Philosophy

Philosophy, as a subject, should be studied before any and all other subjects (with the exception of language and mathematics).  Philosophy teaches us how to ask the right questions.  It teaches us how to analyze data and think logically.  It teaches us how to debate intelligently.  Philosophy opens the path through which we find real knowledge.

I believe reality is truth and truth is reality.  I believe they are a multi-faceted object.  I believe that each subject - literature, mathematics, art, psychology, architecture, biology, chemistry, physics, astronomy, history, sociology, politics, thermodynamics, music... each is a single angle to view this object - reality and truth.

If a person only studies one subject, that person will only see reality from one angle.  To get a full picture, to piece the puzzle together, one needs to study as many subjects as possible.  Or, at the very least, find people you can trust who have studied the other fields for you.

The brain grows and retains knowledge by making (quite literally) connections.  The more information you offer it, the more possibilities it has to connect and make sense of.  The more knowledgeable you become.

Don't, however, forget the power of emotion.  It can blind and debilitate logic.  So it is important to understand emotion, whenever and wherever it comes from - and not to ignore it or pretend it has no influence.  Emotion is an angle to truth that logic cannot fathom.  They are, after all, two separate parts of the brain.

What is Akralon? Part I

When people ask what the Akralon books are about, I find it difficult to give a short answer and do the books justice.  Akralon is about two things, primarily.  First, it's about self-discovery and finding purpose in life.  Second, it's about the power of imagination and creativity.

The reason the characters span the globe is to show many different lifestyles and circumstances, but also to show how most people define themselves by their job or their family or their culture.  We all do it, to some respect.  But who are you without those things?  With no job, no family and no culture, what is left? 

We have all these societal norms that regulate our behavior that we never really stop to think about.  I like to use the old elevator example.  There are unspoken rules about etiquette inside an elevator.  You step in, you turn around, you stare at the doors or watch the changing floor light.  Nobody wrote these rules down, we just sort of adapted into this group behavior.  But imagine how people would react if you stepped inside the elevator and did NOT turn around, and instead stared forward.  What if you just walked to the back of the elevator and stood silently facing the corner?  Technically, you wouldn't be doing anything wrong, but something as simple as which direction you're facing is enough to make people freak out and think you're crazy!

All that, just in an elevator.  A household, town, city and country have a million more of these unspoken rules of how we ought to behave. But what if you took people out of their society, out of their country - out of their world?  What if you put them in a different world where none of those rules applied.  How would they react?  What would they think?  Without culture, family and friends - how would they now define themselves?

Now imagine, after some time, they return home, to all the familiar things.  Would they be any different - changed in any way?  Would they simply revert back to their old habits and ways of thinking?  No doubt, depending on the shortness of the time away, most people would settle back into their old ways.  It's what they've been doing the longest.

But what if they could, periodically, go back and forth?  How would they deal with two separate realities?  The human brain doesn't like not having everything on the same page, so it would try and adjust, somehow bring the realities together.  This means the person would have to develop a stronger, more defined way of viewing the world/s and his or herself. 

Throw in the extra spice of having abilities not available in the real world and you have a formula for making heroes and villains.  Some people will find strength to overcome their circumstances, to learn and grow and be better people.  Others will fall victim to their darker natures and downward spiral into infamy. 

So, in a sense, the world of Akralon is a test for the soul.

Fey - The Ancient Peoples

Firbolgs were the first to inhabit the forests of Fablemyr. While they are fierce and barbaric, they lived in peace and harmony with the surrounding wilderness.

When the Tuatha de Danann arrived, they felt intruded upon the mysterious and haughty elves. A war ensued, and large and strong as the Firbolgs were, they were outmatched by the cleverness and spellcraft of the elves. Upon losing, they were pushed to the outskirts of the forest.

Now the Firbolgs dwell in the surrounding hills and mountains, venturing into the forest only when food runs scarce. Untrusting and quick to anger, some say Firbolgs have giant’s blood in them. They stand over eight feet tall and are usually thick with muscle and coarse hair. Despite their immense size, they are excellent hunters and can move silently through tree and brush when necessary.

The militant and merciless Fomor are a ruined race of deformed mutants, immune to normal weaponry.  Their pale flesh resembles melted wax, oozing over brutish malformed bodies.

The Fomor invaded Fablemyr after the Tuatha de Danann, defeating and enslaving them.  For long years they ruled with an unyielding iron fist. Lugh Lamfada eventually led the Tuatha de Danann in an uprising.  With the aid of the Four Treasures of Ireland, the Tuatha de Danann brought down the mighty Fomorii leader, Balor, and banished all Fomor from the boundaries of their realm.

