Short Fiction
Voices of Eleriah was a gamified narrative delivered to the StarGarden community in 2022.
Each week, our team released new chapters from a series of short stories designed to introduce fans to some key characters from our world. These yarns were all written to have their own unique voice and tone, while still gesturing to the larger superstory of our IP.
Below you can find two Voices of Eleriah narratives in full.
Orlisa
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Chapter I
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When I left our settlement in the outskirts of the Groundlands, the Elders called me mad. They reminded me of the dangers that lurked in the Divine Riverway, for countless adventurers—stronger and better prepared than I—had vanished in these cavernous depths, never to be seen or heard from again. The old stories say that the light of the Cloaked Core is guarded by the most fervent of ferocities—that the river leading to our sacred lagoon flows with a million forgotten souls. And so I, the Elders believed, would be joining them.
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Foolish, they called me.
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Lost her mind, they said.
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Then again, no one reads the old stories anymore. Those tales are mine to keep in my tiny shack inside the trunk of a SongTree, those tightly bound volumes stacked on the shelf beside my bedside hutch and SaintedBreath necklace. If I had listened to the Elders, I would still be there now, living my lonely life as a Divine Follower, following nothing but the words of my faithless brethren. They are the mad ones, I believe, because they are the ones who’ve lost faith.
But not me. Here I am, seeking you, Orangutan Story-Weaver, searching for you and waiting for you as I always have, for that vision of the sacred lagoon has clung to the forefront of my mind since I first dreamed of it… Haunting me, the image of a sparkling portal aloft in a field of poppies as a sky—an actual sky with sunlight and the silhouettes of the floating fragments amidst the clouds—expands overhead. The other creatures down here have evolved to live without the heavens, but we Elerians look no different than we did at the earliest days of the war. Paler, sure. Thinner, maybe. But we still need it and my tribe still needs it, and the only thing that separates me from the Elders is the willingness to leave… to search… to believe…
Until now, I have stayed close to the river—using its soft white-blue glow to illuminate my path. The water pulses with living Aurah, but the further I stray from its inviting light, the darker these woods become, until soon all that’s left to guide me is the faintest suggestion of splashing behind the branches. While I have been disciplined, I have not been disciplined enough, and as I covered trail after trail, crossing fallen trees, stepping around flooded pathways, slinking through the undergrowth, I allowed my mind to wander. With it I did stray… and stray… until I found myself here.
Where here actually is, I have no idea.
I give my mossen cowl a shake, and from its foliage emerge my two flower-dwelling companions: these are my beloved Nectar Fey, no bigger than a skipping stone, who live on my shoulders. The roots of their HomeFlowers entangled within my MossRobe–-we live in a symbiosis scored by lovely song. Leaving chalk-scrapes in the sky, the Fey now zip around me in loops and spirals, scanning the forest, each one another set of keen eyes in the surrounding ever-night. Years ago, I found this fallen colony while exploring the foot of the Havens and took the creatures in, and ever since, they have been more loyal to me than any Elerian. They would never lead me astray.
At once, my little Fey coalesce into a single white beacon and point me further down the trail. Doubt tugs at me, though. It feels as if I’m moving further from the river. But I do not know—this rainforest is a labyrinth, after all. Some say that the trees themselves move to keep invaders lost.
But as you used to say, Story-Weaver, when another entrusts their life with us, we are wise to repay the favor. I will follow my companions. I will trust them here and now.
Mud sticking to my boots, I trudge forward into a ring of tall grass. The Nectar Fey twinge at once in my cowl—a dozen flashing lights, a warning that I’m not alone. Inching backwards, I bump into a massive tree, and in response, the bark flickers awake with digitized energy. Like spider legs, the roots hoist off the ground and the Kapok leers down at me, rivets in its trunk forming the brow of an ancient guardian.
Before I can register the behemoth, it’s bearing down at me with its roots lashing the grass. I clasp my SaintedBreath necklace and stagger back in its shadow, the notion of my death contorting within its thorny branches: Seems the Elders were right, all along…
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Chapter II
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It’s in the Great Writings that each and every SaintedBreath necklace comes adorned with a vial of breath from the Story-Weaver Orangutan, and in that breath is a word, a syllable, a thought, a phrase from her travels across Eleriah. Some say we Divine Followers of the Orangutan have sworn a secret oath, a sacred vow, but we know better: Ours is the way of plants that rise and wilt with the seasons, of fallen seeds that land in the dirt and sprout anew, of the starry SilkWeaver crawling up the cavern walls to make its chrysalis. Such is, is. And even the cruelest creatures that roam this wilderness are freed from sister entropy’s marvelous indifference.
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Because of this, the Divine Followers promised to lay down their arms, centuries upon centuries ago. We have unclenched our fists; we have turned our backs, forever, on the temptation of war. And we do so in the understanding that life will always bring us, as it brings all, to the altar of danger. This is what it means to respect the flow of things, for who are we to interfere with the poetry in forces of nature?
