glomdoring

Shadows.

That's all she could see: shadows. Not darkness, no - in true darkness, she would see nothing at all, and right now, she thought that would be a mercy. But this was Glomdoring, after all, and it had no mercy to offer; only shadows. And lurking beneath the trunk of every twisted tree, seeping from every malformed, clutching bough, a lingering, vaporous presence that was clearly sentient, clearly seeking...

Clearly malevolent.

Author’s Preface
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For the sake of clarity, the author would like to note a few things before you commence reading this text. It will become quickly apparent to those reading that the following novel is based upon the game of Vengeance. In Glomdoring, the game of Vengeance is set in the Age of Wyrden Supremacy, a futuristic version of the Wyrden forest an unknown number of years down the line. This novel represents one potential play out of this scenario, wherein all of the characters from the Glomdoring’s game are present.

When the wanting beckon of the corvid
rings along a yielding breath of air,
twining through wyrden sentinels
who, vigilant in a manner most astute,
refrain the unique call in sombre silence,
it is not joy of which I partake,
nor a flighty sense of hope,
nor a capricious sentiment of happiness
despite the character of this note,
so familiar to my native home.

Nay, it is a flowering sense of serenity --
of shadowed tranquillity in
knowing most intimately this wanting cry,
echoed in the percussion of the ancient Drums
and the tacit thrum of wyrden sovereignty

                     Fragments of Shadow
                        or, Triangles
                     -------------------

9am
---

The blind tattoo artist shuffled over to where I lay on the bench, brandishing her needle and tints. All I could see of her face was the toothy canine grin that said I was about to feel a considerable amount of pain - so gritting my teeth, I wrapped my arms tighter around the bench and uttered a prayer to Mother Night to grant me strength.

*Based on a true story*

The Weaver closed her eyes, expanding her awareness to cover the entire plane; dipping below the level of consciousness and in between the layers of the dreamscape, looking for the familiar twitch of imagination, the subtle painting of awareness on a canvas of dreams.

It had started out entirely innocently. At least, that was what he told himself.

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Flora of the Glomdoring

by

Arkzrael

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CONTENTS

Introducton..................................3
Part One: Trees
Master Ravenwood........................4

It is strange to live in a world that is not made for you.

Everything here is so very big. When I sit at a table...no. That is a lie. I do not sit at tables. Either I hover before them or I stand, tip-toed, on the edge of the chair provided. The chair is always too large, so large that when I stand upon it the arms are up to my waist. I am constantly reminded that I am not what everyone else is. I am different. I am small.