The Fomor have recently began turning up in various places in Fablemyr, plotting the vengeance that has been festering in their souls for the entirety of their banishment...

The Tuatha de Danann are the magical and mystical race called elves.  After a successful campaign to drive out the Firbolgs, they indulged in music making and celebrations. They first battled and defeated the Firbolgs and later fought the foul and mean-spirited Fomor... and lost.

Despite the beauty and grace of the elven culture, they were no match for the sheer numbers and brute force of the relentless Fomor.  It took the combined strength of four great treasures and an inspirational leader to rally them to overthrow the heavy yoke of their militant slavers.

Flourishing for a thousand years in Fablemyr, in tandem with the Fey kingdoms.  They spread out and forged four great cities.

The first two cities were Murias in the west and Finias in the east.  Murias was a twilight city of water and healing.  These elves became the Lunaire, or moon elves by common tongue.  They practiced the art of moon magic and studied lunar cycles, curative and calming powers.  A soothing city of smooth marble, flowing streams and serene ponds, Murias was the first city to be abandoned.

Finias, nearly the opposite, became a city of light and illumination, of knowledge and research.  They built tall spires to bask in the sunlight and became the Syldaer, or sun elves.  They spent time harnessing the powers of sunlight, filtered through various precious gemstones to offer the powers of revelation, divination and restoration.

In the north, they founded Falias.  Here the elves delved deep into the earth, diving into the darkness where strange molds and fungi grow.  They took a strange fascination with herbalism and toxicology.  Eventually they began experimenting with shadow magic.  This obsession is what led to the title the Dreyth, or shadow elves.  Eventually, their experimenting became too radical and severe and they were cast out by the other factions of elves - banished forever from Fablemyr.

Last, in the south was Gorias.  Here the elves cast off their fine clothes and jewelry as well as their refined customs and mannerisms.  They chose to admire both the beauty and order of nature and the wild chaos of fire.  Hence they became the wild elves, or the Wildryn.  They hunted and foraged much in the way of the Firbolgs before them.  Their tools were of bone and wood, stone and flora.  They did not tame the animals around them, as the other elves did, but befriended them in their wild and savage state.

In the end, all the elves had gone.  Men came and drove them out with cold iron.  Or perhaps they left of their own accord, seeking growth and expansion.  There are many explanations and stories, but the only thing beyond debate is that the four cities are but ancient relics, ruined and overrun by the Fey.

Guardians of the Faerie Queen

Brownies are the bristling, barbaric
guardians of the faerie kingdom. Cantankerous and severely territorial, they are dutiful and vigorous in their desire to soldier the cause of the fey civilization and protect it from the invasive and corrosive effects of outside influence. They tattoo their brownish skin with whatever animalistic designs they favor.

They once served in the households of the Dreyth, but since the shadow elves disappeared, the brownies went wild and savage and have taken over the ruins of Falias. Now they guard the borders with poison darts and spears. They are the glade guardians, the watchers of the sacred rowanoak tree.

Sprites are the energetic and cheerful children of the faerie kingdom. They have a deep fascination and wonder with stories and music and dancing. They flit about on dragonfly wings and pulse with their own inner light.

They protect their faerie rings, circles of mushrooms, and have complete power over any who wander into the circle. If they grow bored, sprites can be dangerous, often forcing the unfortunate trespasser to dance to his death. The love to tease and often rhyme when excited.

Pixies are the playful pranksters of the faerie kingdom. Notorious for their mischief, they are always devising devious devices to deceive and distract, often leading unwary travelers out into the wood and leaving them lost, or spooking the nervous with random bestial noises.

They are fond of flowers and fragrances, of beauty and basking in the chorus of the spring and summer winds that sweep through the trees. Distinguished by their colorful butterfly wings and flower pedal clothing, they are considered the most beautiful of the faerie folk, with exception to the asrai (or nymphs).

Minions of the Goblin King

Goblins are the vicious and voracious scavengers of the underground. They share a similar toad-like skin as their ballybog cousins, but they are more clever and devious. Goblins love gold and shiny treasures.     They burrow in caves and tunnels, usually in an underground network, popping up here or there when they smell travelers or gold. Goblins are filthy, greedy and breed rapidly. They are often used as spies by the Goblin King.
   

     Boggarts are shape-shifting creatures that lurk in the shadows and feed off fear. They are swift and silent and spring upon hapless victims when they need to feed. The nightmarish hallucinations they can project into the minds of those they touch often cause the victims to suffer fatal heart attacks.      Boggarts are survivalist predators and are immune to reason. More uncommon than goblin or ballybog, they are deadlier and feared by both. The Goblin King has been known to use them as assassins.

