Happy Anniversary
Celebrating one year of Substack publishing
One year ago I pressed publish on my very first Substack post. At the time I imagined this newsletter would be a place for fiction inspired by solo roleplaying games. Over the year it has evolved into something quite different ... a home for blog posts, Fighting Fantasy updates, tabletop roleplaying thoughts, and the occasional creative experiment.
Looking back, I still have a soft spot for that first story. Not many people saw it at the time, so for my Substack anniversary I thought I’d share it again. It is based on a solo play session using Cairn (second edition).
Thank you for journeying with me … enjoy!
If Aria Brindleby were wearing her jaunty hat (which she isn’t) the mist would be thick enough to gather on the brim, bead into droplets, and slide gracefully onto the already slick surface of the Archon Stairs. Unfortunately for Aria, the hat is long gone, spirited away four days ago by a fierce wind into the impenetrable fog that has blanketed this part of the world for as long as anyone can remember. It was, admittedly, an impractical choice for the current conditions but historically it has always lent her speeches a certain je ne sais quoi, and will be sorely missed. That is, of course, assuming Aria ever returns to civilization.
Were it not for the incessant, haunting, and strangely captivating mist that reduces visibility on the Stairs to less than a hundred feet, the view from up here would be spectacular. To the southwest lie the rolling emerald hills of Lavish Dale, where the autumn sun might now be glinting off the Palladium Spire and the surface of the Opalescent Lake. One might even spot the colossal, broken sundial or the gravity-defying phenomenon known simply as The Wreck. Even the view of the perilous expanse of the Endless Mire, southeast of Aria’s current position, could offer a more aesthetically pleasing vantage of the ruined Deepmire Fort than that afforded by the ramparts of Stormforge’s city walls. But, as many an adventurer has discovered, the higher one climbs the seemingly endless terraces of this literally godforsaken land, the thicker the mist becomes.
No one truly knows how these particular geographical phenomena came to be, but the prevailing belief is that one of the world’s creators intended them as a pathway … linking whatever dwells in the clouds above to the mortal realm below. The Stairs, if ever they could be seen as a single whole, vary wildly in width, from ten to fifty yards. Ascending to each next tier requires a modest climb of perhaps five feet. For the most part, the terrain is a tapestry of lush grasslands, scattered volcanic stone, trickling rivulets, and wildflowers in abundance. If you could see it. As it is the landscape emerges and fades like pages from a children’s storybook, revealed only fleetingly through the stifling gloom.
On the third day of her journey, Aria reached the Archon Fist … a cyclopean stone hand thrusting from the earth, its fingers outstretched toward the sky. Said to be a meeting place for ne’er-do-wells, the monument is whispered to host strange gatherings under each full moon, where vendors of cursed, forgotten, or prophetic items appear as if from nowhere. All our intrepid mountebank encountered, however, was a flock of birds whose song eerily mimicked her voice … despite the fact she hadn’t spoken aloud for days. An ill omen, indeed.
Now, six days after leaving the sanctuary of Stormforge, Aria knows she must be close to her destination. If she’s followed the correct paths and made good time, she should soon come across the fabled Black Stump. It has been a lonely and arduous journey. Not only has she lost her hat, but her tarot cards were ruined whilst crossing a stream that turned out to be deeper than it looked. Strangely, the loss of these two items seems to weigh on her more than the fact that she also misplaced her dagger during a surprisingly successful foraging mission. A more seasoned adventurer might place greater value on a weapon under such circumstances … but not our weary charlatan.
Slumping onto a rough boulder, she reaches into her leather satchel and pulls out the letter. She reads it again, as she has so many times over the last week.
Father, You always told me not to listen to mountebanks and wanderers, but this one … she knew things. She didn’t speak to me … not aloud. But I heard her words anyway. “Burn the offering where the world once ended.” I know now what I have to do. I’ve dreamt of the stump. It burns, but does not burn away. There is a voice in the flame, and it remembers me. Don’t come looking. I have to prove the fire right.
With a resigned sigh, she folds the letter and returns it to her satchel.
Of course she wants to find the young man in question … if only to ensure he hasn’t wandered into danger, as his irate father so readily assumed. But more than anything Aria is seeking answers. How is it that a phrase she once scrawled in her notebook - never spoken aloud, never used in any of her performances - has been quoted verbatim by this boy?
Burn the offering where the world once ended.
How has she gone from a peddler of false prophecies, flitting from town to town relieving the hopeful and the lost of a few coins … to this? To inadvertently brushing against something real. To reaching, somehow, into the minds of others and finding that her idle musings have taken root as truth.
