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An Unexpected Meeting

An Unexpected Meeting

“We treat each other with exceeding courtesy;
we say, it’s great to see you after all these years.

Our tigers drink milk.
Our hawks tread the ground.
Our sharks have all drowned.
Our wolves yawn beyond the open cage.

Our snakes have shed their lightning,
our apes their flights of fancy,
our peacocks have renounced their plumes.
The bats flew out of our hair long ago.

We fall silent in mid-sentence,
all smiles, past help.
Our humans
don’t know how to talk to one another.”

— Wisława Szymborska, View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

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The Myth of Laerad: Magic

The Myth of Laerad: Magic

I am a perfectionist, which means I rarely publish blog pieces which don't adhere to my ridiculously high standards.

It's unfortunate, as there are many more rudimentary glimmerings that I'd like to use writing to explore, rather than always boxing up and presenting something finished to the world.

I thought I'd use this post as a chance to try out the former.

In my emerging story (The Myth of Laerad), there is a system of magic, not yet fully fleshed out. The basic principle is elemental grammar, expressed within the four alchemical languages of Aquarian, Martian, Tellurian, and Jovian.

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The Myth of Laerad: Map

The Myth of Laerad: Map

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The world of Μμ is akin to the Lower World of traditional shamanism: a place of primordial, natural power. It should not be thought of as a Hel filled with darkness, but rather a place where the old ways of nature, soul, and the elements rule.

For the past one hundred years, however, the western continent of Kíramyn—a place of fire, earth, and more recently metal—has been experiencing their Age of Enlightenment; a scientific revolution resulting in a swift advancement of technology, industry, and socioeconomic divides.

The western continent of Avönell, meanwhile, remains very much in the

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Tea and Trepidation

Tea and Trepidation

Wizards and Warlocks; Sorcerers, Mages!
Adepts and Savants; wizened old Sages!
Over the hills they scurry in droves!
Over the dales they travel in rows!

A gorlöck, a fusswotz, two trogs and a rímple!
A muko, three pandrats, and twenty-eight gimples!
From what do they hurry? For what do they pine?
My heart harbors hopes that they be not malign!

In stillness I whimper, in fleetness they rove—
—my kettle, it boils! from its place on the stove!
In a bolt to brew Yorkshire[1] my door remains open
And the fae[2] (in their cunning) come suddenly lopin’

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