matcha-royaltea

[QUEST: E-047 (RETURN-001), WORDS: 610] “Log Number [REDACTED]. Or something. Day: Don’t know! Time: Don’t care!! Look, forget about the log! I know what I saw. I mean- I don’t know- but it was there and I saw it, alright?! That THING. Something in the woods. It was just… there… staring at me. Watching me. Waiting for… me??? What monstrosities lurk beyond the veil in this accursed city? What abominations could strike fear into even I, the Harbinger of the Apocalypse?!??! I shudder to think of some malicious entity more fearsome than me! Huff… puff… should stop narrating now… outta breath…” Hazard had not wandered into deep, dark woods where he soon grew hopelessly lost. (He didn’t even remember how he got here anyway!!) His aether had definitely not turned to ice when he felt a chilling presence boring into the back of his skull. And he most certainly hadn’t screamed at the top of his lungs like a little baby and ran away!! No siree!!! No idea what you’re talking about. But here

[QUEST: E-047 (RETURN-001), WORDS: 1839] “Log Number [REDACTED]. Date: Unknown. Time of day: Unknown, only that it is still somehow day. The Sun never sets here. I say Sun with a capital S because it is everywhere I go and everywhere I look in this blasted kingdom. What a menace. No wonder Treatropolis fell; setting up shop with that THING hovering over your heads all the time was doomed to fail. Perhaps it is a Harbinger of the Apocalypse, as am I. If so I feel no sense of kinship towards it. I scorn its very existence, I need none of its aid. We are not the same. I will bring about my own day of reckoning, and when I do, it will be glorious…” And so on, and so forth. These are not words hastily scribbled upon the last torn page of a faded journal before the writer succumbs to crystalline rigour mortis. Neither does this broadcast play from a long-forgotten VHS recorder over and over on repeat. Nay, they are the mumblings of a fiendish creature stalking through the abandoned halls

[QUEST: E-047 (RETURN-001), WORDS: 2017] Foul trespasser. Send word far and wide. Of the last Queen of Treatropolis, Queen [REDACTED] [REDACTED] the Xiith. True heir to the [REDACTED] bloodline. Consort of the Treatropolis Sun. And the majesty of the darkest day of her dynasty. Bits and pieces flake off the crumbling city walls. An unnatural sheen radiates from the candy houses, coated in a sickly sweet glaze. Stare long and hard into the murky gloop and you just might see it: A lone figure shambling mindlessly through the twilit gloom of once-great Treatropolis. There is still life in this urban wasteland of candy canes and lollipops. Or some semblance of it at least. A crow circles impatiently overhead. After all, scavengers seek out the dead to feast. On occasion the crow swoops down and dive-bombs the nightmare invader, causing his shuffle-step, shuffle-step gait to stagger to a halt. “Caw! Caw!! Cacaw caaaaaw!!!” Though it furiously bombards the Stygian with noise and

[QUEST: E-047 (RETURN-001), WORDS: 720] “It is better to light a single candle than curse the darkness.” Where were you when the Sun set for the last time over Treatropolis? Beyond the gates of the great Treatling city, shut for all eternity, the twilit streets glisten in an array of tantalizing hues. A pied stranger wanders down a pristine road of sheer, glossy sugar. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. With every step, the city crackles and shatters underfoot. Konpeito balls begin to gather beneath the soles of her hooves; every so often the stranger stops to stamp them out lest her journey be laced with candy-coated agony. What a tragedy, she mourns as she looks over the colorful shards. How the mighty have fallen. We will never have another Hundred Year War again. I know of the pain and suffering it wrought. It is a mercy and a kindness that none can relive them. But this… Is this peace? I do not know. The stranger moves on. A swathe of stardust is all that remains. Where is

“Zem luna, teim luna.” “Zem Luna, ve teim a.” The last passenger has disembarked. Though the ferryman waves farewell, they are already gone. As he glides down the river the only thing rising to greet him is his shimmering reflection. Skimming past perilous reefs, snatched from the gnashing jaws of death with just a touch - is he alone? He can count the Yevatem who hailed him down today on one hand. He does not blame them. Few teskavtlejem dare travel the selerved this way. On a craft so light, down a route so precarious, and with naught but a single guide? Who would go on such a ratetvoitlej voyage? Who, indeed? But there are always those who will need the ferryman. They must go on, they must. The hasty, the desperate, and the dubious who it is best not to question. And a smiling ferryman is better than going alone. For only the ferryman knows the way of the selerved, and there are plenty of ways an unsuspecting traveller might sink into the embrace of Ai Matia, as the

