Pixie's Pad

Drake swiped their phone screen and checked the address. This was the place alright, a middle class apartment block shrouded in trees with a view of the river. What struck them more than the mundanity of it was that their sister would have anything to do with anyone from a place as distinctly human as this. The barrage of questions that they had for Esyllt the next time they spoke ran again through their mind. They'd decided to check out her missing friend's flat before confronting her with them, though – they knew this place would leave them with even more puzzles needing solving, and the'd broach them all with dear sis in one fell swoop.

The brick path leading up to the building was slick with drizzle that reflected streaks of orange lamplight. Drake ducked into shelter of the doorway, poked the four-digit pin Esyllt had given them into the keypad and heard the lock click open.

“Oi mate, hold the door for me?”

A gaunt figure skipped towards them from inside and then paused as he drew near, catching sight of Drake, his expression turning to concern. Drake stood aside as he hurried past, carrying with him the distinctive smell of fairy dust, and something else, some exotic smell that they didn't recognise but that was definitely not a creation of the mortal realm.

“Hey,” Drake called after him. He paused outside the shelter of the building, uncaring of the rain, and fixed Drake with wide eyes.

“I don't want any t-trouble, right?” The man stammered, taking a step back. “Just leave me alone.”

Drake sighed. “I'm not going to hurt you. There's a girl lives in 4B, Sarah. She's friends with my sister. You know her?”

“N-no,” His eyes flicked up the building and then back to Drake's. “No, don't know her, sorry mate.”

“I'm not going to hurt her, either. Look.” Drake held out a business card but the man backed away even further, tripping over his own feet and bumping into the wall that ran the length of the path. Drake took a breath. “I'm a PI. Sarah might be missing, I'm just looking to find her, check she's alright or find out what happened.”

“So you lot can make sure you get your rent, that it? You're all scum, even you half breeds.” He spat at Drake's feet, and then fear overcame him and he turned tail, sprinting down the street and into the darkness.

Drake fingered the corner of the card in their hand as they watched him flee. Matt finish, oyster white, 300gm acid free cold press with bevelled black lettering, “Drake Reaper, Private Investigator”. The woman at the print shop counter had assured them that “a good looking business card is essential for conveying professionalism to your clients”. Drake didn't know why they had bothered.

That little interaction had drawn Drake back out into the rain, which now fell heavier and dripped from their hair to run in cold rivulets down their neck. Had the man caught sight of the slits of Drake's pupils as he'd passed them? Maybe the horns nuzzling from their black-green hair, or the sharpness to their teeth when they'd smiled politely? It was always something, some little thing that betrayed Drake's nature and brought fear from the humans, repugnance from the dragons, or plain pity from the fairies when they weren't too busy laughing at them.

They pulled their hood up and returned to the apartment building's doorway, punched in the key-code again and shoved the door open into the foyer.

****

There was no answer at Sarah's apartment, and the door was locked. That could have meant any number of things, but ruled out a hurried abduction by perps who cared about covering their tracks. Drake twisted the knob in their grip until the lock gave, and slipped inside. The lights were off, but their eyes found solace in the darkness.

The place was a mess, but not the kind of mess a violent struggle would leave behind. Sarah didn't much care for picking up after herself. The floor was strewn with crisp packets, biscuit wrappers, drink cans, pizza boxes. Crumbs stuck to the carpet, fused with indiscriminate stains. The furniture, though mid-range, was ill looked after. The heavy curtains were drawn. A variety of pencils and scraps of paper with hasty scribbles adorned the minimalist white IKEA coffee table with its steel legs and improbably narrow shelf space, with more discarded papers crumpled on the floor nearby.

Drake picked one up, straightened it out. A circle had been drawn in black pen, repeating over and over until it formed a dark tunnel, and at the centre, a lone tree. They picked up another piece of paper, and another. Every piece of paper had the same image on it. A dream, maybe? A drug-fuelled vision? That smell, the same unearthly smell from the man that had passed them in the foyer, hung about the room. That, coupled with the state of the place – they wouldn't have been surprised if Sarah was firmly in the clawed clutches of some fae concoction or other.

The bedroom yielded no further clues, just a mess of strewn clothes and unmade sheets. The toilet tank though, ever an age old hiding place of secrets, proffered a tiny plastic pouch of silvery white powder with a shimmering iridescence. Definitely fae in creation; they slipped it into an inner pocket and made a mental note to pay the Fairy King a visit.

A quiet click drew their attention – someone was trying the door. They'd broken the lock to get in and hadn't counted on someone visiting the apartment at the exact same time. They looked around the tiny bathroom; no dark alcoves in which to press themselves, no cabinets into which to crawl. They quietly opened the shower door and stepped inside, pressing their back into the corner and focusing their breath. They hadn't done this in a while, hadn't had a need to, but innate abilities once learned weren't quickly forgotten. Their skin, their clothing, everything that they carried on their person shifted to the pale blue colour of the tiles behind them.