      The Clurichaun, often called the Red Man, is a faerie of deviant and destructive powers. His avarice for wine and women are unmatched. Some say the red clothing and stocking cap symbolize the lustful desires of his dark heart.
     Hating mankind with a passion, the Clurichaun intoxicates himself until the wine and whiskey fuel his passionate hatred and sadistic pleasure in tormenting and torturing his victims. The devilish desires are unquenchable, and therefore the Clurichaun can never be pleased, never truly be happy.  And so he endlessly drowns himself in poisoned bitterness...

The Paths

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips apart;

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

~ W.B. Yeats

Irish Poet

Imagine a world where all your dreams - and all your nightmares - live and breathe.  Imagine a world illuminated by your brightest hopes and darkened by your most terrible fears.  This world is Akralon.  It is the world of Greek myth, of Celtic fables and Norse epics, of Arthurian mystery and Japanese legend, of Native American tales and African folklore.  All the world's mythology exists in Akralon.  It is a dream world fueled by the imagination of mankind.

Surreal landscapes and enigmatic experiences - the kind that alter worldviews and call everything previously accepted into question - abound.  Those who find themselves somehow in this dream world are called Travelers. Not everyone can travel and none know how or why.  Answers are elusive in the ever-changing and deeply mysterious Akralon.

As a Traveler, you must balance the ongoing drama of your real life with the fantastical adventures that take place in the other world.  As you travel back and forth, you will learn things about yourself and about those you choose to adventure with.  Some of you will find the strength to overcome your circumstances and rise to become heroes.  Others will fall victim to your lives and spiral into infamy.

There are paths you must choose on your road of self-discovery.  These paths are branches of development, not just physical and mental, but emotional and spiritual as well.  It is the ultimate pilgrimage - the truest way to find what you are truly made of. 

There are five basic paths for Travelers in Akralon.  The first 3 are physical paths: Strength, Stealth and Survival.  The other 2 are paths of the mind: Willpower and Faith.

              

It is our imagination that transforms itself into reality,

Through our physical strength and endeavors.

~ Helen Araromi

Nigerian Poet

                Those who choose the Path of Strength are those who seek the most direct course to resolve problems.  If the door is locked, break it open.  If there’s an enemy in your path, strike him down.  If something you need is up in a tree, throw a rock at it to knock it down.  Path of Strength does not mean mindless barbarism, however.  It is a honing of physical abilities – strength, speed, stamina, agility... or any combination of them.  It means focusing on controlling your body.  Whether you choose Aggression – a path that dives head first into strength and stamina, on raw physical might and power, or Defense – the way of the watchful warrior, relying more on patience and precision, or Weapons – a road that can lead to the complete mastery of a single instrument of death or a collage of combat skills, you will be using your mental determination as well as your body.  A few examples include...

Aggression – Barbarian, Berserker, Brawler

Defense – Knight, Samurai, Centurion

Weapons – Mercenary, Gladiator, Swordsmaster

                The Path of Stealth relies on careful planning , deft and quick execution of practiced skills and extensive street knowledge.  Dexterity and agility are the primary physical attributes in this case.  These are the people who choose the indirect path to resolution.  If a door is locked, get out your lockpick and open it.  If an enemy bars your way, hide until he leaves or sneak up behind him.  If something you need is up in a tree, climb up there and snatch it.  Here one may branch into the way of the Burglar – mastering the casing of buildings and locations, bypassing security, breaking in and taking what is desired, the way of the Thief – trailing people in crowded cities, picking pockets, having contacts in various markets, and knowing the streets better than any, or the way of the Rogue – those solitary loners, often dark and dangerous, who study the more subtle arts, which might include contract work, herbalism and toxicology or espionage.  This path requires patience, planning, perception and constant alertness to one’s surroundings.  A few examples include...

Burglar – Tombraider, Saboteur, Master Burglar

Thief – Bandit, Swindler, Acrobat

Rogue – Spy, Assassin, Shade  

                The third is the Path of Survival.  These are the rugged and the wild.  These are those who would live off Mother Nature’s bounty.  Hunting, tracking, foraging... survival is living in harmony with one’s surroundings, whether it be temperate woodlands, arid deserts, tropical rainforests or arctic tundra.  Those who choose survival are self-sufficient, knowing which berries to eat and which to avoid, which crushed leaves numb pain and which fruits and nuts nourish and which nullify senses.  The paths include that of the Huntsman – focusing on beasts and animals to hunt or befriend, to ally with or to slay for survival tools.  Next, that of the Tracker – focusing on knowledge and precision, in identifying ingredients, tracks, habits, strengths and weaknesses of their prey and finding individuals.  Third is that of the Explorer – focusing on survival based upon terrain, climate, weather patterns, resources of local flora and fauna and adapting to new environments.  A few examples include...

