Railstor never made it to his lunch that day. With the emeralds nestled in his purse, he approached the rooms of Asterope Lacarta with more confidence than he'd felt all week. The mere thought of Her made him shiver with anticipation. To think, it was only ten days ago that his wife had forced him to attend a play, and changed his entire life. She was starring, the fabulous Asterope, famed throughout Medolia for her beauty as much as for her acting ability. He'd returned alone the following night, and after the play, made his way backstage to try and meet the elusive siren, only to be denied admittance by her servant. The following night he was greatly surprised when, unaware of Asterope's discreet inquires regarding his finances, she opened her door to him herself. Since then he'd paid court to her daily, but never progressing beyond a chaste kiss on her hand. Surely this necklace would garner a warmer response for him.

The emerald blazed like green fire in the shop window, drawing Railstor's attention from the fine lunch he'd been contemplating. He pushed open the door and went directly to the necklace. "It'll match her eyes perfectly," he murmured.

"My name is Tobias, sir, may I be of assistance?" the voice of the clerk broke his reverie.

These stories are written by a single author, usually in segments over time, and provided here for your enjoyment. Aspiring fantasy / sci-fi authors: write here!

Read, enjoy, and by all means, COMMENT! on the pages. You'll find a link at the bottom of each page. But do not add pages unless you are the original author.

Once upon a time, in a land so far away it can’t be found on any maps, there lived a handsome man named Adon, who loved a fair maiden named Analyssa. Now if Adon and Analyssa were ordinary folks, this might be a tale of a humble farming family and the good times they enjoyed. Adon and Analyssa were not ordinary people. All who saw them declared that Adon and Analyssa were blessed with good looks and great intelligence. They were also good and kind people, and even at a young age they were prone to ‘doing the right thing’. What most people didn’t know was that Adon and Analyssa had great magical powers. They didn’t flaunt them, and studied privately; first with each other, and later with wizards across the land.

"That was the day I began packing, fixing on following Sylvia McNealman's footsteps instead. The night before I left I invited Suds to come along. She declined my offer, tears welled up in her eyes with dreaded anticipation of my departure.

"The following day I announced that I would be leaving, Chic-Tah, my Thri-Kreen blood brother was present and he was, besides my sister's crying, the first to react. My father scratched his chin and my mother didn't seem too surprised. Chic didn't want me to leave worst of all, he was Mister Lonely if I wasn't there and I suddenly felt bad for intending to leave them all behind.

Saylas finished his drink off and rewet his quill, "From then on my father devoted his time to passing what knowledge and skills he possessed to Sudsy and I. He taught us to use weapons, working off the brief training Gray had given me. Sudsy was far better with melee weapons that I could have ever hoped to be, but I was a wiz with the shortbow and crossbow and I incessantly teased her about it.

Saylas Leaned back and took a long drag from his frosty 'Brew-ha-ha' then set it back down pondering what his next alcoholic masterpiece will be. 'Victory Brew' was a concept that was discussed while traveling north to destroy the Deadgate.

He shrugged and prepared to continue, "The vermin were more powerful than expected and the dice just didn't land right for my father's squad. The squad jumped out at the contingent from all sides, caging them in. This only served to further piss them off! And it turned out that there were more them than the reports had suggested, but my father, being the confident man he always was, was sure of his victory from the moment that the first bolts were loosed.

"shortly thereafter my father turned in his resignation and retired from the military a hero--though he sure as hell didn't feel like one. He was mournful, the sad look on his face was more distressed than I had ever seen it. He refused several awards and medals, on the basis that he didn't do what he did to be a hero, or praised for saving the lives of his comrades.

"He dropped a small blade in the sand before me. I looked at it ponderously for a moment before reaching down to pick it up. Over the next few weeks he taught me to use a plethora of different weapons, namely the crossbow and shortbow.

"One day, near the end of the month, I had been walking back to the compound alone, Grey had stayed behind to meditate but he was supposedly not far behind me. I noticed new foot prints, foot prints that didn't belong to a desert-halfling, they'd be smaller or I would not have seen foot prints at all; these footprints were strange, twice or three times the size of my own feet and angular. These footprints led right into the compound, being my inquisitive young self--I've learned since then that being curious has a tendency to get me into serious trouble. I, without thinking about where they were going, followed them into the heart of the compound, right into the tent where Lieutenant Colonel Tahrin McNealman, my dying father whom I had attempted to estrange over the past few weeks--in order to lessen the sadness that would come from his death.

"Mother wasn't there, her excuse was that 'she couldn't bear to see him like that' but I knew that it couldn't be that, I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was up to something."

The memories suddenly rushed back to him, like water rushes down a towering falls, "I remember him, laying there on a straw mat, his skin pale and sweat soaked, his cheeks sunken in and hallowed and eyes clouded half-open. Sudsy ran to him, eyes filled with tears. Tears that streamed down her cheeks when she felt his cold hands. I stood, solemn in the doorway of the tent watching my sister, almost weeping, trying to get a rise out of him. My limbs began to shake ever so slightly, I recall turning away, tears slowly welling up in my eyes. There was a gravitational anti-pull pushing me away from him."

Saylas dipped the tip of his quill into the inkwell again and began writing; the sad look he wore moments before cracked into a smile, “My mother always spoke so fondly of her adventuring party, just as my father spoke so fondly of his buddies and toasted fallen comrades. She always would regal tails of tough dungeons and challenging quests for wealth that never seemed to pan out profitable in tender, but more often profitable in a more rewarding, moral sense."

Saylas paused, reflecting upon all the horrors he'd experienced, forcing all glory and thoughts of wealth from his mind. All the lives he'd seen expelled, ruined or enslaved by evils unleashed upon the world had changed him profusely. It seemed all the more selfish to write about himself, when the events that had transpired over the course of the previous two years were really what defined who, and what he was. Not from where hailed, who gave birth to and raised him.

Words started to flow out onto the page in neat, concise halfling. “It's so cold here." He wrote at last conquering the top of that barren, sad, empty page. The cold masonry floor chilled his body every second his feet made contact with it. He casually crumpled up the piece of parchment he so carelessly wrote his surface thoughts upon, and threw it out the open window in his office.

By Aaron McClellan(Remmy):

Entry1

Saylas sat in a secluded room in total silence, while work on the structure of the White Tower buzzed around him. A blank stack of parchment, a dry quill and a full inkwell stared him in the face. He twiddled with the quill, reflecting upon the pleasant heat of the desert sun of his home. He could almost feel the warm sun washing over his back and shoulders, the warm sand under his feet, seeping between his toes. A calm smile crossed his face even as Mabock could be heard yelling from somewhere in the White tower, followed shortly by abrupt loud crashing and the patter of feet running from the orc's inescapable wrath.

Journal Entry one; Sylvia McNealman(Masika Kazemede'Mensah).

"To speak one's given name outside of the desert is forbidden. Therefore each of the halfling clans have their desegnated Surname 'psuedonym'. In the case of the Kazemede'Mensah[Third Born, Trader Caste] we are referred to and only known as 'McNealman' by those outside the desert. It's a well kept secret, despite the fact that it has been documented, and our true names may not be spoken outside the desert.