Friends At The Table

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

Several years ago, Arrell, I made a low shelf of wood and attached it to the wall above my bed. Before retiring to bed, I would draw some water and place it in a glass, so I might reach it in the night were I to awake and find myself thirsty. As time passed, I found myself adding to the shelf with things you might scoff at, knick-knacks, nothings. During an afternoon’s walk and study, I might uncover a fragment of pottery by the side of path. A bird’s nest, undisturbed. Two coins stamped with a mark I scarcely knew. I do not know why I kept these things, teacher. I do not pretend that I had aspirations of assembling an archive or a museum. They simply pleased me, I suppose, and I was happy to find a use for my handiwork beyond supporting the weight of a single glass of water. I have kept you too long without explaining the purpose of this digression. One night, I awoke, as I sometimes do, and sat up in bed to reach for the water on my little shelf. I must have been caught in that moment, Arrell, between wakin

It's time I leave Rosemerrow, Alyosha. All sorts of cockroaches scramble through this city, now. And while I am used to the cretinous locals--who can blame them for not ascending to their highest potentials in this town--it is the new arrivals which distract and anger. A fascinating thing, refugees. There is no limit to the reasons that drive them from their erstwhile homes: War, famine, disease, faith.  But regardless, when they leave, however strong their so called "collective will," they are stripped of their culture, alienated from the world--even from each other. For these souls, I do not know that even the New University would offer much education. They are best regarded of runoff from the storm of history. This week on Friends at the Table: Blood Doesn't Run My Tutor, you bear no malice in your appraisal of the world, I know. But you forget: We are both refugees too--and though we too were stripped of our nations, we found our own culture, no?  Strange bedfellows indeed... In the life of an exile ther

The library kept by the New Archives here in Velas saw its final day, Arrell. I walked past its corner today, and it was gone, vanished. Does that make you happy? That their presence in this place was destroyed? I'm sorry, teacher, the quill and ink make me bitter on days like this. The storm has grown strong today, and though I never visited that library, I went out of my way each day to walk past it. It felt like I was helping. Though your scholarship dismisses their pattern magic as more luck than skill, I believe that their "semioticians" are miracle workers, though they do not know it. Their unlikely effects are not magic at all, but are His Holy Intention, reaching into the world and re-arranging it just so. The way I understand its working, the Orcs wait for the proper alignment of circumstances, offering a tap or a pull, here or there, until the world and its sacred inhabitants address each other just so. Once the arrangement is complete: A miracle. Does that not sound like ritual, like prayer to you?

Have you read these so-called “broadsides” from Ordenna yet, Alyosha? They’ve been distributing them here in Rosemerrow. One of them, “A Letter From Impetor Fela Malle,” gets passed around by the young and angry here, youth desperate for a firm hand, for order.   It’s apparently a transcript of a speech delivered by the head of Blood Malle—a rallying cry or an apologia, it is hard to tell. Regardless, I’d scoff at the the arrogance if the paper could hear it. Still, I wonder what you think of it, child.  So, I’ve sent it along for your eyes to labor over—and they will grow weary, I know, but pay close attention to this, at least: "There are, I understand, fears about our new soldiers. There are whispers and rumors of witchcraft, and forbidden magic. Dispel these from your mind, just as these new soldiers will help us dispel those obstacles from the continent. These warriors are not a threat. No. They are our Anchor. Built of Our Steel, they connect us to our soil and our culture as the Ordennan Impetus mov

Has the news reached you, friend? A group of merchants form Rosemerrow told me today that a new wing to the Old Museum in Westshore-Upon-Sea is opening next month. (How I wish we could walk its halls and debate the merits of its exhibits—but ah, it’s more than snow that separates us these days.)  So instead, let me ask you a question, dearest Arrell… The Creed of Samothes is clear that Truth is a reflection of His Holy Light, and should be pursued above all else. Yet I recall from our early lessons that you hold a case for falsehood, too. ‘Even His Sun,’ you told me ‘is a well-meaning deceit, as it appears above us, celestial, yet was built from (and some say, remains in) the ground itself.” I will not open old wounds—I do not want you to convince me of this heresy—I only wonder: Do you still believe it? Yours, always, in heedless faith… This week on Winter in Hieron: A Museum in the Distance Alyosha, in your ardor (for me or Samothes, who can say), you have misremembered my lesson. I never said that a false