Huntsman – Falconer, Beastmaster 

Tracker – Bounty Hunter, Marksman

Explorer – Ranger, Warden

The other two paths, those of the mind are Willpower and Faith.  These are the paths for the ambitious and the dreamers, the engineers and the artists.  Those who choose these paths are concerned with finding ways around problems - using their intellect to come up with the most decisive decision or to rely on their creativity to find ways outside the box.  If a door is locked, a windweaver might simply trigger the lock, a flamecaller might melt it.  An earthshaper might change the composition of the door to become brittle and breakable while a waterwielder might simply pass through it.

I broider my life into the frame,

I broider my love, thread upon thread;

The world goes by with its glory and shame,

Crowns are bartered and blood is shed;

I sit and broider my dreams instead.

And the only world is the world of my dreams,

And my weaving the only happiness;

For what is the world but what it seems?

~ Arthur Symons

Welsh Poet

The path of Willpower branches into the elements – wind, water, earth and fire.  Each is respective of an individual art.  Windweaving is the art of sound – of music.  With rhythm and melody, masters compose spells that flow like the wind – altering weather, increasing or decreasing temperatures and harnessing the force of moving air.  Waterwielding is the art of movement – of dance.  With fluid like movements, spirals and spins, leaps and bounds, these masters of motion can alter the properties of water, making surface tension taut enough to walk on, or manipulating the mind – creating illusions and mental deceptions, and in some cases, even mind control.  Earthshaping is the art of composition – of cooking.  Knowing the correct ingredients, in the correct amounts, added at the right time in the right order, in the right combination, can shake the foundations of the earth in quakes, alter the solidity of elements, change the elements themselves, and affect nature’s pattern – increasing growth, regeneration and immunities.  Flamecalling is the art of logic – of mathematics.  Creating formulas of sigils and connecting them in the proper order can construct and harness energy itself.   A magic of power and destruction, one can conjure temporary items, channel energy into devastating blasts, or even energize golems into being.  Those who choose the Path of Willpower choose both an art and an element.  Some examples include...

Waterwielding – Illusionist, Sorcerer, Arch Mage

Windweaving – Wizard, Songweaver, Mentalist

Earthshaping – Druid, Summoner, Elementalist

Flamecalling – Conjuror, Geomancer, Channeler

Last, the Path of Faith.  This is not a matter of knowledge and calculation.  Faith is strength of character, strength of convictions.  It is believing in something larger than oneself.  It is, perhaps, the most difficult of paths because it requires the power of true belief.  Blind zealotry or clasping at an emotional crutch offer no power.  The believer must be clear of mind and true of purpose.  This is a path that is dangerously narrow and constantly tested with each life event.

The Path of Faith breaks into sun, moon and shadow.  Lightbending, the Path of the Sun, is a magic of light and color.  Using gemstones and crystals to harness and filter light into varying shades and hues, to bathe surroundings in a magical mixture of jewel-light to reveal, divine,  illuminate or simply to restore.  It is a warm power of healing and revelation.  Starseeing, The Path of the Moon is a magic of lunar cycles.  Reliant completely on the phase and fullness of the moon, it is a power that requires excruciating patience and planning, but offers the unparalleled protection and warding of unbreakable lunar fields of energy.  This is a power of cool serenity and refreshing revitalization.  Shadowmelding, the Path of Shadow, is a magic soaked in blood and sacrifice.  The dark cursing and rotting powers of shadow magic come at the greatest cost, and therein lies the power.  The greater the cost of the blood one sheds, the more immense the effects of the spell.  This has caused many other magic users to shun the use of shadow magic, for many have crossed the line into patricide and matricide to gain incalculable power.  Some even, have committed infanticide to rise above their peers.  Examples of these paths include...

Lightbending – Priest, Enchanter, Paladin

Starseeing – Cleric, Monk, Shaman

Shadowmelding – Warlock, Necromancer, Dreadknight

2 - Fablemyr

2

Fablemyr

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,

A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;

…The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,

And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

Gerald Griffin

With shock and bewilderment, Justin examined himself.  He was draped in an oiled leather duster, walnut brown.  The rainwater was beading up and sliding off his shoulders.  He felt windstrings hanging around his neck and took off the hat to examine it.  A Stetson?  A real cowboy hat with a band of braided horse hair, which wrapped around the base of the crown.  The band had a silver Concho star on the front.  The hat was the same walnut brown as his duster.