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Now confronted by the Ward, an almighty guardian of the Riverway, I know better than to fight. I will not seek harm upon another living thing. I will not meet its rage with my own—no, I will not disturb the sanctity of this wondrous and terrible place, and that knowledge quells my heartbeat as I fall backwards in its looming presence. There’s another way. There’s always another way.
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But I have to act fast:
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I pluck a patch of forest circuitry from my belt and crumple it in my fist, and as the frayed wires and weeds crunch in my fingers, I recite some words from the Elder-Songs, the oldest of the Great Writings. In a flash of static, a constellation of tiny stars erupts before me. A million miniature galaxies blossom and burst around the Ward—the faintest of voices swirling in the spectral magic, distracting the behemoth just long enough for me to turn and flee into the grass.
The ground shakes beneath me as I tear through the trees. Bless the little Nectar Fey on my cloak: How they leap and hurl thorns at the following foe. I dive and skid into a hollowed out log, curling up in the shadows while the Ward, still dazed, staggers past with a thunderous groan.
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Under my breath, I say a quick poem to the Gods, an apology for disturbing such a venerable creature, but as the words leave my mouth, the ground unsettles beneath me. Through the log, I watch as the forest tilts sideways.
Sliding… Downhill…
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I brace myself inside the log as I plummet down a steep slope, branches and acorns smashing beneath my weight, until a ragged thud sounds and, like some tiny, insignificant thing cast aside by a colossus, I’m fired straight up into the air… screaming… flailing… and…
Whumph!
Can’t… Speak…
Clearing my throat… I check my surroundings… my… what is this? A ravine or… or… a crater…
My Fey companions, having waited for me to land, come fluttering down from above and settle back onto my shoulders. I wince to my feet, muttering some words at them that I will soon regret, when the entire crater seems to shrink around me. I cast an illuminating spell and—
Oh. Oh no.
Ward. There must be ten or twelve of them, all waiting for me in the pit.
I reach for my forest circuitry—but stop. There will be no distracting this legion, no stopping them. I’m badly outnumbered. Letting out an exhale, I pluck a petal from a metallic orchid in my cloak and release it to the breeze.
To my Fey, I’m sorry for bringing you out here and failing to keep you safe.
To the Riverway, I apologize for intruding on such sacred ground.
To you, Story-Weaver, I offer my heartfelt farewell.
A horn sounds. Faraway.
The Ward draw back and I lift my head to see shadows, dozens of them, darting through the trees. And while I have turned my back on the temptation of war, it seems that war has not turned its back on me…
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Chapter III
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An army. A tribe. Moving as one.
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They all land in a perfect circle around me, some Elerian, some Lulu, banded together in arms and staring down the Ward with the ferocity of one. The horn blows a second time, and the two sides meet in the center of the crater— howling in conflict as colorful sparks pop all around me.
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One Lulu hurls a glowing bottle at a Ward, and when it bursts, a bubbly substance calcifies in its branches. An Elerian lets out a deafening whistle, and on its signal, a phalanx of armored StarHerons billow down to peck their enemy to pieces. The Ward fight back—they bind their enemies in tangled roots and send seismic cascades through the ground with their trunk-feet. But my defenders are steadfast. Soon my Nectar Fey join them, firing luminescent needles from the edge of our battlefield. Doing what they can to help.
And I’m joining them too, as best as I can, with my little spells and forest circuitry.
In the fray, I notice something strange in the eyes of the Ward… Something darker than usual… I’ve felt this darkness before, from time to time in the woods nearer to home, but I was too afraid to eye it for long enough to know that it needs to be known further. But now, as bursts of bright light illuminate their sap-amber eyes, I see in them a sickness of sorts… The Writings of The Cloaked Core warn of an affliction from above, falling from the darkness that conceals these sacred lands, and I can’t help but wonder if this is what I’m seeing in the gaze of these creatures.
Even still, the Ward are strong.
And apart, my allies and I, we are weak. But with our arms braided together on the battlefield, these ragtag wildfolk and I possess the legendary fortitude of JUM—the raw power of Eleriah’s most unbreakable beast, a mythical creature known in the Old Tales across all of our domains.
Woven together and mighty, we overwhelm the Ward from all sides. Oh, dear ancestors, I do apologize for such aggression. I will make it up to you in the next life.
Everything settles and I hear a cheer, an infectious hoot and holler that seems to roll from one warrior to the next. It dawns on me: The Ward are retreating. I fall back with my defenders and watch as the remaining tree guardians clamber out of the pit and disappear. Meanwhile, out from the tribe emerge two little warriors, bound in robes and carrying patchwork horns. The first one, with emerald eyes, stares up at me from her hood. “Are you hurt?”
I catch my breath. “No, ma’am. Just shaken is all.”
The second robed warrior, with a twiggy brow, inspects the cuts and bruises on my hands. “Took quite a fall back there.” He gives a hearty laugh and slaps me on the back. “You’ve got a constitution about you.”