The apartment door clicked closed. Soft footsteps over the carpet, a pause, a rustling of paper. A boot kicking at the table leg. Into the bedroom, wardrobe doors opening, drawers sliding. Heavy footfalls approaching the bathroom now. Drake drew a deep breath.

The door creaked open and a tall, thick-set human stepped into view. He scanned the room, casually opened the wall cabinet and turned a few bottles to read the labels. He closed the cabinet, ran a hand over his shaved head as he pondered. He traced his chubby fingers along the rim of the sink, across the top of the cabinet, and then lifted the top of the toilet tank and turned it over.

“Shit,” he mumbled on finding it empty, and replaced the lid, turning his attention to the shower and Drake's hiding place. He pulled open the shower door, half-stepped into the little square cubicle. Drake could smell his breath; alcohol and cigarettes, his skin and clothes still carried the stale pub air of an evening spent, and a very faint floral note. Not just any pub, then. Where was the nearest Aes Sídhe? Nowhere in this canton, according to the clan elders and their infallible wisdom, but Drake knew better.

Their unsavoury cubicle companion's eyes passed over the wall where Drake stood, and he fair made eye contact with them – but he didn't see them, was oblivious to the notion that their eyes were inches apart. He swung the cubicle door closed with a frustrated grunt, and stomped out of the apartment.

I don't remember writing any of this but here it is. A few character bios, and then the start of something.

Bord Aylward

From the savage tundras of the north, Bord carved a name for himself in the skulls of his fallen enemies. From the tender age of twelve he fought defending his clan both with his blade on the field and with his tongue at the table. When his hair began to grey, Bord took an early retirement from captaining the most feared Barbarian army of the lands and now earns his coin as a foreign adviser in the lands to the south – though it is common knowledge that the fierce northerner can still hold his own against twenty men and any who say this is the only reason he is so successful in his current position will quickly feel the wrath of Bord's blade.

Tomeka Tova

The halfling village of Barleyton will never be the same after that fateful night when Tomeka Tova, Rogue Extraordinaire, was caught and detained at the village's only jailhouse for crimes against the Council of Brewers (on his way home from a hard day's pickpocketing, Tom had stumbled upon the 'unlocked' brewery and helped himself to a gratuitous pint or eight before staggering out and straight into the Nightwatch). sometime during the night a 'disturbance' was heard from Tomeka's cell and upon investigation, the two duty guards found a large hole ripped through the cell wall and out onto the street. Outside the hole, a trail of bloody pawprints led the guards to the outskirts of the town where the trail continued for a short way in the form of snapped branches and gouged soil. Tomeka was never heard of again, but the strange manner of his escape is still somewhat of a local legend.

Joya Serafina

Regarded furtively by many as 'a bit of a witch', Joya Serafina follows a path in life somewhere between harvesting the phenomenal power of druidism and the robust natural affinity of the Woodlands Ranger. Tall and lithe, her innate strength is often dismissed by those who do not know her (and they are many). Having come recently into awareness of an evil that would threaten her territory and its wild inhabitants, Joya agreed to help a band of miscreant adventurers and venture deep into a mysterious temple to purge the evil within. Her first task, and perhaps the most crucial to the mission, to use her shapeshifting abilities to free a most notorious – and somewhat ashamedly for him, recently captured – rogue from a small holding cell in a nearby halfling village.

Isa Dharmara

Isa re-animated her first dead crow at the age of four. Her parents, both clerics of reasonable reputation, were appalled and immediately sent their daughter to a remote parish for 'devout' schooling. Upon arrival, Isa was greeted by the man who had duped her parents into believing his was a school that could properly imbue holy righteousness into little Isa – and the man who would be her tutour in The Dark Arts of Sorcery until Isa outgrew his abilities aged eighteen. Keen to discover more about death and what lies beyond, Isa now travels the continent seeking anyone or anything capable of further advancing her necromantic prowess.

Aidan Moran

Born the son of a farmer, Aidan grew up knowing well the faces of hard work and toil. Though as his skin grew weathered and sun-kissed, the young man's mind knew unrest and he longed for answers to myriad questions that plagued him. Leaving his family, Aidan travelled to the city and found solace among its many temples and churches. He now devotes his life and learning to studies of the many deities of the world, and his talents of healing and calling holy might to his aid are known far further afield than the city walls.

Lorant Thanh

Lorant was raised in the Upper-Middle-Class district of an opulent city bi his mother, owner of a successful boutique, and his father, a businessman with multiple shares in textile importing.