                Underneath he was wearing a white tombstone shirt with a tan vest and sandy frontier canvas pants.  Around his waist was a tough cowhide belt, lined with silver studs, top and bottom.  The buckle was a large silver oval with a white longhorn atop a deep brown leather.  The belt had three silver crosses, one on each side and one center of the back.

                Looking at his feet, he saw oiled leather boots, silver plated with shiny spurs – sharp and glinting.  The cuffs of his duster were bracers, silver studded with a silver cross on each.  Fingerless gloves adorned his hands.

What in God’s green earth was going on?  He replaced his hat without thinking and looked back over his shoulder.  Behind him, a sheer cliff face rose up in jagged outcroppings.  Up and up it went, into the sky, up and away towards misty mountaintops far above.  He was on the edge of some kind of valley.  The snow-capped mountains encircled the forest like a jagged bowl.  Rain continued to pelt off the brim of his hat. 

“That tree branch must’ve hit me harder than I thought,” he murmured. 

One thing was for sure, this was not East Lansing.  This wasn’t even Michigan.  Michigan had no mountains.  So if he wasn’t where he should be, the only logical explanation was that he was dreaming.  But… he could smell peppermint, feel the cold wind, hear the rainwater pattering off the rocks and muddy trail.  He could see clear as day the valley before him.  So he couldn’t be asleep.  He had to be hallucinating.

That was it.  He had come from a party and someone must’ve put something in the beer, or at least one of his drinks.  Yeah, that was it.  Something in his drink.  Otherwise this craziness might frighten him.  But he wasn’t scared at all. A sure sign of a hallucination… or that he was still drunk.

As he approached the foot of the sludgy trail, thunder crashed above, echoing across the gloomy sky.  A large hulking oak tree, gnarled and twisted, rose menacingly before him.  Despite its grand size, the tree looked sickly.  It hovered before him like a diseased monstrosity, on the verge of shivering to life and seizing him with knotted limbs.  He stayed back a few paces, eyeing it warily.   Nailed to the trunk, a weatherworn sign read:

North Lies Dreyton

               

A single word was smeared across the sign in dark stains, which looked disturbingly like dried blood.  It read:

Cursed

His eyes fell from the sign to the trail that disappeared into the shadowed wood.  Alright, if he was hallucinating, this was a pretty convincing hallucination.  He had no intention of going back to the party right now anyway, so he might as well entertain his delusional mind by wandering around for awhile.  Who knew what other insanity might await him?  He cast one last glance at the darkening sky, squinting under the brim of his hat and started forward.

               

                Pale white elms spiraled up like pillars of mother nature.  Elms did not grow this way, nor this color – but the bark and the leaves were without a doubt, elm.  So curved and looped were some of the trunks that he could see clean through some of them, especially the ones that looked like pallid tendrils twisting up out of the earth.  The pallid trees pulsed with soft light, setting the whole forest aglow.  Nestled between the elms were odd looking silver maples, which glistened and sparkled as if covered in dew.  The smell of peppermint was strong now.  Moss and lichen of varying shades of green covered the tree trunks and large rocks embedded in the earth, brightened by the glow of the white elms.  This place was amazing!  Absolutely surreal.  Beyond the white elms and silver maples, thick broad oaks towered like dark wooden sentries, massive and gnarled, ancient watchers of an ancient place.

                The winding path wove its way through the majestic dreamscape, hidden occasionally by lodged boulders and tall brush.  He rubbed his throbbing temples groggily as he walked.  Hallucination or not, his headache was real enough.  The heavy scent of mint, the thick mist and the glittering trees created an environment that dazzled and disoriented.  His balance was off.  He felt light-headed and winced with each throb in his head.  He stopped to rest for a minute and noticed one of the white elms had a hollow in its trunk. 

A childhood memory struck him of just such a tree.  When he was a young boy, he had played a computer game called The Black Cauldron.  In the game, there had been a tree with a hollow.  Inside the hollow was an item.  He couldn’t remember what.  Before he even realized what he was doing, he walked over and stuck his hand in it.  He fished around for a moment but only felt dry leaves and dirt.  What a dumb thing to do.  He pulled his hand out and his fingertips brushed something smooth and cold.  He eyed them to see if they were wet, but they were not.  Mildly confused, he reached back in, dug near the entrance and removed the object, examining it in the glow of the trees.