“Don’t mind him,” Emerald Eyes says. “He’s battle-drunk… and drunk-drunk.”
“Thank you,” I say, “all of you, for saving me. Thought I was done for.”
“We did, too,” Twig Brow grumbles.
Emerald Eyes bumps him with her horn. “These woods are no place to be walking alone. You should be more careful.”
Withdrawing for a moment, I notice a charm wrapped around her neck—a SaintedBreath vial, just like my own—and I can see another poking out from the fibers of Twig Brow’s beard. “Are you…”
“Divine Followers,” Twig Brow plants his horn into the mud. “Sworn to the unforgotten Story-Weaver.”
In all my life, I have never met another Divine Follower—let alone a whole tribe of them. I was the outsider in my village, the hut nobody visits, the old soul, the living artifact. By now, I had come to assume that the rest of us had either died or moved on, losing hope that the Story-Weaver would ever return. For all this time, I believed I was alone.
Emerald Eyes smiles. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
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Chapter IV
We climb out of the pit and make our way, not back to the river, but rather to a quiet shrine forged in the skull of an enormous tree serpent—large enough to house a village of a few dozen.
Twig Brow slices some vines from the serpent’s fangs and nests them as kindling in a fire pit, casting a pale green light. As the green flames grow, Emerald Eyes sits beside me with a mortar and pestle, crafting a mash of sourberries and glitter magnets. “This might burn a little,” she says, applying her paste to the cuts on my arm.
My wounds hiss.
“It’s for your own good,” she says. “Now they won’t leave a scar.”
Twig Brow clears the smoke from his throat. “A little scrape and scratch does an Elerian good. Don’t you think?”
Emerald Eyes ignores him, continues: “So you were walking alone...”
“Alone, yes,” I say. “Searching.”
Twig Brow leans closer. “Searching. For what?”
I hesitate.
But then I say: “I’m searching for the Lagoon.”
A hush falls over the group, rippling through camp, and ascends a nearby tree, where a pair of infant Aurahma are playing catch with a SongWillow seedling. The spirit-children, perhaps hearing my words, also cease playing and wander to the edge of their branch, studying me with their cosmic eyes widened and their little heads tilted sideways.
Twig Brow scoffs. “You thought you alone could find the Lagoon of Lost Divines? Are you mad?”
Mad. There it is again. I venture so very far only to find the same three-lettered malediction.
Emerald Eyes takes on a more lamenting tone. “You’ve been lost.”
I yank my hand away from her before she can apply any more of that bubbling substance. “You call yourselves Divine Followers with such doubt in your hearts?”
Nobody moves.
Twig Brow scowls at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re keepers of the most sacred tale of all,” I say. “The memory of the Story-Weaver. Does it not haunt you? Do you not dream of the Lagoon, with its gleaming springs and Aurah-wells? Do you not long to see it, the ever-lit sky, the heavens we have lost? Does All-Above not call to you?”
My words fall flat, a funereal silence casting a heavy shadow over the camp. The Aurahma let out a sorrowful chirp before dissolving into a shimmering gust of wind. Emerald Eyes watches them, wiping her hands on her robes. “You’re right, lonely priestess. Those are stories—stories, but nothing more. When the forest sank, the lagoon sank with it, with all of us. That sky? The one you speak of?”
Twig Brow spits into the grass. “It’s not but a myth.”
An elder nods: “A myth, yes. A folktale for the children.”
I stammer. “A lie, you mean. Why lie about something so sacred?”
Emerald Eyes stares at me as if she could see right through my skin to the bones and blood pumping in my veins. “Because,” she whispers, “ours is a story of hope. To remain hopeful. To dream of paradise, of an end to this endless war. These tales… they aren’t always honest, because they speak truth to the heart.”
“The Story-Weaver does not lie,” I say, my voice echoing louder. “She left us with these memories, these dreams, for a reason. She wants us to find her—to seek her, to follow her. She calls on us.”
Emerald Eyes turns to Twig Brow, as if looking for help. He waves smoke out of his face and says, “Lonesome priestess, the Story-Weaver hasn’t been seen in these woods for ages upon ages. Who knows, we might not even recognize her, if she appeared.”
Tears sting my cheeks. “No,” I say. “You’re wrong. You’re all wrong.” I want to prove it, to show them. But I have nothing—no words, no offerings, no signs. All I have left is the Fey Colony on my back and a bundle of spices and roots in my belt.
Some Follower I am. I can’t even kindle the faith of my own people, let alone reach the Lagoon of Lost Divines.
I sit. But not in defeat. I’m tired.
“I believe. I’ll always believe.”
Suddenly, my cloak illuminates. The Nectar Fey unroot and swirl around my head—they sing, invigorated by something, and fly off—I watch them drift out of the camp, heading further up the slope.
“Where are they off to?” Emerald Eyes says.
