Friends At The Table

Collector-Curator They pursue two patterns. They showed me only the first until today, but I’ve finally gained their trust! I’ve marked what I understand with an X, and seek your guidance on the rest. Brackets are lacunic markers, as in Roak’s Notation. A Lukewarm Sun, Bowing - X A Room of Seeded Prisms Two lodestars that carries [the banner of the queen of death] - X     One which sees [the old world] - X     One which destroys [the old world] The Second Face of the [Bright Boy] A tower of [tomorrow’s light.] A new archive of “broken, whole mirrors” - X The Cooling Embers of a God’s Verse - X (Though we must find this book) A stolen fiddle in its home - X I do wish you were on terms with Tel, Collector-Curator. Your goals may be different, yes, but competing merchants are both benefited by the construction of roads.   This week on Friends at the Table: Make the Library Smile   Kurr, My relation to Tel is not your concern, nor do we compete like petty shopkeepers. Our differences will shape th

Jer, I write to you in fear. “To be Justiciar,” I was told “is to be unwavering in loyalty, determined in diligence, and zealous in the pursuit of justice.” I was not told that it would be like herding lions. Couriers come and go with reports and notes. Blood of Fire and Blood of Steel bicker over what I ought do with what I’ve found: A world, underground. No, not a world. Worlds. They reflect a eerie past I do not know, but echo beauty, too, the beauty of irregularity, of uneven possibility. I told them about this place, this new civilization—real civilization, an exchange, you know? An exchange. Yet when I receive note from Fire and Steel, they wish to press its shifting allure flat just to be sure that our targets are halted. I hunt four targets. Just four. Yet Steel sends a full detachment of his newest models. And as it is and as it must be Fire demands fire. I am bloodless, Sea and Smoke, but I am loyal. I am diligent. I am just. Is that not enough? -Glasseye This week on Friends at the Table: A Holy Pl

Semiotician-Emeritus, Something is wrong. I am no great pattern worker. I know a few techniques that aid me in my duty: How to lower the light of an already dim bar room; how to sharpen a blade without a whetstone; how to make voice twice itself. Even to call these ‘techniques,’ feels false: They are tricks. I know that. But I also know this: The world is askew. There is a simple pattern I do when trying to find mirrors: I break an egg onto a large, north-facing rock and then break the yolk with something made of copper. The yolk splits in two, and from how it falls, I know which direction to travel. Except for the past month, the yolk doesn’t split, it shatters. But even that is not why I write you, Tel. Patterns change, we know this. The earth shakes 20 days from here and that upsets the alignment. Sure. Fine. But my mundane efforts should not be affected. I am not a successful Collector because of some gimmick, but because I can track a horse’s path over stone, Tel, but I lost one in the mud last week. Bec

Prelate Springe, Thank you for the hospitality on my visit. Thus far, it has been the only trustworthy thing in this gnarled subterrane. This place confounds me, brother. On my trip to our Lord, I saw things I know have never been true: A vision of the Fallow Traitor’s cold city spread far and wide thru the continent whole, except it bore a symbol akin to our Warm Sun’s. In another, the sky had been covered, or… no, it was if it had fallen in, as if pieces of the heavens had collapsed and crowded the world. I saw  the ruined college, rebuilt, or, no, it wasn’t destroyed in the first place. But then I saw Him there, at the bottom, and I felt His heat and I knew my path again. As expected, the ring carries heretical light. He told me it was from “the third stratum,” which I suspect you understand better than I do. I fear that He could see my bewilderment as He said it, yet I didn’t mind that He saw me like this. We are His in ignorance and power, both. He blessed me for my faith: “Even in ignorance,” he said, “

Collector-Curator, It took two months, but I’ve finally convinced Tel and Havelton to see things my way. For weeks, the old man spent the day attending to his dandelions, and dismissing me whenever I ran new apparitive patterns by him. He’d shake his head, cough out a grumble, and rattle on about some absurd, missing component: A “tower of tomorrow’s light.” The “speaking sands of Rosemerrow.” A new archive of “broken, whole mirrors.” A “stolen fiddle in its home.” But I did it. He asked me for a lukewarm sun, and I’ve given it to him. In their whispers, they still speak against our pursuit, but they can not deny my results any longer. Havelton packs for travel now. The path is clear. The Original Pattern is within reach. This week on Friends at the Table: Make The Spring Last Forever Kurr, I did not open the restriction on your so-called “apparitive patterns” that you could complain about the complexity of the semiotics you pursued. In future letters to me, do not waste time on such matters unless the patte