Following successfully completing his schooling five years ahead of his counterparts and achieving one of the highest grade score averages ever recorded in the kingdom, Lorant began an apprenticeship in the Chamber of Commerce. Over the next two years he was solely responsible for setting up thriving trade routes with three neighbouring countries (one of which had previously declared it would never trade outside of its borders).

In search of a more interesting occupation of his time, Lorant (at only nineteen years of age) trained two proteges to continue his work in commercial trade and appointed himself head of a new division of the Chamber responsible for the investigation and subsequent control of 'mysterious artefacts'.

His finds so far have been housed in the city's vast museum. The increased tourism generated coupled with the worth of the items now registered as belonging to the city had raised the city's worth enough to mark it the richest city on the western hemisphere. Lorant hadn't expected such success and indeed had hoped to run his department in a quieter fashion. Realising the dangers of having a collection of powerful artifacts all under one roof he campaigned to have the items removed and dispersed to 'safe locations', but the greedy city council had already become too familiar with their growing pots of money and refused to do anything of the sort. Lorant was so disturbed by their heedless reaction that he tried to close the department and retire from his post, but a visit from a hired assassin threatening harm to Lorant's family persuaded Lorant that he'd be best to stay put and do his job. He is currently investigating rumours of a significant treasure trove hidden deep within an ancient temple in the largely unexplored forests far to the south, and plans to assemble a party to recover the horde. If he happened to ‘vanish’ in the course of duty, there'd be 'nothing the damned council could do about it'.

*****

Lorent sunk back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts span like whirlwinds and all he could focus on was Isa's perfume that still hung in the air. Did sorcerers wear perfume? Given the dubious things he'd heard of her interests he'd almost expected her to smell of dust, or dirt, or something else equally as unsavoury.

He closed his eyes and the memory of her sitting there, in his chair, in his office, lingered like a painting. For one terrifying instant he wondered if she were tapping into his thoughts right now, if perhaps she'd cast some spell that told her exactly what he thought and saw in his mind, but dismissed the notion out of hand as both silly and pointless. After all, he wasn't sure whether she had that capability or even if such a spell existed.

Lorant pulled a quill and paper from a drawer and, forcing all intrusive thoughts away, occupied himself with writing a note to a friend.

“Bord;

You've been desk-bound for as long as I have with no break. Can I persuade you to accompany me on a little adventure? Of course I use the word 'little' as I'd use it to describe your sword (which, by the way, would be very welcome to come too). So how about it? Fame, fortune, fighting?

• Lorant”

He scribbled the Department name on the reverse side, sealed the parchment and put it atop his daily pile of outgoing mail.

Lorant looked around his office and, finding it as immaculate as always and realising he had nothing else here to restrain his thoughts, he slipped into his overcoat and headed out to brave the evening city.

*

Aidan Moran never took the second turning off Grove Avenue into the lane even though it was quicker. He wondered about this as he found himself turning the corner into that very lane, and all but bumped into the man staggering towards him from the other direction. Had Aidan followed his usual route, he would have missed the man by seconds. He thought about this, too, as he caught the man and held him steady.

He recognised the young gent but couldn't immediately put a name to the face. His skin was clammy and pale, his eyes unfocused. Aidan pulled a chain from beneath his shirt, grasped the tarnished medallion that hung at its end and whispered something to the night sky, still clutching the man's arm with one hand lest he keel over.

A bright light surrounded them both momentarily and Aidan noted the colour returning to the man's face. It was the man he'd seen at the museum so many times, staring at the new acquisitions in their polished glass cases. The man drew a sharp breath, blinked as his eyes focussed, and looked up at Aidan.

Lorant Thanh, probably one of the most influential people in the city currently. Also the man responsible for donating a holy relic to Aidan's church recently, though they never met and so Lorant probably wouldn't know him.

Aidan thought about all of these consequences as he walked Lorant to a nearby bench and sat him down, while muttering a quick Prayer of Protection around them both. The air crackled.

“I think you were hurt,” Aidan told him. “I didn't see anyone else nearby; you stumbled into me when I turned into the alley.”

I used a generator to create some book title prompts and then wrote blurbs for these imaginary books. They are terrible, you have been warned.

Witch of Gold

Kala is an orphan raised on the brutal city streets of Mephilon. A brush with death on her sixteenth birthday unlocks a dangerous power that's been dormant inside her all these years. With the city's elite on her heels and time running out, Kala must navigate the city's perilous hierarchy and hope she falls in with the right crowd, all while struggling to control and harness her new-found abilities lest they end up controlling her.