                It was a key.  A dark bronze key.  The end was ornately designed with circular wiring, forming perfect patterns.  It looked Celtic, oddly enough.  He pinched it between his fingers for a moment then he pocketed it.  Why not?  It obviously opened something, perhaps even a thing nearby.

                He became aware of  the sound of rushing water – a faint roar.  He now realized how thirsty he was – not that he’d drink from a pond, but maybe a stream if it was clear.  Clear water meant it was probably okay to drink, right?  His alcohol-dulled mind didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with putting it to the test.  He quickened his pace.

He passed a large boulder that jutted up like a giant spearhead, covered in evergreen moss, and stopped to gaze through the trees.  He could see the edge of a small lake, calm and clear.  The surface of the water sparkled under the stars like a shimmering blanket of diamonds.  A circle of taller white elms ran along the edge of the lake, like columns of marble.  A thin set of waterfalls dashed down from a slick set of smooth stepped cliffs, spilling down into the lake.

His eyes moved to a figure that sat at the lake’s edge.  He stepped forward, squinting in the pale moonlight.  It was a girl, with long dark hair.  Her head was in her hands, her shoulders sagged and shaking.  She was weeping.  Something about the scene made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his heart pounding in his chest.  But slowly, the longer he listened to the weeping, the more relaxed he became.  He started to wonder if the hallucination was wearing off and he had now found someone, like himself, who had run here to escape her sorrow.

As he approached, nervous and wary, he could hear her sniffling.  Her voice was fair and echoed strangely, as if they were inside a cavern.  That’s weird, he thought.  Her hair was impossibly long, spilling down all around her, like a draped sheet of night pooling around her knees.  Her skin was white as the moon and her face hidden in her small hands.  Still she wept, seemingly unaware of his presence.

Lingering behind the last of the trees on the edge of a lake, one hand resting on a boulder, he moved to step forward.

“Are ya cracked?!”

His heart launched into his throat.  He jumped backwards, nearly choking.  Standing on the boulder where his hand had just been, a tiny figure stood with arms crossed and head cocked - six inches tall, at best.

Justin stared with an open mouth.

“Ugh,” the little man uttered with disgust, “Daft - by the look ‘o ya.”

The miniature figure was clothed in bits of dry leaf.  His skin was muddy brown and a shock of orange hair was atop his head, pierced by two little goat horns.  Disproportionately big round ginger eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Justin was completely at a loss for words.  What did he say to a… um, whatever this thing was? 

“It’s a trap,” the little man said matter-of-factly.  “Meant for muppets like you.”  He stabbed a finger at Justin.  “Even brownies do not go near her.”

Brownies?  Justin blinked stupidly.  This guy didn’t look like the little dudes from the movie Willow.   

The brownie snorted, glaring at him with indignant disbelief.  “Ya haven’t got a clue where ya are, do ya?”

Justin felt the overwhelming urge to unload his current dilemma to this newcomer, but then realized he was talking to a six inch faerie.  So instead, he muttered, “No.”

The brownie shook his head and sighed.  “This is Fablemyr Forest, lad, oldest wood in Athyria.  Ya’ll be calling me Twig.  Really we aren’t supposed to talk to the likes of ya - I’ll have the worst of an argument with Eolande just for lettin’ ya see me.  But many’s the fool that wandered witlessly to her aid.”  He gazed sourly at the weeping woman.  “Upon my word, you’ll get the price ‘o yer trouble for seeking to help that one… spiteful wench.”

Justin eyed the weeping girl who seemed to be trying to compose herself.  “She doesn’t look spiteful.”

“Well why don’t ya saunter over there and find out, then?” Twig snapped, stomping his foot.

“Fine,” Justin retorted, “I will,” and he started to walk.

“No, ya moron!  That was a rhetorical question!”  The brownie scowled impatiently.  “Are ya trying to meet yer end tonight?”

Justin looked back to the weeping girl, but now there was no one there. The air about the lake was quiet once more.  “Hey - she’s gone!”

Twig looked around warily.  “Small drop ‘o comfort.  She’s a frightful spirit, she is.  Ya have to use yer ears.  It’s the only thing that gives her away.”  He tapped his pointed brown ear.

Justin thought for a moment.  “The echo?”

Twig’s ginger eyes widened.  “Yer more clever than ya look.”  Then he frowned.  “But that’s not sayin’ much.  Ya look like a muppet.”  He turned and pointed back towards the trail.  “Don’t go wandering off the foot path.  Yer more than likely to get yerself killed.  There’s goblins about.”

Justin laughed.  “Are there lions and tigers, too?”