I don’t know. But I can feel it in my bones: “They… they want to show us something.”
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Chapter V
With the other Followers treading in my footsteps, I move up the trail and chase the flowing outlines in the mist until I find my Nectar Fey dancing in circles around a gulched overlook. The brush softening beneath my bare feet, I inch out and welcome them back into my cloak.
“What’s gotten into all of you?”
The Fey swoon back into their flowerbud nests on my shoulders, and the forest sinks, once again, into darkness. I look back at the Divine Followers—at Twig Brow and Emerald Eyes. “Fey,” I say. “They live by their whims.”
Twig Brow emerges on the precipice and gazes off into the distance; Emerald Eyes lingers back, her face gaunt with wonder. “If only we could be so lucky.”
What could they be looking at?
I join Twig Brow on the edge of the slope and squint out at the forest, at the deep crater from which we escaped: an infinite sea of treetops swaying around its muddy walls, vents of fog slipping up through their leaves as our underground prison drags infinitely towards a ceiling far out of reach, blue fungus radiating down at us like a meek imitation of a night sky.
Then I see it.. what they see…
It’s not a pit. Or a crater. No, it’s not a crater at all, but rather a footprint—a four-toed imprint from an orangutan larger than any woodland palace or kingdom.
I turn to Emerald Eyes. “Is that…”
She nods.
“... Story-Weaver.”
The Fey prickle to life on these words and warm my face. Now I understand why they led me astray, why they steered me far from the safety of the riverbank: They have been guiding me here, to this spot, this gift, all along. I offer them a word of thanks and, in my heart, promise never to doubt them again.
Along with Twig Brow, Emerald Eyes and the other Followers, I remain on the overlook for what feels like hours, basking in the presence of our God unseen. I can tell by the stillness in their breathing that they now understand the truth, the truth that brought me out here in the first place.
The Divines are still with us. Our Lagoon still remains. Together, we can find it… Only together…
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Epilogue
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It’s been weeks since we saw the great footprint, but I feel again what I felt before…
What stirs you, little Fey?
Cinders from the fire still piercing the darkness, I roll on my side and scan our surroundings. My tribe sleeps peacefully around me—some in wiry hammocks, others on sanded down logs or even heaps of bramble and leaves.
My cowl stretches over me in the grass, doubling as a blanket. Between its folds and moss-clump stitching, the Fey colony buzzes with life. I hear heavy movement in the trees and jump to my feet, heart pounding.
The Ward… have they returned?
No…
I see eyes… eyes as big as lakes… peering down at us through the darkness… this is no Ward…
This is you.
And with your arrival comes a rush of voices—of stories—into the temple of our collective dreams. I reach up and—all at once—the eyes recede into the woods. Gone. Our patch of the Cloaked Core returns to the stillness of a shadowed garden. The Fey nestle back in their flower buds and drift off to sleep, and I settle in with them, exhaling, closing my eyes.
But my heart keeps pounding…
You’re out there. I’ve seen you. I’ve felt your presence.
All this time, I thought I’ve been searching for you, but now I know: You’ve been searching for me. And while I know not where this journey will take us, I will never lose hope in the fact that all paths, no matter how winding, will lead us home.
Story-Weaver.
Show us the way.
I will follow.
The Merchant
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Chapter I
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Every so often, you just need a change… an adjustment… a new you… Utilizing only the finest salvaged Binarian technology, with our own modifications from specialists here in the Hearth, you can finally attain the face, or faces, of your dreams. With this proprietary feature-rearranging device, become the you that you are meant to be! … Every so often, you just need a change… an adjustment… a new you…
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… Late, and the light in the hazy sky is setting over the Hearth—I can tell by the splinters of moonlight rattling the vents, the scrum of airships, and visitors pouring through the gatehouse. Customers are these, these strangers, these wonderful patrons in our paradise, drawn to revelry and madness in our great city suspended atop the peak of the volcano. For who could blame them? Who doesn't crave an eve of celebration—and a dash of scandal—from time to time? And who could come here, if not wanting, if not craving some invisible thing, that name on the tip of your tongue, that word which never takes shape yet manages, nonetheless, to flow through the mechanoids, propulsion attachments, and laser-fried armor that flood this, our market square?
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There’s a message emblazoned on the guard towers that overlook our entryway: All are greeted with the warmest welcome. From our most upstanding citizens to our most repugnant shadows. Where better than the Hearth to receive a warm welcome? And who better to greet them than yours truly?
And what a true delight to visit our market at nightfall. Strings of mismatched bare-bulbs flicker over the smeltered streets as tents upon ships upon tents pile on top of each other, caulked by the occasional bargain bin or cinched bag of goodies. I occasionally need to remind myself of the wonder we have created here, of the paradise—flawed, sure, but paradise nonetheless—we have sculpted from the ashes of the War. What a miracle: We have everything here. Everything. All you could want, all you could dream of. It’s out here. I can find it all. And I can sell it all.
