A Scribe and His Mission

And it begins with a scribe …

The Master Mechanism – PROLOGUE

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Ghosts craned over his shoulder, he was certain of it.

He felt the cold of dead breath upon the fine hairs in his neck; he heard the whispers of cloth against denuded bones, a sound much like chitinous scratching. On the edge of perception, he was aware of swaying shadows.

When he looked, there was nothing to see.

When he listened, utter silence pressed upon him.

When he held his breath, no mouldy sighs stirred the tiny antennae upon his skin.

Yet he was beyond certain ghosts watched him as he carefully created new words from old ink upon ancient parchment. He hoped the watchers were his ancestors. Benevolent witnesses to his task, perhaps present to aid him in finding the perfect verses.

The words needed to record not only events, but also the emotional state inherent in the timing. He stared into the distance beyond a candle flickering in the night breeze, to see other miniscule amber flames, some far, some near. It helped him not at all, serving merely to underscore how swiftly stanzas eluded him.

Gazing down, older words reached out to him, recorded by the many scribes of his bloodline before him, the verses calling to him, whispering insights, revealing to him an answer. Perhaps the ethereal watchers visited this night simply to draw his attention to the words he now viewed.

Maybe they were present to tell him it was not yet an auspicious time to add his thoughts as lyrical images to the mighty legend contained within parchment pages older than time itself.

Yes.

Something remained undone in the wideness of Time, and it needed doing before he would be permitted to complete his marks upon the ancient material.

He sensed his guests depart. A sense of satisfaction wafted around him, validating his insights.

Sighing and shifting in his scratchy homespun robe upon an unforgiving wooden bench, he gazed into distance once more, wondering when Torrullin Valla would act in such a manner as to finish what he started the moment he drew his first breath.

My Lord Torrullin, I await you. My words are for you.

Elaina Lore of Sanctum 4 ebook cover (3)

The Master Mechanism

The Master Mechanism

It’s finally up!

THE FINAL LORE BOOK!

While I wanted to wait until all the Lore covers have been updated before releasing this, the final volume, I’ve had too many queries from loyal readers about when – when? – will it be available, and decided to do so.

The Master mechanism is on pre-order until July 20 for a mere 99c. Do grab your copy now, while I update the covers! Serendipity and synchronicity may just allow us to have it all coming together at the same time 🙂

mech on pre order

Available on Amazon 

Wings of Shadow

Elianas raised his arms high and flung his head back. His dark hair trailed downward and his great Shadow Wings soared out.

They were beautiful.

A Siric held glory in wings, a Centuar arrogant style, and many other races likewise proved their worth in wings, some feathered, others scaled and others more leathery, while a few were mere decoration, a prettiness that was useless.

The avian species, naturally, used their wings as a necessary tool, and beauty and prettiness was immaterial to that, and therefore was their beauty the greater.

Elianas’ wings, as Torrullin’s, were something unique. They were created by personality, by will, by power, by desire and by necessity. They were there to be utilized and were thus beautiful in practicality. They were beautiful too in the power their creation implied. Yet it was in substance where true mastery lay, therefore true beauty.

Shadow Wings were exactly that, shadow. They were not tangible, yet could be seen. They were not real, yet could beat the air and be felt in the movement of disturbed currents. They were because they had been made in the imagination.

Wings of power.

Elianas flapped his wings out, held them wide, and for a brief time the whole of all universes held a collective breath. In his hands then lay great power, the clay to shape every future … and he turned his back on it.

THE ECHOLONE MINE9c084c9ebbd468d336e14f7ddcf35d6a

Worlds of the Medaillon

What is this Medaillon?

Our tales, especially the epic kind, require tools of magic, and the Lore series do have a few. The Maghdim Medaillon, though, is number one!

In another post the mighty medal will be further unveiled; here I’m explaining why there is a Pinterest board known as Worlds of the Medaillon. Because the Medaillon is imperative to all the tales in Lore, I created a board to encompass all worlds. Do have a look!

Worlds of the Medaillon – Pinterest

worlds of the medaillon

 

 

 

Inheritance Ignored

Of mighty books and a golden medal

Let’s talk about magical devices.

There are a few that populate the LORE books, these two being the most important. The Ancient Oracles and the Maghdim Medaillon:

Three thousand years before the present time the human population of Valaris was essentially decimated.

First there was Drasso’s extermination, which was wholesale slaughter, and their numbers were further depleted when the Guardians descended to do battle. Using human tactics to fight a war required men, many men. That part of the war lasted three years, and at the end of it, large tracts of land were wasteland … and thus more succumbed, for the aftermath was as hard as the wars fought.

Only the Great Forest remained unscathed, but it became a physical and emotional divide between north and south.

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The Guardians saw this, but were powerless to change it. Not only could neither side see beyond the wastelands in the aftermath, but also they no longer trusted their saviours. Deified they were, but the terrible power of the Guardians left the humans as fearful of them as they were of Drasso, Infinity and their kind. The Guardians chose to leave the humans to rebuild alone.

They left an inheritance for each region divided by trees and superstitions.

To the north went ten volumes, containing within the pages of antiquity universal truths. Warded within those pages were sufficient charms to promote the spirit of adventure, the need to restore the past, and a wish to cross the wastelands in search of other survivors.

The charms needed to be read aloud, which they never were, for the dead language was also an unpronounceable one. Fear of magic had stilled most tongues.

The ten volumes were and are collectively known as the Ancient Oracles.

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To the south went the Maghdim Medaillon. In the Ancient Tongue it translated as ‘Supreme Wisdom’. It had the power to summon the clans of old, particularly those of the north with numbers to call to, but like to the Oracles, it was not used. Fear of magic stilled it also.

The remaining sorcerers in the south guarded the Maghdim Medaillon. Their numbers were small, fifteen having survived Drasso. From them, the continuance to the present-day Society of Sorcerers.

The golden medal lay in its velvet casket for two centuries, the sorcerers too afraid to discover what it could do. Sorcery was outlawed before Drasso; after him, it was worse.

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