Creative Corner

A masterful hunter, a greenhorn pyromancer, and an old homestead. These all came together to form Drystone. Drystone is just a little town, a mile and a half away from the tracks that run throughout the Plains and beyond the edges of Dragonhome. Yet, the refuse and oddities of Sorneith wind up at the doors of Drystone. When a new member arrives, however, it's like they're coming home again, to those who know them best.

Drystone however, has come to mean something more. It is a bastion against the Shade, and it's armies of darkness. This little frontier town is gonna need to fight tooth'n'nail, down to the last bullet to turn back the tides of apocalypse.

The shade is the leftover evil of a demonic force, from a time when the whole of Sorneith sat below ice, and ancient beasts roamed the glaciers and seas, their final act, to bury the demon so far down that no one would ever touch it. This took much sacrifice, wiping out a whole clan, but was mostly successful. Stuck below the bedrock, the nearly dead demon regrew it's strength, waiting to be freed by its masters.

But the explosions of a materialistic technomancer shook it's darkness to light, and the peaceable town of Drystone was set into a war against ancients, and the souls of the dead that lay in the plain. Spirits worked their way into thousands, and another thousand more. Soulless archers rode undead mounts, reanimated cougars prowled, and lich dragons sprung from the earth like an unholy crop.

Having plead for help, the godlike rulers of each state sent fodder to the town, which the veterans could only give rudimentary training and an old peashooter to before pointing them off towards the demon's army. They were the Exalted, heroes after death, each of their demises a blow to the demon forces.

However, what Drystone's citizens don't know is that each of them are cosmically linked- ancient bonds, across eons and species. Once, when huge reptiles walked the earth, they too had to fight the demonic hordes. The entire clan where Drystone now rests was wiped out in a final magic bid to destroy the demon. Their souls were cast throughout the world, though bound to return. Now, when the world needs heroes, they are returned.

Aves’ first vivid memory was a hot afternoon. She sat in the scrub brush, flat on her belly. The spindly, yet leafy tree above her gave only the slightest respite from the Plains’ scorching midday sun. She had only a thin loincloth wrapped about her, providing the young hunter the slightest protection from the rough world outside of her camp, but kept her cool enough.

The quarry fluttered up, a sudden burst of movement against the still parched earth. She took to her knees, and with a spear the size of her forearm, she skewered the large flying beast, it dropping back to the earth, stripped of the powers to fly away from this earth. She went to it, and pulling out the small spear, she put the head of the bird below a foot and snapped it’s neck.

She tucked the dead bird below her arm and began the walk back to her village. As she approached, something felt wrong. Alongside the usual streams of smoke from cooking fires, one fat black plume joined them. As she closed the distance between her and the village, she saw her home- up in flames. Shouts came from the village. Her mother, bloodied, came running to her, Aves standing still in shock. The two fled, a young hunter and her mother. They ran until they could no longer, and then they walked, and when their legs no longer moved, they stopped.

A few miles away from where the beaten woman and her child stopped, three hearts beat. One had a fiery heart, and even as she slumbered, her energy charged the atmosphere around her. By the dawn, she- along with her parents- headed to the shore, a near daily ritual. But this time, her bathing was put off, for there on the shore slumbered two bodies. A quick check revealed that the two were in fact alive.

The older refugee sat back at the rough hewed table in the small cabin. She, through tears and sobs, told her story- a failed coup, a violent retribution, and a slaughtered husband. As she told this, Sycra prepared a simple meal. A mix of boiled grain and dried fruit, the bowl was hearty, and as the woman talked, her filling belly assuaging her keen sense of anxiety. A generous sort of people, the adults offered the two beds and food for the foreseeable future.

Soon a charitable place to stay and something to eat became more. The woman could help on the small farm kept by Sycra’s parents and Aves assisted with a few felled birds a week, and occasionally a deer. They began to slot into daily life around the homestead. But as the days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, Sycra and Aves grew together.