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I move past crowds of speculators—past a droid from the Blasted Sands; past some wisps from the fallen Gates (stingy ones, those); past a spongey, long-limbed fungus carrying… a MechLance? My two Lulu assistants leap out of an opened window, their hands spilling over with all sorts of trinkets and trash. Poor critters. What Lulus have in energy and enthusiasm, they lack in brains. Born with wax in their ears, that’s what people say. Not me, of course. I would never deride the hard work of my lovely assistants.
But I do understand the complaint.
Take this. What is this—a small steering wheel of some kind? What have my assistants given me this time? Teeth marks in the leather… and the wires look like they belong in an antiquated rig. Sure, I could patch it up back in my shop… scrub these talon marks from the hover module… call it a keepsake from the wastelands of the War. I could sell this thing for triple its worth (which is nothing, I must admit). But what manner of salesman would that make me? An exaggeration, here and there, never hurt anybody, but a good merchant knows better than to lie.
I hand back the wheel and give my pitiful Lulus a pat on the head, when a sound rises up from the crowd… a voice… and it’s saying something… something I recognize… is that… no…
My name.
I haven’t heard that name in years. Decades. The name I’ve become known by here in the Hearth… that is not the name this voice has spoken. The voice speaks the name I’ve hidden…
How does it know? Who could this voice be?
My Lulus look up at me with their big, electric eyes. They want more work, more direction, anything at all. With a wave of the hand, I send my assistants back into the market to fetch more collectibles. Something, anything. As they round into a kiosk bartering knockoff Legban statues, I follow the voice to an alley between two shops. It calls to me once more. My name. But no one is here.
— Hello?
No answer.
— Who’s there? How do you know this name?
I’m met with little more than a volcanic sigh, a tuft of lava-heated wind that rushes down the alley to a stairwell behind the shops. All I can make out are two or three steps before the precipice plunges into a hollow void. Below. Beneath the city.
I glance once back over my shoulder to our bustling market—strands of multi-colored light, laughing guests, a blooming invitation to music and mischief... But the voice on the wind beckons me, though, to venture further into the shadows. Will I go? Will I brave the dark?
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Chapter II
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For ages, the Divine Cavalry was assumed lost—forgotten relics from the old days. But it is lost no longer: a recent expedition revealed hundreds of these golden effigies in pristine condition, and now you can claim one for your home! In the past, these statuettes of mounted warriors were said to cast a signal of guardian light over you in the throes of battle, whatever your fight may be…
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— What do you want with me? How do you know this name?
The voice answers not. It merely recites my name again and again, the syllables bouncing off the walls as the stairwell grows thinner with each passing step. How long have I been descending? When I look back towards the city, I can no longer see the market lights; I’m surrounded only by stone walls marred by claw-marks that glisten with an oily substance. Is this language or madness?
I try to steady myself on the bannister, but it pops loose and crumbles in my hand like the bones of a prehistoric skeleton. Dusting my hands on my topcoat, I think of my assistants, my gentle-hearted Lulus, back upstairs minding the marketplace. They must be looking for me, now. I can picture them bouncing around—wrestling each other as they pore through a shelf of bottled holowaves, lugging a veritable boxcar of chaff for me to showcase in my storefront window.
I’ve been taught better than to wander so deep into our city at night. Hearth Aristocrats have no business rummaging around down here, in the Lower City, with the lowly and the lost and the bottom-feeders. But just as I set my mind to turning around and following the stairwell back up to the surface, the voice creeps back into my ears and sends me further on this descending spiral.
A crunch sounds. Wood splinters beneath my feet. The staircase collapses and I can tell that I’m falling by the rush of wind in my face—but all I can see are shadows moving up the gnarled walls.
Faster, blurrier.
And I hit the ground. The last time I had the wind so positively knocked out of me was when a former customer—a fine fellow in just about every other respect—took issue with my refund policy and accused me (can you believe it?) of ripping him off. I do not cheat others. I do not lie.
I find my breath again and look around the surrounding dark… I’d expected this place to be a pile of dust and debris—the dirty gut of the volcano— but it’s actually eerily clean. Eerily empty. Even in its lightless state, it seems to be more pristine, more well-kept, than anything up in the Hearth.
Something isn’t right, I tell myself. I must have hit my head during the fall.
— Well. I’m here. I certainly hope you're happy, even if you’re silent in response.
The voice is silent in response.
— Look. I’ve followed you this far. Will you just tell me what this is all about?
Still nothing.
Whatever this prank was, it has officially gotten old. Pulling up the collar of my coat, I gesture back to the fractured stairwell and say, You better not expect me to pay for this. I’ll have you know, sir or madam, that I am quite an important figure in this city, and my people will not appreciate this sort of… of… disrespect…
With a sudden pop, this place erupts into a plume of color: reds, yellows, oranges, purples. The kaleidoscope sharpens in my pupils and I find myself not on an empty subterranean street, but rather at the entrance to a vibrant bazaar, the likes of which I’ve never seen. This place is a well-kept secret. And I’ve discovered it, all for myself.