In the early days of the New Archives, the philosopher and historian Krent Kava wrote that the first sign that Hieron was on its way to recovery was the return of roadways that connect coast to heartland, city center to distant university. "There," he wrote, "Is civilization back again, drawn together by the eternal will of survivors trying to connect, one to another." Some of the roads, he reminds us, were highways repaired from the days before, and others were wholly new--as our times require paths that the past did not. It is noble thought, of course. But we know now that by the time Scholar Kava wrote those words, Hieron's road system had been rebuilt and destroyed dozens of times by fledgling--and eventually, failed--settlements. The truth, friend, is that our roads neither reflect nor protect any civility we've found. They are merely our footprints turned to stone and gravel, waiting to be covered and lost by the coming snow. This week on Winter in Hieron: An Arrow Let Loose Perhaps, Arrell, perhaps. B

For a long, long time in Hieron, it was autumn. Crisp branches snapped under foot. Still lakes caught the reds, yellows, and oranges of the leaves overhead, stuck eternally between life and death. The waves taunted children and elder alike, a step too cold for all but the bravest of swimmers. And there was laughter, and planning, and good food. People would stand around bonfires--out on the beaches of Velas, in the communal pits of Rosemerrow--and trade stories. Old stories, the kind passed down from parent to child. They bent in new directions with each telling, but they never fully changed. They were trust worthy and familiar, but like a poor cider, dead on the tongue. But it is winter now. Snow has arived in Velas, and it is time for cold tongues to learn new words.   Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Keith J Carberry (@KeithJCarberry), Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal), Nick Scratch (@drevilbones), Andrew Lee Swan (@Swandre3000), Art Tebbel (@atebbel) Produced by

And so the season turns, and the cold winds sweep in, and candles and fires and stoves are lit. Black branches against a white sky. There are more stories to tell, though. There are always more stories to tell. It’s not long before we meet our old friends again, I promise. They’re waiting, right now. They’re kicking the frost off their boots, cold fingers on metal buckles. Before we find them again, though, there is an old story to tell. Perhaps you’ve heard it before. Perhaps this is the first time you’ve heard it. There’s a small island, you see? Waves crash around its rocky coast. There is the silhouette of a tower. It’s better, don’t you think, to bring everybody up to speed? Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Keith J Carberry (@KeithJCarberry), Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal), Nick Scratch (@drevilbones), Andrew Lee Swan (@Swandre3000), Art Tebbel (@atebbel) Produced by Ali Acampora (@ali_west) Cover Art by Craig Sheldon (@shoddyrobot) Episode description by

Hey everyone! Here we are again with no new episode. We really really hate doing this and promise that there will some real and true and good content for you here next week. Marielda ended at the best and worst time because someone is launching a new website and that's taking a ton of time, so at least this interruption is happening inbetween seasons but we still don't feel good about it. We're really sorry! We'll still be doing season 1 recaps the next two weeks. They're going to be very, very good but we just need a little more time to make them perfect.  If you're looking for something to tide you over for the next week Austin was a player (I know) on a new episode of RollPlay: One Shot GM'd by Adam Koebel (author of Dungeon World) and with a bunch of other cool people. Thank you so much for understanding, thank you for your patience, thank you for all of your support. See you on the other side! ~Ali Acampora (@ali_west) on behalf of the whole cast: Keith J Carberry (@KeithJCarberry), Andi Clare(@captaintr

