Tales

Magic is magic. Regardless of what people say, magic is not some science we don’t understand (that, of course, is still science). It does not have rules or laws in the traditional sense. What makes magic Magic is its inherent mutability. Think of it like this: Magic is a

It’s been a long drive. A drink sounds pretty good. You eye the eclectic assortment of tap handles. You imagine yourself a connoisseur, so you always look to try something local wherever you go.

The Gardener and the Grave-Keeper met on the mountain top overlooking the wisest city. “Good day to you, cousin,” the Gardener said. The Grave-Keeper did not answer, instead staring out over the valley. “Someone’s in a bad mood today.” “Yeah, I am.” The Grave-Keeper continued to look out, their

I look south, past Pike Mountain, past the Goat’s Teeth to the cozy hamlet of Grebewater. What a quaint and tranquil place. That anyone could survive, let alone thrive, among the wilderness is impressive. For those who call these hinterlands home, it is even stranger. There is an inn,

Jeb browses the aisles of Harvest’s Blockbuster. Section: Historical. “Bridge on the River Kwai?” he mumbles to himself. “No,” he paces back down the aisle, “something more modern… Gladiator?” Russell Crowe’s shouting face beckons on the DVD box. “Yeah.” Lost in his own thoughts, Jeb snaps to at

Not to be confused with the malicious Skull Man, the Skeleton King is a benevolent being that primary exists within the astral realms of The Dreamscape. Often projecting himself as large and imposing, the Skeleton King has been known to shepherd wayward minds that find themselves adrift in the dream

Resting within an inlet, surrounded by water, is a Keep. Seen from miles around, the moss-covered edifice towers over the landscape. A dirt path, drawn like chalk, cuts through a meadow that stretches up to the sea and the inlet in which the Keep stands vigil. One day, a day

“The logistical problem with Places of Power has nothing to do with their supernatural propensities… it’s the tourists. You see, Places of Power — where the invisible streams of magic flow into our world — are often located at scenes of profound natural beauty: ancient trees, timeworn hollers, peculiarly-shaped rock piles,

The small town of Harvest, Okla. is abuzz with arguments and assertions about the nature of a strange power pole that has appeared downtown. We’ve likely already offended half our readership by claiming the pole appeared rather than having already existed, but we stand by our impeccable investigative journalism.

Trouble treads carefully. They know what will happen if the other Reapers catch them here. There’s too much at stake, they think to themself. I have to keep the dream alive. The risk is worth it. Crawling to the top of a shallow rise, Trouble looks over the swaying

Sergey stares unblinking at the ghostly figure hovering outside the spaceship’s porthole. A frustrated expression creases the woman’s translucent face. She gestures again: pick up. For some unknowable reason, Sergey’s thoughts drift into the past, to a time before he set sail — he sees a child, wise

Sergey awakens in a strange place. Conflicting smells of smoke and petrichor saturate his nostrils. He looks up at a giant spire, the creation of some ancient civilization. Beside him drifts the ghostly woman he saw in The Void. Are you okay? She seems to say, without speaking. Sergey merely

“I’ll do better in the morning.” The mantra sounds out over and over, simple and harmless, yet with the undercurrent of a desperate wish. Sergey stares, unblinking, at the white-slick pristine ceiling. Mornings mean little in this place. It’s been three hundred eighty-five standard days in The Void.

Caliban backs away into the twisted facsimile of Greenwich Village, losing sight of whatever creature is pretending to be Antwohnette. “Why are you trying to abandon me, Caliban?” A voice behind him asks. Caliban slowly turns around. Standing in the middle of the street, one arm crossed to hold her