Pools of black smoke snake up through the marbled walkway, leaving behind orbs of twitching energy to lead me through the entrance. I pause at the mouth of the bazaar and inspect its divination wheel of shops and stalls, this cornucopia of strange antiques and technology from the outermost reaches of Eleriah.
— What is this place?
All I can do is take another step. Inside.
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Chapter III
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We all need a friend! That person we can trust with our deepest secrets—especially when navigating the challenges of life on the ever-dangerous Mountains of Eleriah. That is why the folks at the Hearth Supply Company have devoted themselves to producing the finest quality of luxury holographic goods. Life can be lonely on the trail, but with your Programmable Attendant, equipped with over 300 unique conversations and capable of reciting all the uncovered classics of Elerian literature—beloved songs and poems and fables—you’ll never feel alone again…
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… Everything. Have you ever seen everything?
An incandescent heliosphere whirrs at the center of the bazaar, rays of brilliant color shining through its glass globe—a rainbow tide to crash at the tips of my boots as I meander from shop to shop. Here is a pack of Primordial gloaming-dust; there is a shelf of portal cogs—still warm! A smoky scent leads me around a corner to a stall selling jarred and jellied SpitSnails, the briny garnish of only the truest aristocrat. I should take a few for my assistants to nibble on… But I don’t.
Best of all: There are no customers, no competitors, no crowds to navigate while pursuing the bazaar’s labyrinthine delights. Alone on the street, I give in to the temptation and reach for a SpitSnail jar from the shelf—but in this moment the voice comes flowing back into the space between my ears, sweeping from one ear to the other like an adornment dropped around my neck…. I freeze with my hand suspended above the thing I desire… The voice rises:
— Take it…
I go for the coins in my possession and ask, How much?
— Your money has no value here.
— You mean…
— Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Take it all.
My mind wanders down to the foot of the volcano, to the outskirts of our proud mountain range, where droves of tiny mine-workers dig away in search of gems and treasure and fuel for their many machines. I think of all those VentSeekers, FireRaisers, and VentWalkers willing to risk their lives for even the faintest hint of good fortune. They are beautiful fools indeed.
Tell me, now: What is this place, if not good?
And who am I, if not fortunate?
Yes. It is decided. I owe it to my people—nay, to mighty RamGod herself—to accept the voice’s most gracious offering.
So I place the jar in my knapsack. Then another. Then another, for good measure. Then my stomach rumbles with an insatiable appetite, and I take off, moving from shop to shop, filling my bag with anything my hands could grasp: music boxes of ancient priests… teeth of Ophiyaan sharks… scales from the coastal Boa… pycroclastic clippings from RamGod’s horns… everything… Everything! My god, have you ever seen everything? My wants instantly become real in this perfect place.
And with every selection, the voice comes back:
— Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Take it all.
After a while, I wonder how much time has passed down here…
As this thought arrests me, the heliosphere stops spinning and wanes, and the bazaar loses its color, shadows of empty shelves climbing the tent like prison bars.
I call on the voice:
— Hello? Are you still there?
But nothing needs to be said: The time has come for the dream to end, for me to wake up and return to the city above—to my ever-doting Lulu assistants, to the haggling and gouging and double-dealing of the Hearth marketplace, to the humdrum hustle and bustle of a merchant’s living. What a lovely dream it was… Maybe I will come back here, every day, for just a little while.
By now, my carry-bag is bulging at the seams, its canvas belly so distended that I can no longer wear it on my back. I drag it behind me like an anchor, careful not to damage any of my newfound invaluables. Getting this thing up the broken stairwell will pose a new challenge altogether, but no worries: When I get back to the spot from which I fell, I’ll call upon my Lulus, and they’ll find a way out of this. They’ll see what I’m carrying and know right away that we have quite a haul indeed.
Where are they, though? The stairs. I swear they were just a few steps behind the bazaar’s entrance, but when I exit the tent, I’m greeted only by a dark alley, a maze of walls stained with ash from the mountain. I round corner into another, faced with dead end after dead end, until I finally decide to leave my carry-bag behind while I set forth on foot in search of an exit.
How much time has passed since I began searching for a way out? I do not know. I cannot know.
I’m lost. Oh, I’m lost. I’m lost, I’m lost, I’m lost, I’m lost, I’m lost…
All the while, the voice remains quiet.
It brought me here. It brought me everything.
But why won’t it bring me home?
​
Chapter IV
Laser wings! Need I say more? They’re wings! With lasers! Previously owned but guaranteed reliable!
​
…I’m so lost now, and I sense that something’s moving in the dark.
I can hear footsteps booming behind the walls as I roam these empty streets and turn corners into a deeper unknown. By now, the stairwell is the furthest thing from my mind: I can’t even trace my footsteps back to my carry-bag, to the closed bazaar.