Aria rises slowly, limbs aching from the cold and the long days of travel. The mist has thickened in her brief rest, curling tighter around the landscape like a living thing. She can no longer make out the shape of the path ahead nor, with any confidence, the direction in which it lies.
She brushes damp moss from the hem of her impractical and sodden skirt. Like the rest of her attire, it was chosen more for theatre than terrain … bright fabrics, jangling charms, and a once-impressive cloak now dulled by moisture and mud. She cuts a scrawny figure against the shifting grey, her long braids clinging to her neck, her acne-scarred skin flushed from wind and fatigue.
And now she stands perfectly still.
The usual sounds of the heights … the whisper of the wind, the distant birdsong, the occasional tumble of loose stone … have all faded. Silence presses in close, too complete to be natural. Aria’s hand creeps instinctively to the hilt of her cane sword. She may have lost her dagger, but she is not entirely defenseless. Whatever waits in the mist will discover that she has not come all this way to be easily undone.
How hard can it be to find a perpetually smouldering stump of a gigantic tree? Even in this fog, surely it would loom large … unmissable. Striking out in what she hopes is the right direction Aria becomes suddenly aware of every sound she makes. Her footfalls and the faint clink of charms stitched into her garments are now amplified against the smothering silence. She pauses, considering the wisdom of calling out the young man’s name. What if he’s close? What if he’s injured? Her throat tightens as she stands in the stillness, weighing uncertainty.
Then, just before her eyes, something drifts down from the grey. A single, feather-light flake. Black. She reaches out instinctively to catch it, expecting snow, but finding ash. It crumbles soft against her fingers, leaving a faint streak of soot across her skin.
Another fleck falls. And another. Then more. A slow, silent cascade.
The Black Stump. It must be nearby. Surely this is the sign.
Emboldened, Aria sets off once more, quickening her pace. The blank world presses in on all sides, but she moves with renewed purpose. Reaching the edge of a new terrace, she scrambles up to the next level as the ash begins to fall more thickly, swirling through the mist like a black snowdrift.
It has been a long journey, and now, finally, Aria can sense that the answers she seeks are close. And hopefully so is the young man she was tasked with finding. If he isn’t here, if he hasn’t survived, then not only will Aria be less likely to uncover an explanation for what’s been happening to her, but she’ll most likely never be able to set foot in Stormforge again. That would be a terrible shame. So many people there need something to cling to, to aim for, to believe in. For a small fee.
As these thoughts swirl through her mind, mirroring the mist coiling around her legs, Aria notices the soundscape has returned. Birdsong. The murmur of flowing water. The soft whistle of wind over stone. Even the white veil begins to thin, letting her see a little further. In fact, is that … ?
Yes. It is.
Emerging ahead is a sight she had begun to fear was merely a figure of legend - a ridiculously large, hulking base of what must once have been an enormous tree. But there’s no sign of the tree itself, only the vast, smouldering stump that remains. It must be thirty feet across, rising ten feet high on one side before dipping and rising again along its charred, uneven circumference. The air is thick with the smell of acrid smoke.
Aria halts abruptly. The mist now dances and twists before her eyes, but something draws her attention. A shape.
What first appears to be a blackened root jutting from the scorched earth is not part of the stump at all.
Edging closer, dread pools in her stomach. Her blood turns cold.
A figure slumps motionless against the burned wood, hung unceremoniously by its clothing on a jagged shard of the trunk. Limbs dangle at odd angles. The face is hidden.
The wind surges, growing louder. Thrum-thrum-thrum. Rhythmic and urgent.
No, not wind.
Wings.
By the time Aria recognises the sound, it’s too late to run. Spinning toward it instinctively, she catches only a glimpse of the beast descending upon her with horrifying speed. A creature twice her size, with the wings and head of an eagle and the muscled body of a jungle cat.
A griffon.
She dives, heart pounding, feet sliding across the slick ground … but too late. The griffon bursts from the fog like a nightmare given form. Its talons strike hard, hooking deep into her shoulders and yanking her from the earth with terrifying strength. The force knocks the air from her lungs. Pain blooms, sudden and overwhelming, and consciousness unravels before a scream can form.
Aria goes limp.
Rising into the fog, the creature carries its prize. The white curtain closes in behind their ascending silhouettes and there is a sickening crunch as the predator feeds mid-flight.
In all likelihood no-one will ever know what became of Aria Brindleby … or the hapless youth who followed her unspoken prophecy to his demise.