Living Blood of Fire, As my second reported, and I have confirmed, the first threshold has been sealed. I have walked the remains of that twisted museum myself, through the wing of turned mirrors, under the second sky, past the... chaos. It was chaos there, Fire, nonsense, impossible to comprehend. I reached for a goblet that caught my eye, and when I lifted it, it turned to a leaf. Whatever the star-fiend did there burned more than just wood and brick. It put torch to the real. I tell you this because there was a new incident. I'm writing from Wharfhurst, a trading post south of the city. The locals—dwarfs, mostly—talk of a tower rising "higher than Hieron itself." I see no such thing, and yet... another threshold is near, I feel it in my blood. We must trust the blood. Unfortunately, early efforts to find it have gone poorly. One scout dead. The other barely make sense. Rul says that they found a path, but that "it did not want them." Genev says nothing now, but when she first arrived she handed me the gobl

Archivist-Collector, Please read this week’s classification updates carefully. For the next month, it is imperative that “textile” carpets be subdivided by specific material (“wool,” “hair,” and “fur” are not interchangeable.) The ban on the classification of actors has been lifted, and new categories have been established. Use “living,” for traditionally sentient lives, “breathing” for those who retain material form despite mortal wounds, and “being” for those who have lost bodies but not selves. The “dead” remain dead, and the prohibition remains in place. As part of the ongoing process of reclassifying plants by reproductive traits instead of by appearance, “lion’s tooth” flowers are now classed primarily as “Wind Blossoms.” As always, your service is considered. Collector-Curator Kall Fer This week on Seasons of Hieron: Undelivered Resignations You are the one who needs to read carefully, Convincing those to give us what the Archive demands is subtle work. Yes, I wield intimidation, I carry violence. Bu

Aloysha, War is coming to Velas. Ordenna is coming to Velas. And while I believe in the strength of the velasian people and in the resolve of the church and, as much as I would hate to admit it, in the benevolence of Ordenan occupation, I cannot continue to serve our lord if I need to worry about my family, about Rosana and Benajamin living under the heel of Ordenan rule. Of my actions potentially impacting them, of them not getting to see me come home. I know this is a big ask, I need you to get my family to Rosemarrow. There is another matter that weighs on my mind, Exarch, but I do not know that I have it in me to do what must be done. If you do not hear from me again, we will leave it at that. But if you receive a second letter, please know that it does not come without consideration. Yours in Service to Him, Hadrian, Sword of Samothes, Defender of the Undying Fire, Officer of the Order of Eternal Princes This week on Friends at the Table: Is There Anyone Else? Arrell, You offered me a journey to peacefu

TO: Impetor Fela Malle Living Blood of Steel, I have it. It is at the top of the tower, in a room my soldiers cleared of tables and chairs and old shelves. The room is bare, and it stands in the centre. Forgive me if my handwriting reveals my tiredness, I will set the words alone for clarity: I have it. I spent the last night, awake, watching it and its light was so bright. It did not burn my eyes. One of my soldiers tried to draw it, and when they were finished I looked down at the paper and the difference—it was more than an inaccurate representation. To look at it, to trace the drawing’s imperfections with my eyes, made me furious. At around five or six in the morning I left the tower to get some air. The streets were, as they always are, dark. I looked up at the tower, expecting to see light streaming from its windows, but there was nothing. When I returned to the tower room, I found it fully furnished once again, but denser. Warmer. My men could not tell me how it had happened. Loyal Always to Ordenna’s

So, listen. I’ve heard whispers from spies and rumors from stewards, and it sounds like you’ve got your hands on something really special. Something that could really change the way things have been going for you and yours. And well… Listen, MG, I like to think I know you pretty well. Balion and I won’t ever forget what you did for us, and more importantly, that you had very little to gain from doing it. You are the greatest force of justice I’ve ever known, and a constant reminder of what it means to be a leader. People tell me that I have a hard life all the time. Beset on all sides by the unctuous and the bickering, the petty and the envious, the powerful… and the meek. But what they’re missing is that to be “beset on all sides,” you first of all have to be at the center.  And however hard it is, the center is an easy place to rule from. But you don’t have a high house, MG. No council chambers, not even a mayoral mansion. The only center your Gnolls have is you. It’s time to put this old bullshit right. Br

