Novels

The Grand Junction is perhaps unique in that its origin is not only known to multiple different cultures and peoples across the Myriad Worlds, but also that this origin is agreed upon. There are few such structures across the Velvet, as most are either attended to by a single culture, or are hotly contested about their origins (e.g. the Sibilants, Orwltown, and The Dworgs)

Grand Junction was created by a unified force of Zyth, Dworgs, a single Aspanighoraji, and a team of Ogres bearing a symbol described as “A single sign” on their backs. Construction was completed centuries before the first Golden Howdah sailed the velvet, and as such, every people has a legend or record of discovering the Grand Junction. These records usually include an introduction to the Grand Junction’s history, as told by an ancient Zyth or discovered on the Mural of History.

For any traveler of the Myraid Worlds, the first consideration must always be transport.

This is not new. Since time immemorial, the folk of the Myriad Worlds have found ingenious and irregular means of traveling the Velvet between worlds. The Rim-runners are known for the practices of Skipper-riding, the Gilbrim for their Ripjins, and few are the folk who have not witnessed the eerie sight of a band of Yattrinti setting off in their pearlescent spheres. Even purchasing your own yacht from any number of reputable (or otherwise) merchants is a perfectly acceptable method of traveling through the Velvet.

When choosing your first vessel, there are a remarkable number of options to consider; the first and foremost for the inexperienced traveler should be Availability. While the Byways Guild is a powerful and productive institution, the Myraid Worlds are numerous and wide, with millions of towns and villages beyond their immediate grasp.

CW: Physical and emotional control.

What had Navin done?

Nothing. Navin had done nothing.

Broken tool.

Wallin province was beautiful and verdant. Navin had heard this. Everyone had heard this.

Born to serve.

Navin had said nothing any other servant would not have said. No one would know what Navin had likely set in motion. There was nothing wrong in what Navin had said.

Navin had said it!

“Navin of House Bithrakai.” The gentle voice that drifted across Navin’s ears was rimmed with steel. It was half a question, half a command.

Navin turned to see a woman dressed in a simple green dress of silk and lace. Sparkles of silver and gold glittered across the fabric, and bright gems of purple and yellow danced on the top of thin tassels all along the sleeves. Her eyes, framed by silken locks of sable-black hair, were the only part of the woman’s face that weren’t covered by her ornate fan.

When their eyes met, the woman extended a white-gloved hand, palm down. It was a simple command, one Navin couldn’t help but obey. Navin curtsied and took the lady’s hand, smelling the strong perfume drifting lazily from the woman’s powdered face.

Deep in Navin’s mind, a thousand clues were collected and analyzed. The colors and style of the dress, the image on the fan, even the shape of the woman’s brow was useful information. Even before Navin had gripped the fragrant glove, the hidden face had a name.

“My dear Lady Vach,” Navin smiled, “what a delight to see you. House Bithrakai is grateful that you could come.”

The silver sash was fastened by gold chain-and-seal at the top of the left shoulder and then allowed to drape half-way down the waist. The remaining fabric was looped through the belt and tied properly at the right waist.

There was a proper way to do things. Navin knew this more than anyone. Even more so than the guards that could be stripped of their House name if they did not stand tall when the Viceroy was in residence, Navin knew this. There was, in the twenty years of Navin’s life, nothing more constant than that most primary lesson; to serve properly was to live properly.

The gallat was fixed to the right shoulder by a clasp and pinned to the edge of the collar. The tassels were allowed to dangle freely, the bells woven to them tinkling gently when brushed by the puffy sleeves of the blouse.

Navin wasn’t sure it understood propriety the same as others did. When other people talked about propriety, it sounded like they were describing the seasoning of a dish or the accents of a hem, not the meal or dress in itself. It was like listening to barbarian Kits when they first learned Imperial; they spoke the words, but the meaning was somehow still foreign.

It was said that across the Five Worlds of the Empire of Ever and Always, that there were over a Thousand Houses, each given their own sigil and dictum by the Ever Lord Himself. They each had their own ways, their own codes, and their own customs. Some ate large meals of meat and wine when the sun hung overhead. Others sat down at dusk to eat large stews of nuts and vegetable. Some devoured raw fish, others charred roots.