Traitor of Destruction

Tradition dictates that every century the Braggarth Temple, a holy site and destination of the great Braggati pilgrimage, be razed to the ground and rebuilt anew as a sacrifice in labour to the Elder God Bragg and a symbolic gesture of the destruction and rebirth that Bragg represents. When Marolius joins the Council of Waste and climbs quickly to the rank of High Priest, none doubt his abilities – but when he announces his plan to cancel the Great Destruction, a panic stirs in the conclave. Will Marolius bring about the nation's demise, or are his eccentric ideas a foothold into a new, stronger age?

Men of the Plague

Darkness dominates the Plaguelands. There is no vibrant life here, no lush green or thriving fauna. No sunlight penetrates the dank miasma to touch the barren, scar-pocked ground with healing warmth; only a cold, bitter darkness that stretches on for time eternal. Within the Plaguelands, only death and decay find foothold and thrive. It is into this decrepit, miserable sump of land that the Imperato Spiritae venture, their dim lanterns swinging solemnly as they embark on their endless quest to cure that which cannot be saved.

Invaders of Reality

The colony on Io had been established for thirty months before any sign that something was amiss. The first incidents were too small to be noteworthy; machinery left running, errands forgotten. They chalked it down to homesickness, space-exhaustion. The first colonist to start talking to themselves was sent back to Earth on a cargo ship – the same ship that replenished the colony's supply of anti-hallucinogenic meds. By the time the last few unaffected people realised that there was something seriously wrong, entire sub-sections of the base, each integral to the smooth operation of the colony, had all but shut down. It was now a race against time to find the source before the colony, and its inhabitants, were lost for good.

Vultures and Kings

“For every position of power exists several to tear it down”- that is the philosophy of Deneral, a grand and thriving monarchy that has been the envy of other nations for as long as history can recall. In Deneral it is expected of those in power to attract a consort of usurpers, and only the most worthy, the most capable of leaders, can outmanoeuvre those who seek to dethrone them – by any means necessary. To join the illustrious Circle of Kings requires dealing with the constant threat of circling vultures – with wit, with guile – and sometimes, with death.

Butchers and Boys

Grangertown's got grime. Coarse, scathing grime that grazes your skin and bloodies your knees and your soul. For the Gutterings, the grime's a way of life. Bathe it, eat it, sleep it, shit it. For the Granders, it's an annoyance – a gnat, a buzzing bother that's too tiny to look at for long. But the grime's getting worse. Boys, Gutterings and Granders both, vanishing in the dead of night only to come back in bits. Nobody's seen nothin', someone knows somethin'; the Granders blame the Gutterings and, well, the Gutterings just blame the grime. The grime's getting worse, and not even the Granders can ignore it much longer.

Curse of Glory

Karthen's wanted to be Challenger Prime since he laid eyes on the magnificent Sword of the First as a child. The only son of a widowed farmer, he never thought he'd get to leave the homestead, let alone the village – but when his father walks out to the wheat field one day and never comes back, Karthen must embark on an epic journey that will change his life forever. Facing struggle and heartache, adventure and honour, Karthen will learn that the glory of Challenger Prime might not be all it's cracked up to be.

Ruination of Stone

In the night-time they come with their terrible wings, their screech on the wind bringing terrible things. With claws and with jaws made of razor-sharp steel, they scratch and they scrape and they pull and they peel. By the time the dawn breaks and sheds light on the land, the scale of their frenzied destruction is grand; no-one knows why and from where the beasts came, but their hunger for stone is a terrible game.

Deceiving the Jungle

When Zora's SmartWing glitches and crashes in the Crayplace, she knows she's in trouble. Out of range of the Network and with the Sats blocked by the dense canopy, she has to salvage what little tech she brought with her in an attempt to survive. With only a vague sense of the distance and direction of the myZone city border Zora must do what she can to stay alive until she reaches civilization – will her twelfth circle techmancery be enough to survive?

Wrong About The Dark

Enjoy a thrilling insight into the phenomenon known as The Dark, a triple-cycle light-absence that affects a third of Nirfenflag's circumference every fifth starshine, brought to you by expert Darkologist Prildenfant Wrong. With eloquence that will have you gripping at the pages, Wrong shares their incredible knowledge of this seldom appreciated process gained through decades of study and backed up by fabulous first-hand stories told to Wrong by the inhabitants of Nirfenflag themselves. Read about the mysterious Nifflebeast that only emerges from its Nifflehide during The Dark, the elusive Horned Swiffle that takes flight only during the transient Pre-Dark and Post-Dark periods before the restoration of Full Light, and be delighted by Wrong's account of spending three moonbeats living among one of Nirfenflag's oldest indigenous peoples, the Qiploqs, as an honorary Qiplot. Whether you're reading as a curious bystander or a dedicated scholar, Wrong about The Dark will both entertain and educate in copious amounts.