The two easily grew together, tracking across the land surrounding the homestead. They found everything the lands had to offer. They combed the gravel beaches, waded streams, and poked around in the labyrinthine caves below. They reasoned, if there is enough water here that crops can grow, it must come from a massive lake below the ground. And so they tried to suss out it's location, crude torches, maps sketched in charcoal, and rough hemp ropes. Though the two were nearing adult maturity and responsibility, they found time to romp and play.

Childish innocence couldn't last long on the harsh Plain, however. Way out past what passed for a fence, the two sat

----FOUR YEARS LATER----

---

She had come a long way. Her fathers' job for the railroad had got her a seat, and a place to set her sack down. Two weeks later, the lengthy trip on the slow freight is done. She has made this trip a hundred- nay, a thousand times in her mind. As she passed, every tree and bush felt familiar. She felt as though she was headed home, but she had never seen what was over the bluff. Every night for nearly a year she had walked across these parched lands, but every time, just below the crest of this hill, she awoke- sweaty and tired. When she got to the fateful spot, she squatted and swung her sack off her back.

This could only be a bad omen- there has been nothing but those for her- she'd been on a run of bad luck her whole life. Her mom was killed in an industrial accident, and her father had time for nothing but work and sleep. She found herself running through the alleys and subways of the "Lightning Farm". She found the place horrible, haunted by the ghosts of the equipment, a hallmark of an ancient age, and of the spirit and memory of her late mother. But, maybe, just maybe, she could turn that around here.

Pulling the worn revolver out of her satchel, she loaded 4 bullets into it, all she had scrounged before leaving. She wasn't sure the fourth fit. She pulled herself up. Gathering her strength, she confidently headed past the apex of the dune. Sprawled out before her, a scrap of civilization- three buildings, a hitching post, and a nexus of beaten down paths in the hard pack. Making her way down, she instinctively stepped across the dry creek bed, though her eyes lay upon the horizon.

There, she returned to her history of omens. Two women sat, a dry bottle of whiskey between them. They didn't seem to be celebrating, either. The open door to the cabin laid bare the scene. Three squared boards, each scratched out with names, dates, and burial prayers. She knocked on the doorframe, and entered without invitation. The two sitting at the table stirred back to something resembling sobriety when they saw the armed stranger enter. They stood, and one sent her hand to her hip, resting it on a large horn, the handle of an even larger knife.

The taller one, with the red horns piped up: "What, in the f*ck, are YOU doing here?"
"Ain't we devastated enough for today, you sh*theads?" added the round green horned one said.

Archer quickly stuck the gun into the waist of her pants. "Damned thing isn't worth much, anyway." She said, adding "F*ckin' show piece for the mantle."

Greenie wobbled towards her chair and plopped down. Red relaxed her hand, and leaned against the table, speaking.

"Well, unless you're the Reaper or a gravedigger, 'fraid we got no use for you sticking 'round, but you're welcome to bunk on the floor here, or in the barn. We can give you some breakfast and provisions, but I'm afraid we'll be heading outta this assh*le of a plain 'fore long."

"Well, then maybe I can take over the ol' farm! I got gumption and lotsa hard work 'n' de-terr-men-ation, yessir!" She mockingly drawled. She'd chased a dream out to buttf*ck nowhere, and now they were headed out after mom and pa done passed. Goddamnit. Goddamnit all. Continuing on, in her gravest voice she inquired- "What happened, anyway? Who are you two?"

Greenie slurred "F*ckin' bandits! Pieces of sh*t, the lot of 'em."

Red, moving her hand from the table, and retaking her seat, offered Archer a flipped box as a stool. She sat, and Red put a hand on Greenie's thigh. She sighed, and took a long breath as she spoke.

"I'm Aves, and this here's Sycra. Well, I guess, I do owe an explanation. You turn up to empty bottles and two graves, you ought to know why..."