All who resided in the Ever Palace ate at the same time. It didn’t matter which House they belonged to or what customs they practiced, the largest meal of the day was always served at Eve’nBell. There was not a soul allowed out of doors while the evening meal was eaten, nor after, until the dawn broke the next day.

Lippothalus, personal Hand-servant to the Archduchen Belah Tharghem, knew better.

The law of the Ever Lord was universal, yes, but too did it need to be selective. While the curfew was strictly enforced, it was impossible for the nobility of the Empire to remain still and silent. Messages were slid under doors, meetings were held under cover of darkness, all with the security of honor and title.

The perfect irony of the Ever Lord’s curfew: those who had more reason to defy it had the least to fear from its enforcement. Night was not when the Empire slept, simply when it closed its eyes.

And what happened with eyes tightly shut, well…

Gouli-Fen is one of the more difficult places to reach in Eddling, largely because of the regions’ steadfast resistance to infrastructure. Tourists would do best to find a train or bus to nearby Proosh, and then charter a carriage to Kch’lori’s Rest, a small outpost on the edge of Gouli-Fen. There, you will be able to find guides, carts, and Murkmuckers who will be willing to ferry you throughout the region.

Please beware! The locals know the region far better than any foreigner; it may be alluring to hike out into the wild to travel between some of the closer towns, but this is an incredibly risky choice to make. Even when paths are well signed and supported by wooden planks or even stone bridges, the swamps of Gouli-Fen are harsh and unforgiving to novices. Even people who have lived most of their lives in the swamps can fall prey to the shifting bogs.

Mura adjusted her grip on her rifle.

She was one of four in her family who had taken to the art, the rest had made do with bows, swords, and spears. Even accounting for her natural talent, she had wished she had been given more opportunity to practice; but they had limited ammunition and getting more was both complicated and dangerous.

Mura’s eyes narrowed as she saw the marching soldiers break over the distant hill, pushing against the windstorm. She fought the urge to press herself down behind the barn rooftop where she lay; hiding would do no good now, and she needed to watch them approach.

Two years. Two years of banditry, as a family outside the Empire. Two years since they had killed a Knight of House Noonan, and was cast out of the Empire as heretics and bandits. Two years of waiting for the day when the Baroner’s soldiers would march down the road with weapons gleaming and deadly to either kill or imprison them all.

Two years of silence.

Heim Outwater was not a particularly handsome boy. Neither was he especially strong or clever. He was not known as a particularly skilled farmer nor tender of animals, he was a passing flue-player and could dance no better than any of the other awkward boys his age.

Mura was grateful for his lack of special skills, as it made him well suited to be House Outwater’s messenger boy. He traveled often between the farms of the Barony of Noonan, gathering and sharing news as he could. Mura didn’t doubt that House Ashtree was not the only House that saw him less as an Outwater and more as a wandering vagabond, accepting a meal and warm bed for his service.

He was still sleeping in that bed when Mura had woken up to start her morning chores. She didn’t begrudge his exhaustion; He had arrived late last night on his tired horse, bearing the news from the other farms.

Mura had given Heim a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. This made him first blush most furiously, and then stagger when Oklan slapped him heartily on the back with a laugh. It was a welcome moment of levity, considering the news he had brought.

Ordinarily, the evening meal in House Ashtree was a boisterous affair. Ashtree was a one of the larger farms in the Barony, with no fewer than forty men, women, and children. Each had a place at the longhouse table, and they all ate together when the day’s work was finished. Even when the day had been long and their muscles exhausted, there was always a story worth telling and laughter worth sharing.

Unlike the morning meal; which had three tiny courses of egg, butter-root cakes, and thick honeyed curd to provide energy for the day; the evening meal was longer, richer, and seasoned with good company. Roasted roots and grains were mashed into crispy cakes next to thick and chewy vegetables. Honeyed fruits garnished thin cuts of meat and bread. Nothing was served that took long to prepare, but all of it would insure a deep and restful sleep.

On the days that marked the changing of the seasons, a large paper-wrapped cheese was brought out at the end of the meal to much celebration, and everyone would share a hearty slice. The children would then be sent to bed while the adults would stay awake, pulling bottles of old wines and beers out of the pantries, sharing a drink and speaking with each other about the news between local families and rumors from the other Houses and farms.