Hey everyone! Sorry for taking a week off, but at least it gives us an opportunity to speak to the audience directly. Thank you so much for all of support for the show and especially for Marielda. While I have you, let me go over all the places you can find Friends at the Table: www.friendsatthetable.net www.twitter.com/friends_table www.facebook.com/friendsatthetable And as for the shoutouts Austin made, the Friends at the Table forum is fatt.proboards.com and Rho's art can be found over at their twitter, twitter.com/eefusi. That's all for today. Thank you again and have a good week! ~Ali Acampora (@ali_west) on behalf of the whole cast: Keith J Carberry (@KeithJCarberry), Sylvia Clare (@captaintrash), Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal), Janine Hawkins (@bleatingheart), Nick Scratch (@drevilbones), Andrew Lee Swan (@Swandre3000), Art Tebbel (@atebbel) and our host Austin Walker (@austin_walker) A transcription is available for this episode here.A full list of completed transcriptions is available here. Our tra

FOREWORD to The Illustrated Concordance of Marielda, Second Printing No chronology will be observed here, nor could one ever be observed—Marielda resists sequential arrangement. Where other atlases and dictionaries seek to duplicate the facts of a culture, treat this text instead as a replica of Marielda’s constant reconfiguration. Thus, the reader should use this concordance as if they were wandering through a city street on the afternoon of an empty day. Follow the the capricious arcs of the written characters from one entry to the next, like the scent of an unseen cafe in the distance. Or, move from entry to entry with the speed and purpose of a busy hour of errands. But understand that neither of these methods will bring you to more truth than any other. As with a mirror, you will get out of this text only as much as you put into it. But if I may make one recommendation: Begin with the entry on dreams. Though there may be no worse place to begin than the reveries of those poor citizens, there is neither a

It was strange. Every morning you’d see The Black Slacks walking to work. By this point, the air would crackle around them, thick with rumours of another potential strike, another march. They’d walk in groups, or in pairs, or alone. Hands in pockets. They whistled. But not that morning. At first, it was as if they’d vanished. District management began to panic, sending runners to nearby factories to confirm reports: The Black Slacks had disappeared. No. Not disappeared. In The Southern Bucket, a woman in plain clothes finished her drink and stood up, and, with the brilliant rush of the sound of the chairs on stone, the rest of the pub stood up with her. They poured out into the street and mingled with the other citizens and on the other side of town a storehouse containing sleeping pala-din exploded. Men and women dessed like anybody else stepped out of the crowd and moved quickly to barricade Maddermarket Street. Another pala-din storehouse became flame, and the flow of foot traffic in the city suddenly beca

In one way or another, High Sun Day is celebrated all across Hieron. After all, there is a day each year on which the sun hangs in the sky, resplendent, for what feels like an impossibly long time. After all, there is a day each year on which the heat gets so strong, the weight of the summer becomes so much, that a celebration must be thrown. On the perimeters of encampments on the plains and forests, light dances brilliantly, impossibly. The orcs have called up thousands of reflective objects, shields, mirrored boxes, from their collections and positioned them along the tops of the walls. From a distance, the settlements appear ringed by flame. The sun does not reach the dwarven cities, deep underground, but the stone feels warm to the touch. They close the heavy doors and snuff out the light and in the darkness hear the sound of the stone cooling. In Marielda, there is a train. There is a train and a volcano and dancing in the streets. A god beloved and feared, a populace, for once, at ease. It is High Sun

Today is Sunday, and not just any Sunday, it is the Sun Day, the Long Day, the Day of High Sun. Once a year, sometime in the final month of the calendar, the sun offers its light to us for 20 full hours. Each year, this event comes on a different day, and it takes the applied knowledge of scholars and mystics to narrow down its arrival. But the moment that the particular day is known, people across Marielda prepare for the festival. Special dishes are made: fig-and-fishtail pies; huge, communal bowls of pasta; slow roasted pork cooked for weeks over the heat of the sea. Adults set aside holiday outfits, and children begin building their bracelets of iron ring—ready to be shook in arhythmic joy at the arrival of the warm glow on the eastern horizon. On the day of High Sun, Marielda celebrates life, safety, and contentedness. The city gives praise to Samothes for providing them protection and sustenance, even in grim times. In Chrysanthemum, people celebrate the day privately, among close kin and kind, sitting