Hark! Gather round, deyevatem, gather round. Those are the melysteryevatem you hear. They are calling the children home to hear tales of cycles past. But there is one story that is told time and again even if you are not from the Heart. It is an old, old story; how old exactly, we do not know. Who was the first to speak of it? Not even the melysteryevatem can tell us. Although they have heard it since they were but deyevatem themselves, none know the face nor the name of that wondrous storyteller who weaved these words so long ago. Nevertheless, it makes for a good story. Come while away the hours, deyevatem, stay a little longer past your bedtime and listen to the tale of Botheamitsaal… Why Botheamitsaal? Why the heart of the Heart, the very soul of the Mother herself? None can deny her presence, for her laughter ripples throughout the caverns; all Yevatem can hear her heartbeat in their ears and feel her coursing through their blood. If you care to listen, her voice can be found

How precious is water to the desert-dweller! We never really think about such things until they are gone, you know; nobody in the astriaveltu’rem goes thirsty. Why would they? Not when Yevatem can quench that thirst from every lake, river and spring they please. Kesyajdesi luna mepeus anier ierim ujeltur’em. As long as you search where the light does not reach, you will find water. But teskavtlejem from above, with their callused hands and parched lips - they know how to appreciate the miracle of water. Lune is so scarce on the surface; the teren is too hot, too hot! And it is hottest in the no-water lands where the very sand threatens to scald your feet. To varsamakteskavtlejem a mere puddle is a gift from our Mother, two cupped palms’ worth cause to celebrate. If only we could learn to love the simple things as they do… A powdery-blue blur bounds across the landscape. It gives pause for a moment - just a moment. Staring up at a laughing waterfall, a Siune puppy giggles before

There is static in my throat Fizzling and crackling Rotting my fingertips And shattering my teeth While I lay dying You were lighting fireworks Burning me up from inside Because I wasn’t bright enough To go out in a blaze of glory Promise me I can finally sleep in peace Promise me It’s the last she’ll haunt my dreams It’s time to wake up, Irei. “No… nnnnnno… stop… please stop… Please… Stop…I SAID STOP!!!!” Irei barely registered the nightmare was over until the darkness faded and left him lying there, shaking like a leaf. “No. Nonononono. It’s just a dream. Just a bad dream.” He could barely move. His whole body had seized up, rigid with fear, chilled by the night yet sweat clinging to clammy skin. “Just… a dream. Just a dream. It’s not real. It’s not real. She’s not here. It’s not real.” He blinked and hot tears spilled. Already he could feel the marks drying on his cheeks. “It’s… not… real. Is it???” All this and he couldn’t even remember any more.

You know, teskavtlejem from the no-water lands have a curious saying. Koga Al Varrok tekrastaik varsamak, varsamakgaruem zemdesi theilej. When Al Varrok strikes the desert with his lightning bolts, the sands will turn to glass. It is a good saying, a wise saying. It reminds us that hope shines brighter than any tragedy ever could. Yoa will always bloom on the battlefield. Once, there was a town here. There still is. It has no name, but Yevatem who have lived here all their lives call it Lunaituhei: A home upon the wildest of waters. It used to be quite a sleepy town, content to ebb and flow with the tides - little more than a calm finger on the pulse of the astriavhesfiem, though the rivers were what gave Lunaituhei sorkabai. Merchants found their way here, one way or another, and soon a floating market sprang up on the banks of the town for tsarta. Yet some things never change. The Yevatem of Lunaituhei are strong and steady, slow but determined as the currents that always

Close your eyes and think of a fairy ring. What do you see? When I tell people to close their eyes and think of fairy rings, they never get the chance to utter a single word; before they themselves know it, their faces tell all. I do not need to know what a fairy ring is, of course, for I have seen and known far more than they ever will. But I so dearly love to see their emotions overcome them. No two are ever alike. It is truly a sight to behold. Before little children can run and get their Enid Blyton books, wonder clasps them by ruddy cheeks and chin, mouths falling open in awe. A voice of spun silk and gossamer whispers an invitation to a tea party. Those who know are nodding before they can stop themselves - somber with the knowledge of the Fair Folk’s warnings, yet unable to resist being enthralled. Bewitching, is it not? What do you think of when you think of fairy rings? Hurry, hurry, for spring is hastening round the corner and soon the fairy rings will erupt once more in