Twig snorted.  “Idiot.  I’d like to watch ya laugh when a tree wyrm wraps its coils about ya and squeezes the guts out of yer skin, or stumble over a patch of Gortha grass and hear ya shriek as it devours ya.  But ‘o course, we wouldn’t want ya dying before ya do what yer meant to do.”

Justin examined the brownie curiously.  “What do you mean meant to do?”

Twig waved his little hands impatiently.  “Akralon only brings people from yer world when they are meant to do something.”

“Akralon?”

Twig spread out his arms to indicate the land around him.  “This world.”

“I thought you called it Athyria.”  Justin was surprised he even remembered that.

“Athyria is the realm, what ya might call a country.  Akralon is the world.”  Twig was tapping his dirt-caked foot with growing impatience.

Justin’s head hadn’t ceased throbbing and he found he wasn’t feeling very patient either.  “How do I get out of here?”

The brownie grimaced.  “I know what’s running through yer mind.  Yer not imagining me.  Ya aren’t dreaming, neither.”

Caught off guard, Justin eyed the brownie in bafflement.  He could think of nothing to say.  Then he glanced at his oiled-leather cuff, water beads still clinging to it.  “If this place is real – why am I wearing these clothes?”

“The world decides that,” Twig said matter-of-factly.  “Ya aren’t the first, ya know.  They’ve been coming from yer world for centuries.  Most of ‘em think they’re piss drunk or completely cracked.  I wouldn’t be bothered to care, but… there’s something about ya, stranger.”

“The name’s-” he started.

“Never use yer real name, moron!”  Twig snapped.  “Ya must take a new name – an Akralon name.” 

Examining himself again, a little more studiously this time, Justin wasn’t sure which was more ridiculous, the fact that he was wearing cowboy clothes and thinking of an alias, or that he was standing in a sparkling forest talking to a faerie.  He decided both were equally ridiculous.  Then he decided he’d always liked that Clint Eastwood movie, High Plains Drifter.  So, without much conviction, he uttered, “Just call me Drifter.”

“Quite suitable,” Twig nodded with satisfaction, “Considering yer wandering round witlessly.”

Justin’s swayed has his head spun uncontrollably.  Despite his intense dizziness, he somehow knew, deep in his gut, he wasn’t dreaming.  Everything was too real.  He could feel the cold misty air on his skin, the dampness of the rain, the rumble of distant thunder in his bones.  He could smell the peppermint in the air, hear the crashing waterfalls.  Also, nobody ever questioned reality in a dream, no matter how insane or impossible the scenario, you just  blindly accepted it.  If you were walking down a street and a pod of giant purple alien whales swam in front of you, you simply waited for them to pass before continuing on.

He turned back to the brownie, but now he too was gone.  Justin was alone again.  He looked at the lake, watching it and feeling uncomfortable in the eerie silence.  Then he returned his gaze to the muddy path.  He exhaled indecisively. 

If this wasn’t a hallucination, then how the hell did he get back home?  Maybe there were other people, like the brownie said, from the real world.  Maybe he could ask one of them.

Trudging reluctantly back to the path, he sullenly followed as it wove its way through the shadowy forest, as if directing him deeper and deeper into a dream.  He tried not to think about the fact that if he was lost, he had virtually no survival skills.  He grew up in the city.  He’d probably starve if he didn’t find someone or someplace soon.  He also tried not to think what kind of wild animals might be roaming the woods at night.  Michigan had no dangerous animals, save perhaps some snakes that bit.  The forests were mostly full of deer.  Who knew what lurked in the trees in this place...

A brook wound down from the high ground to his right, dashing over flat stones that jutted out like steps.  The forest floor leveled to his left and the waters swam quietly on their way.  Across the stream he could see where the path started up again.

                The occasional gust of wind would set the high branches moving, offering glimpses of the night sky.  With a weary sigh, he stepped forward and plunged his leather boots into the brook.  The icy waters spilled over the brims, dousing his feet and chilling his toes.  Damn, he shivered.  This water is friggin cold!  He heard his own teeth chattering as he waded across.

                On the other side he found a tall white elm where the ground was fairly dry.  There he knelt and removed his boots, emptying out the chill water.  As he tugged them back on, he caught the faint scent of smoke. There must be a town or something close by.

                The mucky path narrowed to a trickle, making it difficult to find at times.  When the land began to slope upward, he caught glimpse of a flickering light to his left.  Half-turning, he peered through the trees.  The light was golden and was reflecting off the trees and rocks, brighter now, dimmer now. 

When he turned to look back down the path, the pale-faced girl was standing ten feet in front of him.