According to the scholars at the Sonorous Academy, there are three important songs in Marielda. The first, “High Pyre Adagio,” has its origins in songs of performative devotion, and emulates the distant, yet deep affection of the God-King Samothes with a temperate piano. The second is “The Last Eve of Summer,” a chamber sonata composed by the so-called traitor Samot during his stay in the City of Light—allegedly written for a particularly talented clarinetist, though no records support this claim. The third, “The Autumn (Lasts A Long Time Here),” predates both Marielda and the City of Light. Built around a memorable guitar melody, it has no clear origin—both the elves of the Western Wood and the refugee population of Emberboro independently claim that it has been in their respective cultures for centuries. These, say the scholars of the Sonorous Academy, are the three songs that matter in Marielda. But the people in that city by the sea don’t care what the scholars say. They’re too busy dancing to a tune that

The nearest pub to Memoriam College is called The Blue Boar and, on the night of the Valentine Affair, the publican leaned out of the door and wondered if she smelled smoke. She ducked back inside and picked up a broom, swept the floor absentmindedly. Customers would be arriving soon, she could ask them if anything was burning. Inside The Gardeners, just down the road, two regulars were engaged in an argument about whether or not a rank of pala-din marching past the window were headed for Memoriam, nonsense, no, it’s a legitimate patrol. It is! By the end of the night, you could smell the soot from The Lamplighter’s Rest, a mediocre coaching inn on the far side of town. In cramped rooms on the third floor, people pressed up against windows to see the red glow on the horizon. The distant sound of gunfire. This week on Marielda: The Valentine Affair Pt. 4 Dark smoke fills the air Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Sylvi Clare (@captaintrash), Jack de Quidt (@notquite

The citizens of Marielda close their eyes and dream of fire and water. On some nights in Canopy Row, people dream of crisp leaves, and residents of Emberboro wake suddenly with the taste of smoke in their mouths. Some years ago, a pamphlet was distributed in the city that purported to identify the difference between dreams and visions. Sceptics passed it between themselves and scoffed, others pinned it up in the windows of shops and apartment buildings. It described the difference between a lake and an ocean. The details are unclear in the memory, more than that is hard to say. There was a lake. There was a wide, black sea through which no lava flowed. This week on Marielda: The Valentine Affair Pt. 3 Hey... pinch me. Am I dreamin'? Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Sylvi Clare (@captaintrash), Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal) and Andrew Lee Swan (@swandre3000) Produced by Ali Acampora (@ali_west) Cover Art by Craig Sheldon (@shoddyrobot) Episode description by Jac

The bells of Memoriam College ring out from high in the tower. At the top of the hour, The Diligent Peal marks the start and end of classes, ushering students from room to room. At half past, The Indolent Peal chimes, waking students who have slept in, letting them know exactly how long they have to get to class. The bells don’t ring cleanly; the first note is pitched differently to the third, for example. The fifth sounds as thought it belongs to an entirely different tower. There is a rumour that, on the foundation of the college and the building of the tower, one bell was taken from the spires of each of Marielda’s parishes and installed in Memoriam. Perhaps it is untrue. Who could say. Climb the bell tower and look out at the other churches in the distance, hear their distant notes. What a beautiful view. What a beautiful city. This week on Marielda: The Valentine Affair Pt. 2 Shh! Quiet in the library! Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Sylvi Clare (@captaintr

Memoriam College only wears flowers for one week a year. On Sunday morning of that week, they send a man called Alexander to fetch them from the florists on Today-And-Tomorrow Street. He carries them back to the building and, balanced on a ladder, arms full of blooms, fixes the arrangements above the balconies. As he works, butchers and chefs down in the kitchens peer at yellowed recipe cards, trying to remember just how they made these dishes last year. In the empty refectory, Prelate Silas practices the grace he knows so well, looking at himself in the mirror. You’re getting old, he thinks. He sounds out the prayer’s vowels and its consonants carefully. He practices a smile. With eyes closed, he imagines exactly the day that lay ahead. Across town, five scoundrels do exactly the same. This week on Marielda: The Valentine Affair Pt. 1 You did remember to study, right?   Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker) Featuring  Ali Acampora (@ali_west), Sylvi Clare (@captaintrash), Jack de Quidt (@notquitereal) a