This wall… I remember this wall… the markings on its brick… something has been clawing at it…
What is this place? Little row-houses have been carved beneath our city, but they have long since been deserted—windows cracked, doors ajar, vents beneath the structures that exhale warm air up from the volcano’s core. When I fan aside the steam, I find ancient messages engraved in the brick.
It is said that, when Lulu workers become too old to keep up their work in the Elerian mines, they are sent down to waste away in a small temple at the foot of the volcano. As I walk the streets of this empty neighborhood, I find myself thinking of those downtrodden creatures. Perhaps it’s the long-faded footprints on the sidewalk—are they long-faded? Or the strange symbols of a sign (translating to “Open for Business”) dangling in an abandoned storefront window. Or maybe it’s the fact that—despite being close to the core of our great volcano—I can no longer hear the infernal pulse that so often underscores life in the Hearth. Yes, this is a place of forgotten things.
Things like me.
I cry out to the great maze:
— Help! I’m lost! Please!
No one is listening.
Not even the voice.
Each time I call for help, I hear even more movement in the darkness—closer and closer, drawn to my presence. I remind myself that Hearth Aristocrats have no business rummaging around down here, in the Lower City, with the lowly and the lost and the bottom-feeders. Why am I here?
Ah, but wait!
These footsteps on the path—I’ve seen these before! These are mine, indeed! Tracing them, I weave through the catacombs to find my carry-bag, my beautiful carry-bag, with twin Aurahflies fluttering over its cinched pouch.
I rush over to it and rip it open to find all my possessions untouched, just as I left them. But as I take stock of my inventory, I hear a low growl nearby, a murmur that quakes down from the core of the mountain to the pit of my stomach.
I lift my head and come to the quite miserable realization that those two Aurahflies are not, in fact, Aurahflies at all, but rather a pair of beady, glowing eyes belonging to… some shapeless thing… Globs of drool froth in its fangs as I trace from its hateful stare to its thick, taloned feet…
It groans... An eruption so hateful that, for a moment, I think the Hearth might cave in.
I turn and run as fast as my boots will take me, tearing through the underground so frantically that I could cross from one end of the city to the other in a matter of minutes. The beast barrels after me, kicking up cobblestones as it explodes through the buildings, and soon two feet become four… and four become eight… Are there more beasts, or is the beast itself changing its form?
Lava blooms through the vents, spills down before me and walls off my path—forcing me into a narrow causeway. There it is: dead end, no escape. I reach up and place my hands against the wall, pounding in frustration as I turn to see the glowing eyes turn the corner and focus on me.
Dead end. No escape.
The thing in the shadows closes in, eyes widening with hunger, when a sound flares up over the lava. Laughter. The voice is laughing at me. Its spiteful cackle pounds in my ears as fangs and talons push away the walls and I find myself afloat—yes, suspended in spectral emptiness.
Dead end. No escape. The last thing I hear is the sound of my own head hitting the street.
​
Chapter V
Technicians have been noticing rifts… strange happenings on the Elerian mainland… the utterings of spirits from long ago… And now you can hear them. These field recordings from the Elerian domains will reveal the unfathomable truth about our world. You know it and I know it, but no one will say it: All is not what it seems. Seek the truth today…
​
— He’s awake.
These words echo all around me. My head feels like it's been filled with a thousand gold coins, and as I rise out of the dirt, they come plinking down against my skull, one by one. The strangers draw into focus, seven of them, wearing strange garb and blankets stitched with ravenlike patterns from the Highlands outposts. Helmets blot out their faces, glitchy shapes flickering behind their cracked, holographic visors.
Lava pounds beneath my feet. We’re deeper, now. Gone is the creature that chased me down as if I were some scavenging dog—at least I hope it’s gone. I sit up to find that there’s a group gathered around a campfire of an abandoned plaza of some kind, which feels like the center of a maze. I see the shadowed silhouettes of structures that feel like temples but are quite unfamiliar. I was taught that the Lower City was a place of rabble and filth, but here before my eyes is a beautiful sight. Not just this strangely pristine square, but also the sight of those who saved me.
The leader of these misfits, whoever she is, pulls a lid from a pot floating above the fire. Her visor scrolls through images of a faraway forest—sunlight falling on trees, with their pulsing roots plump in the aftermath of a new rain. She plunges a tankard into the pot and hands me a cup of water.
— Drink up. You’re safe.
Where are we? I ask.
— This place has no name.
— We’re still in the mountain? The Hearth?
The strangers laugh.
You were unconscious when we found you, their leader continues. For a time, we thought you might be dead. Are you hurt?
— Did you see it? The beast?
— What beast?
— Eyes and fangs and talons… Does it change its form? It was coming for me… a trap… must have been…
The leader places her hand on my forehead. Calm down, she says. Drink up, we’ll boil more water.
She snaps her fingers. One of her followers snatches the pot from mid-air and vanishes into the underground city.