He froze, everything but his heart, which pounded deafeningly in his ears.  Damn she was creepy!  Her eyes were white and stared straight ahead, as if unaware of her surroundings.  Dark oily tears stained her cheeks like ink.  He couldn’t move a muscle, not daring to rouse the statue-still figure, gowned in white.  He was even afraid to exhale, lest it draw her attention. 

He could see now that she was too pale.  Her skin had a bluish tone and her hair, though long and dark, wasn’t silky but soaking wet.  There was a puddle forming around her pale feet.  Oh god, he thought, is she...

Her head snapped up and she screamed so loudly that his eardrums felt like they would burst.  He clamped his hands over his ears and staggered.  Translucent veins bulged in her throat as her rotten-toothed mouth reared open further than what should be possible.  Her eyes were wide and white, devoid of pupils.

The shriek intensified so greatly, his hands doing nothing to soften the painful pressure growing in his skull, that his vision blurred and shook like he was suffering a personal earthquake.  He nearly passed out, staggering a few paces.  The movement renewed his vigor and with every last ounce of strength, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him, straight into the forest.

He ran until he could hear nothing but silence.  Then he ran some more.  His nose was bleeding and he thought maybe his ears were too, but it was too dark to tell.  He only knew that the world was spinning and swaying, like when a person spins themselves around repeatedly and then tries to walk straight.

He staggered from tree to tree until the ghostly tone ringing in his ears began to fade and he could breathe easier.  The flickering light he had originally seen from the path was much brighter now.  He hadn’t noticed it while he was fleeing for his life, but he hadn’t really been focusing on anything other than not dying, either. 

Unsure what else to do, and most certainly lost beyond hope, Justin decided that following the flickering light was pretty much the only thing to do at this point.   He found that he had walked an impossibly long distance without seeing any kind of source.  It always looked as if it were shining just ahead, but when he got there, there were only more trees and boulders.  He followed it still, determined that he would figure this out.  He had no idea how far he had gone, or in what direction, but eventually he found himself standing between two marble columns, one broken halfway up.  Ivy crawled up and around both.  Through the columns he could see what appeared to be some kind of ruins.  The area was in a small clearing.  Along the circular edges, the columns rose to different lengths.  Most were broken low near the base, but a couple rose to their full height of ten feet.  Inside the circle, marble littered the earth.  There were shattered archways, broken pillars,  crumbled and overgrown walls.  Near the center, a dried up fountain sat alone, with a unicorn rearing up on its hind legs.  Its horn pointed straight to the night sky. 

The tall white elms around the ruins made a patchwork domed ceiling, allowing many slanting rays of silvery moonlight to dapple the ruined temple.  He guessed it was a temple, from the way the columns appeared, but really he had no idea.  Behind the unicorn was a another statue.

The cold stone gleamed under the starlight.  The figure was garbed in flowing robes, intricately designed bracelets hung from his wrists.  A spire-like crown adorned his head.  Long hair spilled over his shoulders and sharp ears rose up to the top of his crown.  His hands clutched a great sword, the hilt at his chest and the tip of the blade at his feet.  Two crescent shapes, shining like silver, adorned both ends of the handle, forming the pummel and the hand-guard, a design Justin recognized as Celtic.  The blade itself was a golden, translucent crystal.  Even in the moonlight, the golden crystal shimmered with yellow light - like the reflection of water on a cavern ceiling.  He was mesmerized.  Clearly, this sword was not marble like the rest of the statue.  One thing was certain, the amber blade was the source of the glimmering light flashing in the trees.  The light bent and slithered over the surface like golden syrup.  Even still, it made no sense that the light would bounce off the trees and reflect all the way to the path where he’d seen it.

At the base, where the statue’s pointed boots were planted, there was a slab of marble with writing engraved on it.  The language was unknown to him, but the letters flowed like liquid, spilling across the stone in perfect dips and swirls.   It read:

A findias tucadh claidhim nuadad.

Ni thernadh nech uadha.

O dobetha as a intig bodha.

Ni gebtha fris.

                What it meant he could only guess at.  Perhaps it was a poem about the statue.  Or maybe a riddle to win the sword?  It obviously had some importance or no one would’ve bothered to carve it there in the first place. 

The drumming of running footsteps and rustling brush sounded nearby, rousing him from his stupor.  The forest seemed to distort the sounds, making it impossible to tell which direction it was coming from.  He tensed, not knowing what to expect, glancing about and wondering if he shouldn’t find a safe hiding spot.  But before he knew what was happening, someone exploded from the brush and crashed into him.