Stories from the World of Hârn – to entertain, inspire, and educate.
Gazing into the distance, she listens nearer, feels farther for the scent of the beast. Rubs the ground softly with tender feet, holds a stone between her toes and sways gently in the chattering wind.
Surely what comes must spore, in the water, on brittle, virginal snow, in the perfidious wind however bemused its stammered allusions. Surely there must be sharp vapours riding subtle astride clean...
The rhythms of field and village, of folk and spirit, of earth and nurture may be harder to sense. Perhaps folk who build cots and huts, plant tofts and orchards, keep clever pigs and honest dogs, make brooms and weave tablecloths put a blanket betwixt their selves and the rhythmic world.
Earth and wind, spirit, black iron, purifying fire… somehow they all break rhythm as they serve...
One could see from the gold of her eyes that the spirit of Jârlak moved there. Like the fingers of the soul, like petals in the wind, it moved. It set her paws upon the snowfall, upon paths, it stood her whiskers in the air, ran attentive bristles down her spine and tuned her, tuned her to the sighing, to the small sounds, to the unrelenting songs.
It let her see the difference...
Things come and go, things change. Nothing changes more than anything else, but we cling to our illusions and we get by.
I’ve been wanting to spread about some more universal (Keléstial) lore, if only to prove, once and for all, that no, it’s not just about rolling dice and fetching pizza. It’s at least as much about the stories and I need to get some of them out there (and maybe...
One day, the woman came unto her husband, who was working in the fields saying,
"My lord, there is a demon dwelling within our house." The husband ran into the house, and gazed about, but he saw no demon.
After a time he said to his wife,
"Good lady, I have examined our house, and I must admit that I have not found that of which you spoke, although I looked in every corner, under each bed, in...
The mist over the Vémion Fens was cold and, and the night was drawing in. Young Llúwyn pulled his cloak tighter and hurried onward along the boggy path. He had only a few more minutes before the light failed altogether, and he wished to reach the Fenlander settlement before he was reduced to stumbling in the dark. He had already traveled several miles from Bévon manor, and he still had the return journey to manage.
...
Well, we might as well begin at the beginning, with the first folk, if folk they were, to leave aught that still stands.
How do we know about them? Well, that's not easy, and the answer's a bit circular. You see, we know about them because their structures are still here, and we know their structures belong to them because they don't seem to belong to anyone else. Well, I suppose they belong...