Humor
The Dawn and the Moon
The study smelled of old parchment, stained wood, & pipe smoke. Lord Edran Ainsel sat behind his ancient desk, its surface worn smooth by generations of hands that had signed treaties, condemned traitors, and helped pen the future of Goodhollow.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 24
Chapter 24 The cavern stretched vast and unnatural, lit faintly from the glow of the single light in the distance of the city sized cavern. Sara pressed forward, spear in hand, armor flexing silently, her Sporesight cloud extended to its full hundred feet. The air was thick with shrieks and glittering wings as wave after wave of Crystal Crawlers swarming to block her path.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
When the Moon Forgot to Rise
The night the moon forgot to rise, I felt something shift inside me. It sounds dramatic, I know. But sometimes life gives you moments that feel unreal—moments that pull you out of your routine and force you to look at yourself in a way you’ve been avoiding.
By Fazal Hadi2 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 23
Chapter 23 Before charging forward, Sara spent a moment to fiddle with how the System Notifications were delivered during combat. She figured out how to have the System stop sending her notifications every time she used a skill or ability of what it had costs and what remained.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 22
Chapter 22 Sara knelt in the narrow empty tunnel, the only sound her own breathing. She laid her old spear across the stone floor, its familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate against the unknown threat ahead. Closing her eyes, she pressed her palm to the shaft and whispered the command.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
The Argument of Elements
The Almanac of Greenhaven Farm didn’t just predict the weather; it held court with it. For generations, the Rowan family had followed its cryptic, poetic advice. Its pages, penned by long-gone hands, said things like, “Sow the south field when the willow weeps gold,” or “A quarrel is coming when the crows fly backwards.” The weather it described was less a system and more a living, temperamental entity.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
Chatroom 88AE
Mikhail unpackaged the dead server. It was supposed to be a fun salvage job. Just a weekend distraction to pass the time along. Productively. He had bought the dusty black drive from a University auction, the kind of forgotten tech no one bothered to catalogue. Half the lot was junk; cracked monitors, obsolete GPUs, cables that no modern port recognized. But this drive was different. Heavy. Warm. Even before he plugged it in. Like it had been thinking in its sleep.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher2 months ago in Fiction