Hey chief, This is a weird one, and I almost didn’t bring it to your attention, but Carver insisted. There was this guy shouting out near the Westshore-Upon-Scene theater, you know? And these folks, they yell all the time to try and get people to come to their plays, but this was seriously weird. He was speaking nonsense--a bunch of words about plays and whatever, but not really saying much at all. But he was surrounded by people anyway. Just staring at him. When we took him in for questioning, he totally locked up. No name, no address, nothing… except a sheet of paper with a script of the exact nonsense he was saying. Here, I copied it for you: People! Learn about your imperative national theater! Hear eclectic dramas and romances! Know all new dramatists, thespians, hoofers, ensembles, househands, echomen, and technicians! Watch improv live! Listen with alert Rosemerrow minds, you! Observe upon redolent ballads of noble Elan Showman! I just don’t get it. Who talks like that? Like, if you’re gonna script t

TO: Chief-Justiciar Qinta Quatróna Living Blood of Fire, you know I write you this at great peril, because it is you who imperils me. But whatever my ambition—and whatever your animus towards me for it—know I hold one thing in greater esteem in myself: Our nation. And I have seen with my eyes a more dire threat to our home than any plague, any animated corpse, any beast. I saw it that night, in the museum, but denied it for a full day. My report on the events there list only an anomaly brought on by the magic of the fraudulent archeologist. But whatever this is, it’s the opposite of an illusion. It’s somehow more real than what’s around us. Not less. Please, Qinta, put aside your ceaseless fear that I’m envious of your position. Our feud was childish, and the continent is no place for kids games. Trust me here, for once. I’ve attached my notes on Watchword “Bright One.” Read them, study them, but know they are incomplete. With this one, notes will always be incomplete. Loyal Always to Ordenna’s Shores, Iduna

Associate van der Dawes, There are actually three distinct sections to the treaty that allows the Golden Lance to operate in Rosemerrow, and I came upon them quite strangely, in three different ways. At first, I received the end of the document, a series of bound pages traded to me in exchange for a collection of measuring spoons. The document did not identify the parties; Presumably this occurred in the introduction, and for this reason I did not know what I had. And then, after several weeks, the introduction came into my possession, slipped between the second and third chapters of a copy of an old law book that smelled of sea salt. That city in the south, the city on the island was mentioned, as were “Lance Nobles,” as was a system of justice and governance that was as fiery as it was sure. Combining the two, it became clear that an agreement had been made. In exchange for their services, the Golden Lance were granted the jurisdiction to operate within the boundaries of Rosemerrow. There was a map. There w

Sorry for being so late to announce an off this week but we need a little extra time to make a big special thing a little more special. We tried to make this a fun one for you in the mean time, so be well and see you next week! 

It's been four days since His sun left us, Tutor. On the first morning without it, I woke early--before its light would have graced us on a normal day--and, when I found sleep too hard to return to, I put on my sandals and took to the empty streets of Velas. The soft shuffle of my steps echoed with the other pre-dawn murmurs of my seaside city. The gulls called, and they called for me, so I followed past the lingering smells of a rowdy night before. And they called for me, so I stepped through the sand blown threw the gardens. And they called for me, and so I walked, and as I walked, my mind drifted, and I tried to recall if we ever listened to the gulls together, and I wondered if you had ever called for me. I found an old stairwell hidden, etched into the wall by time or ancient ambitions or both. It led from the plaza to the shore, and the shore brought water, and the water brought wind, and the sound of gulls was caught in a swell, and the sound of the gulls was breezed away. I sat and waited for His sun.

