him. Consequently, Zorian has no time for pointless distractions, much less other people's problems. > >As it happens, though, time is something he is about to get plenty of. > >On the eve of Cyoria's annual summer festival, Zorian is murdered, then abruptly brought back to the beginning of the month, just before he was about to take the train to school. Finding himself trapped in a time loop with no clear end or exit, he will have to look both within and without to unravel the mystery set before him. He does have to unravel it, too, because the loop clearly wasn’t made for his sake, and in a world of magic even a time traveler isn't safe from those who wish him ill. > >Fortunately for Zorian, repetition is the mother of learning…

Review

Well, it has taken me forever to get around to reading this amazing webserial. First, I waited till the edited versions were published as four arcs and then I delayed a bit to put some distance from another time-loop story I had read a few months back. I'm glad I could binge read "Mother of Learning" last week, as I had needed a bit of distraction (from something very positive for a change :D).

The first few chapters were a bit slow and Zorian (main POV character) was annoying to say the least. Speaking from hindsight, they were needed to set up the plot and the character growth was more satisfying as well. Once we got introduced to the time-loop, things got interesting real fast and it was a breeze to finish the rest of this long series in less than a week.

Most loops covered something new, introduced new characters (or covered them in more depth), etc — so don't worry that things would be repetitive. I enjoyed the characters progressing in terms of magical power, getting better at information gathering, etc. As I kept reading, I felt like these four long books wouldn't be enough — turns out that the author had cut short a few sub-plots!

As the title indicates, there was plenty of learning involved. Though the magical academy plays an important role, most of the actual learning we got to see was through mentoring from all sorts of people, including some very surprising choices. And almost all of the teachers had weird quirks, which I came to appreciate as the story moved forward.

The mystery of the time-loop and characters involved were a main driving force. Even though there were plenty of slice-of-life scenes, I'd say the pacing was great. Hardly any dull moment and I just wanted to finish the books ASAP. Good thing I was reading a completed series, the wait would've been excruciating!

One of the annoying things at the start of the first book for me was Zorian's attitude towards his family. He did have some genuine complaints, but I do not prefer reading novels with such family angst. Things did improve a lot by the end and I especially came to enjoy interactions with his sister. But overall, it was a sore point. Zorian's various dates were another thing I disliked (they made sense due to the time-loops and stuff from the past, but I felt like it was overdone).

On the other hand, I loved the various characters who ended up as friends and acquaintances. They played a big role in shaping Zorian to become a better person. The author hinted at a possible slice-of-life sequel — hope that comes to fruition, even if it won't be anytime soon (the author is currently writing a story in a new setting).

Speaking of characters, the various antagonists were well written too. Not everybody was clearly good or bad, and from a certain perspective you could even switch the sides.

The magic system was nicely done, though I found it harder to keep track of abilities and stuff as the series progressed. Some of it was probably because time-loops were skipped and some things got explained during action scenes. I didn't mind though, as I was more interested in the plot and characters.

The finish was really, really well done! So many surprising twists and turns till the very end. Overall, an amazing fantasy series that I'd highly recommend.

This looks like it was great fun. Would you take part and if so, which house would you represent?

Update: it's fine to share your thoughts on the author's personal views but please leave the insults at the door.

The communities aren't strictly fantasy related but sharing in case anyone finds this useful. I'll be following [email protected].

cross-posted from: https://literature.cafe/post/1167040

> Linked is the community directory. Here's a list of some of the newest communities: > > [email protected] - For discussion of all classic books! [New] > > [email protected] - For discussion of the Percy Jackson series and other books within the books written by Rick Riordan, as well as the media adaptations of said series. [New] > > [email protected] - A cyberspace for sharing and discussing speculative poetry. [New] > > [email protected] - A cyberspace for sharing and discussing philosophical poetry. [New] > > [email protected] - Writing prompts, duh! [New] > > [email protected] - General writing community. [New] > > [email protected] - Ebook deals! [New] > > Here is a link to the community directory as well. > > https://literature.cafe/post/372004

cross-posted from: https://kbin.social/m/[email protected]/t/415291

> Release schedule: > > Friday, September 1: Episodes 1-3 "A Taste of Solitude," "Strangers and Friends," and "What Might Be" > Friday, September 8: Episode 4 "Daughters of the Night" > Friday, September 15: Episode 5 > Friday, September 22: Episode 6 > Friday, September 29: Episode 7 > Friday, October 6: Episode 8

"weekly thread" was clearly a lie

cross-posted from: https://lemm.ee/post/4711771

> At least some of the signs were desgined by Anders Sandberg: > > - Warning Signs for Tomorrow > > I found the image on Bruce Sterling's Tumblr. > > The source is from u\/FuckMyHeart's (reddit user) comment, which has a bit more info: > > - FuckMyHeart comments on Fringe Science Warning Signs > > From the same comment and user: > > - zip file containing each symbol as its own indexed png with transparency

Just Finished Vita Nostra

cross-posted from: https://lemm.ee/post/3764849

> > First published in Nature magazine, November 1999. > > > > AD 2380: After a painstaking ten-year search, from the Tibetan highlands to the Brazilian rainforests, it’s official — there are no more human beings. > > > > (...) > > RSS Feed https://medium.com/feed/@bruces > > Via Ran Prieur - August 9

Just how much about "Iconoclasm" is it? Are idolatry and/or polytheism portrayed as evil? Also, is there any equivalent of the Abrahamic god and is it portrayed as just/true?

I don't really have anything to add, I just love this book. I searched for "The NeverEnding Story" in this community, saw that there was no post about it and wanted to fix that :).

Image found on Facebook. I think the source of that specific printing is the Spanish version of the book, [EDIT: as pointed by @[email protected], the version on the link is also a Spanish version, I may have had a brainfart because of the font (?)] but it's very similar to some German version covers.

I read a lot of self-pub fantasy and this newsletter is one of the resources I use to pick books to read.

Titles that caught my attention so far:

• Card Mage
• Runelight
• Wakespire (7th book of a series, I've already read and enjoyed the first six)
• The Non-Magical Declan Moore

Here is the second trailer for my Gaslamp Fantasy action adventure novel The Heron Kings Rampant, out now! I hope you like it.

Found this mildly interesting in a world of slick Conde Nast publications.

Can be anything from Hogwarts (the most obvious one) to Scholomance, Brakebills, anything else you can think of. Would you attend it yourself?