----18 HOURS EARLIER----
The two women drug a heavy cart down the dried up creek bed. It was loaded down wi, th huge chunks of basalt, meant for the rim of a kiln. They chatted as they pulled the two-wheeled cart, occasionally trading off the load, one dragging, the other walking. Unseen to them, however, were three bandits, hungry and desperate for a little coin. The one on the left scoped in the woman dragging the cart, her head in the cross hairs. He looked to the grey bearded man, and when he say his thumb stick up, he focused back on the lady's skull, and gently pulled the trigger. The gore that resulted was extreme, even for the sharpshooter. He worked the bolt and looked back down the scope. The other b*tch was hiding, oblivious to the fact she was outgunned and out manned. She pulled a peashooter from her side, and blindly fired a few rounds, nowhere near the raiders. As she stood, revolver in both hands, she was still skinny to the scope, but the marksman felt confident in another hit. He put her chest in his cross hairs, less flashy, but more likely. He pulled the trigger again and the woman dropped, seemingly dead.

The three ragged men hopped into the creek bed, and walked between the ruts made by the wagon's wheels. Seeing it filled with black rock, the grey beard swore, saying "Dammit! Check their bodies, see if they've got anything- and snag that b*tch's bullets, too."

Rounding the cart, the third man took a few steps towards the woman with the gun. Even as she was shot, she had kept her clutch on the gun. The blood spread from her ribs, and stained the earth. He bent down to pry the gun from her cold dead hands, and as he did, the woman reanimated. Yelping, she pulled off a shot to the man's knee. The large caliber blasted it out, crippling him to the ground. The grey bearded man rushed towards the scene, shotgun already at his shoulder. The woman reached for the hammer, but before she could recock it, the man blasted her in the chest. She slumped, permanently stilled.

He turned towards the one kneed man, and moved his hand to the second trigger, emptied the scattergun. He would've died anyway- the grey haired man reasoned. Still, these two f*ckers better be worth the loss of a man. The two still living pulled all valuables off the three bodies- bullets from all three, and a few coins from the man's pockets. All the women had on them at death were a silver buckle, and a copper pocket watch. The pocket watch was nice. Might even be enough for a few hunks of dried meat, and a bottle of whiskey each.

Archer sat stunned. She had come out here on a dream, and now she had walked into a nightmare. "Well, you know, I ain't got any parents anymore, either. My mom died when I was young- an industrial catastrophe way down southwest. My dad, well he loved the stars, coming from canyon country, but he never saw them in the Farm. And one day, he works his shift and only comes home to grab some food and a blanket. I was off, probably stealing some inane sh*t from a scrapheap, so he leaves me a note, right? And all it said was 'I'm headed for the stars, kid.' and that was weird, he never called me kid."

She gestured to the revolver on the table.

"So I take that gun there, and I start heading out of town, and I'm not even past the mill he worked at when someone bolts into town, on horseback, holding up a guy, just absolutely bloodied. So I run towards the doctor's house, where the horse was headed, and the rider is carrying my dad in. I guess I was just a few seconds too slow to hear his last words. The rider wouldn't tell them to me, said it was best for me. After that, I just hermitted myself in the basement, parts strewn about, all hours of the night and day, trying to distract myself. I guess it worked for awhile. I made a lot of cool sh*t, but nothing sated me. I traded for what passes for a company seat on the railroad, and I came out here."

She left out the part about the dreams, and about the strange device in her bag. She figured that wouldn't win too many hearts.

Aves spoke. She stuttered, almost too drunk to comprehend Archer's story. "Sh*t. Why here though, Archer? There ain't nothing her but a little fjord and this dumb farm."

"Just an easy place to stop, I suppose." Archer was nervous, afraid she'd have to spout out her mad theories and dreams.

"Sure. You're welcome to stay, like I said, but me and her are leaving just as soon as we can."

Archer trotted out to the barn, not wanting to sleep aside the dead. She tossed down her wool blanket, and stashed her sack in the hay. She lay down, and slept easily. She dreamed of falling endlessly into a murky depth.