Cider-Brew Conveyance  Departure: 2TE,3M / Arrival: 4OL,3M Received By: Exarch Alyosha, Church of Samothes, District of the Sun, Velas Articles of Shipment: Four (4) Large Enhydro Crystals (Smokey, wrapped & crated) One (1) Painting on Canvas (Sun cresting over cross-section of a rabbit warren, rolled) Three (3) Leather-Bound Books (Manners and Preparations for the Aspirant, Practical Models for the Fostering of Inquiry, A Candle More Wick Than Wax) Two (2) Wood-Bound Books (Treatise on the Whites of Eyes, Skein's Ephemeris) One (1) Bannister's Harp (Wood & baleen, crated) One (1) Copper Retort (Cracked, crated) One (1) Copper Retort Stand (Intact, crated) One (1) Ox Horn Comb (Simple, oiled & bagged) Six (6) Seeds (Bleached Coast Flax, bagged) One (1) Letter (Sealed) This week on Friends at the Table: Warm Assurances Mr. Cider-Brew, Please find attached the letter of receipt (as requested by sender). I have also listed the address from which you may collect the sender's belongings,

Do I yet write to an empty room? An empty desk? An empty page? Or do you remain, too busy with your work to respond? Or, perhaps I can lure your eyes from your sense of duty, as I learned to do years ago. Let me try, at least, with another story from my childhood. As you know, the Grand Tour makes endless, circuitous route across the east with no regard for what is below it. Water, earth, air, blood--it strides over each with little regard, so determined it is in the necessity of its pace. The first time I saw it appear on the horizon, I pulled on the prelate's sleeve and found only the sort of questions children ask. "Is that a new sort of sea?" It sounded like thunder or a flood; a braying beast for each speck of dust kicked up, a speck for every moment of every life expired in the history of Hieron. The prelate yanked me back by the wrist--perhaps he was worried I would fall in--and he shouted to the others to pack their things. "No, my son," he told me. "That is the oldest sea there is." Had you heard tha

Pupil,  Alyosha. I promised you once that I would not ask the question ever again. That whatever our differences, however foolish your faith, I would respect your wish and let it rest. You told me that if I did not relent, you would stop responding all together, and I feared... No. That is not why I gave up on you. It is because you made the case clearly, with strict logic and rhetoric curved sharp: If I did not accept your decision to remain in Rosemerrow—and now, in Velas—that I would be betraying the most fundamental of the precepts I teach: That we are each of us a world unto ourselves, sacrosanct, complete. But now, in the face of this morning, I must ask again. One more time, and forgive me this sin: Please, Alyosha. Accept my offer. What comes next is grim, and we could both be gone by the end of the week. And then we could help others do the same. Please. Your Tutor, always.  This week on Friends at the Table: Two Hands   Arrell. Once, back in the shadow of the Grand Tour, I found the prelate who rai

The mothkin do not remember why years ago, they decided to worship the stars of the southern sky, specifically. Perhaps it is because that is the direction the weavers first arrived from. Or perhaps, becaue looking south from their forest home, the they face the sea, a vast mirror that reflects the night sky. Or maybe, some time ago, the living constellations of the south did the mothkin some favor, yet returned. But now, the stars recede as the first fingers of sunlight break through the branches of the eastern treeline. And in the village of Old Man's Chin, Red Jack continues his story.   Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal), Keith J Carberry (@keithjcarberry) Janine Hawkins (@bleatingheart) and Andrew Lee Swan (@swandre3000) Produced by Ali Acampora (@ali_west) Cover Art by Craig Sheldon (@shoddyrobot) Episode description by Austin Walker Music by Jack de Quidt A transcription is available for this episode here. A full list of completed transcriptions is

There, in hidden village of Old Man’s Chin, the mothkin gather around the dry well at the center of town, look to the stars of the southern sky, and begin the midnight sermon. They praise those distant, flickering speckles of white for the light they provide—distant, and safe, yet bright enough to bring the world into focus. They praise, too, the messages written in the sky: Each star a word, each constellation a parable. Red Jack finds his parables elsewhere: In his own history. And now, on this holy night of possibility, he gathers together the visitors from Velas so that he may tell them one.   Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal), Keith J Carberry (@keithjcarberry) Janine Hawkins (@bleatingheart) and Andrew Lee Swan (@swandre3000) Produced by Ali Acampora (@ali_west) Cover Art by Craig Sheldon (@shoddyrobot) Episode description by Austin Walker Music by Jack de Quidt A transcription is available for this episode here.A full list of completed transcriptio