Tired of the chaos, dejection and the generally dystopic outlook of your own existence? Looking for fun and distraction in the chaos, dejection and generally dystopic outlook of other people’s existence (fictionally, of course)? Look no further!
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Hello my pretty darlings! We’re here – the last installment of this run of The Strife. Are you ready?
Desire and Rava were standing in the vast office, and seemed to be discussing something though neither was speaking. When She saw him, the Strife Lord gave one of her conditioned smiles and clapped her hands together once. Without seeming to move, the three were now in a stone chamber. Torches lit the space and a large platform stood in the middle of the room, between the two gods and Zhevicra. He wanted to speak, to ask what was going on, but something told him that it would be best to keep silent.
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We’re revving up to the end of this run in The Strife. In this penultimate entry, we catch up with the actors in our play as they each prepare for the rite. Grab a cup of tea and enjoy the musings of Desire, Rava and our outmatched tribute, Zhevicra.
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It’s the first Sunday of the Month, and you know what that means… Story Sunday! (Okay, yeah every Sunday is Story Sunday, but you get my meaning)
We’re about to meet the lady with the changing skin. So enjoy, and catch you in the next installment!
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It’s that time again and we’re picking up right where we left off. What’s waiting for Zhev behind that door? A well-deserved reward or something more akin to what he saw in the lobby?
Enjoy, and I’ll catch you on the other side!
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Happy Sunday, all!
This week we get into the story itself. You’ve already read about the beginning, and have a cryptic letter written by a dying man… but what does that have to do with anything? Today, you’ll start to find out.
Enjoy, and see you next week for the next episode.
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If Boston Legal met Damages and decided to set up shop in Faerûn you’d get something similar to the world that Max Gladstone has created here – and it’s a dream come true for a girl like me.
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when he arrived nobody really knew what to do with him. he appeared in a quiet residential area on the outskirts of town wearing a t-shirt and khaki pants. when they asked him who he was he said that his name was Kah’nul. when they asked him where he came from he said he came from Kah’nul.
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Nyasha lay silent and still in her bed, listening to the sounds of the world waking outside her window. The sky was becoming brighter and she knew that soon the first rays of sunlight would come streaming through her windows and she and the others would be woken. The others whined and complained about how early they had to get up but Nyasha was a helper girl and was used to waking up before the sun. She had enjoyed the extra time she got in bed at the Manast, but then the dream had started and now she lay awake each morning, replaying it in her mind.
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We are gods of old games, with old names and old faces. We are gods of old blood, old loves and old places. We are the gods who dwell in the soil, who have watched you come and watched you go. We have soaked in your wars and your peace and all the malice and uncertainty in between. But no more.
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