I gulp down the lukewarm water and stammer, running my fingers through my hair. But you… you must have seen it… the canopy… the bazaar…
Perhaps a dream, the leader says. The stairway village has been abandoned for quite some time now. You’d be lucky to spot a VentWorm grubbling around there, let alone a marketplace. And even if there was one, whom would it serve?
— I know what I saw. I was there.
— Can you prove it?
I gaze into fire. There’s a device at its base, made of some kind of organic metallic substance that unfolds in perfect symmetry like a Highland Orchid, its center providing the fuel for the dancing flames. It’s a device I do not recognize—I don’t even understand how it works—but it’s a piece of technology I’d love to get to know. How did they find this? Who are these others surrounding me?
Before I can ask, the follower returns to camp with a water-filled pot—but he says he’s found something else. Everyone turns to look at the follower, who is joined by two tiny shadows at his side… I sense a familiarity in my heart and I squint… And sure enough, I see my trusty Lulu assistants step forward into the flickering of the firelight.
— My friends!
My Lulus hop up onto my lap.
— You shouldn’t have followed me. You shouldn’t have come down here. But I’m so glad you did.
Born with wax in their ears, they are indeed. But born with the biggest of hearts, they are as well.
The leader takes the pot and hovers it over the fire, gazing at the city reflected over its surface. She asks what an Aristocrat of the Hearth is doing down here.
— A voice led me here.
— A voice? Whose voice?
— It called me to a stairwell.. and… well… nevermind.
The leader takes a moment to look around at the others, who have left us to make camp—they work together, in silence, to assemble and unfold cots around the fire. The leader continues:
— Our tribe tells a story of a young bird that strays too far from the sunlight and gets lost in the mountain. The bird must choose: Will it beat its wings and chase the light? Or venture further into this fate, undecided?
I perk up and say, Will it brave the dark?
That’s right, she says. You’ve found yourself in a strange circumstance, but not a circumstance of strangers. We will help you. First, though, you must choose: Will you return to the surface? Or press forward into this unknown?
I retrieve my money clip and extend it over the fire. Thank you for your help, I say. For everything. Please, take it.
​
— Oh, friend, your money has no value here.
Hmm… I feel like I’ve heard this before. My head is hazy still…
The leader asks my name.
My name…
I have the reflex to speak a false name, as I have to all others I’ve met since coming to the Hearth a long time ago. I know, I know. A good merchant knows better than to lie. But some truths are best kept to oneself, like a prayer. I hesitate: What shall I do? What should I do?
In my hesitation, the leader refills my cup with water from the pot, and I realize that I cannot lie. Not here, not to these new friends. This place I’m in, the feeling in my heart, it’s all different now.
My name is Ablyn.
— Nice to meet you, Ablyn. I am Heilli. You will come to know the others soon. They have made a cot for you and your friends. Go now, get your rest. We set forth when the song of the birds begins to echo at dawn.
​
Epilogue
​
My ears catch a beautiful sound, a sound that makes my waking dream imagine the purest light dancing in the abyss… The birds’ song echoes throughout the warm cave-walls surrounding us.
My eyes open. My Lulus snore softly as they stir in my arms. I wake them and we rise together.
True to her word, Heilli gathers the group around a holographic map of the mountain to chart a course further into the darkness. I know not what awaits me there, but the suggestion of an answer beckons me stronger than the safety of home. While the others load their possessions into their cargo-wheelers and prepare to set off, all I have is a blanket they have given me. But my heart is full.
Someone calls to me as we prepare to leave. A woman, older than the others. She slowly walks up to me, a gait weighed down by her years, then takes my arm—as she grips me, a frizz of static jolts out through her fingertips.
Ablyn, she says again. I do like that name of yours. I always have.
Her voice… I recognize her voice…
Are you alright? The old woman says. You look faint.
— I’m… fine…
— Then away we go.
I shake my head and look down at my assistants. It seems they’ve made their own friends as well. They are standing with two very strange creatures—creatures I’ve never seen before, nor have I ever conjured in my daydreams—slimy little things with big, empty eyes. My Lulus seem to be equally befuddled by these oddities, poking their luminescent bodies and inspecting the ooze.
Before she releases me, I ask the old woman what those creatures are called. She chuckles.
— They are odd, aren’t they? As they should be. We came across them in an odd land.
She points to one, tiny and gray, with expressive little tentacles that touch my Lulus’ heads:
— That one there is POD…
She points to the other, a pulsing blob emanating a cosmic display of lights from under its skin:
— And this is OBB.
I nod, pretending to comprehend this information. Releasing me, the old woman slips between two tribespeople, and when they part, she has vanished. The leader hops down from atop the cargo-wheeler, wiping soot from her visor.
— Keep your wits about you, Albyn. We’ve got a long road ahead. Tell me, though, what are you hoping to find down here?
An answer hits me all at once.
— Everything.