Continue the Valkyrie: Ragnarok story as Faya is taken in by an old crone and discovers a malicious alliance with the forces of evil in Servants of the Crone!

Last Month

Faya sat, wounded, atop the spires of Bastion, watching a sun she’d not seen in years pass across the sky. After a harrowing night, an ash dwarf brought a strange woman to tend to Faya and her pulped leg.

You can check out last month’s excerpt, The Long Night, here.

Subscribe to our newsletter for the full excerpt. You can find past excerpts by checking out the Valkyrie: Ragnarok tag (bookmark it).

I’m going to change things a little, and the reason will become apparent. Faya’s story is evolving, much like any storyteller’s tale evolves over time, through retellings and the teller’s exploration of their story and art. The world of the Valkyrie saga exists in my head and in a growing collection of notes, and these ideas are slowly knitting into a more realised whole. I hope you’ll enjoy watching this story germinate and take root, and that you’ll forgive the few unchecked branches.

The crone’s refuge was hidden away in a hollow spire, high above the chasms of the city. A vagrant’s home lost to the world among the uncountable spires of Bastion’s skyscape. It was dark inside. The ash dwarf’s chains had kept him from following us. She had given me strange berries that numbed the pain but brought back the terrors of the night. We hobbled through a twisted nightmarescape of shadowy towers and thin stone bridges, me leaning on her shoulder, where one misstep would spell death.

In her hovel I lay under mildew covered hides and rags. Hours blurred into days, blurred into weeks, maybe months. Sometimes there was a small fire, but it was always cold. The deathly cold of death’s presence.

I remember tinctures and vials tucked into the rafters, glass and pottery vessels that shone like bat’s eyes when the crone’s fire flared.

There were moments of clarity too, when she worked her rituals. These cut through the figments and drowsiness but brought new horrors that would stalk me from that day to this. These took the form of creatures from the umbral world that exists in the spiritshadow of our own. These vision creatures bayed like dogs at the crone’s chanting as they danced about the walls like shadows. Their claws raked my leg with icy talons, but never cut the flesh, and only when the crone’s gestures or some other distraction took my attention.

When her chanting ceased the demon shadows fled. The pain would come rushing back with unconsciousness and fevered dreams.

The Geezer had once spoken of the threads of magic, the unseen bindings of reality. Wizards knew how to manipulate these, to pluck on the taught strands to conjure manifestations of their wishes. I know now that they had little knowledge of the effect this plucking had, for it was worse than twanging on some spiderweb of the arcane. The witch knew both the web and those that lurked unseen on the other end, past where our world and a world of dark horror meet. She had made some pact with these servants, and they served her well.

The crone taught me many things too, but I hid my revulsion at her arts and failed at my lessons whenever I could fain a lack of understanding.

The Savonin fear one thing more than anything, and their word for it is ‘Venn.’ It might be translated as ‘spirit beings.’ The Savonin are creatures of the here and now. Their immortality binds them to this world. When they die, they have no souls to send to the afterlife, and so they fear anything from that world. Their fear, I think, led them to their hatred of humans, with their short lives and infinite ever afters. The Savonin elves know only the Venn of depravity and despair, for they are closest to the elves. In the common tongue, you’d call them “demons.”

I will not use the Savonin word ‘Venn’ for the eternal creatures of hope and promises kept, though the Savonin do not make this distinction. There is an older Dwargen word more appropriate: ‘Walkure.’ In the common language ‘angels,’ ‘heavenly messengers,’ or ‘little gods’ might all work. The dwargen knew their hierarchy and pantheon, but only worshipped a select few of the Walkure. Chief among the worshipful Walkure was one with many names, some unspoken, who rules over all. It was His light I sought in those dark hours of toiling at spirit calling.

The rest of the story continues, but you’ll have to be a newsletter subscriber to get the rest of the action.

Rodney

Hi there, I’m Rodney.
Writer, Game Designer, Editor, Kitbasher, Skateboarder, and Ork ‘Ed Banga. But Nothing Without Christ!

www.risingphoenixgames.com/

Continue the Valkyrie: Ragnarok story with Faya’s flight through Bastion. Can she escape, or will she swing for the trail of blood she has left behind her?

Subscribe to our newsletter for the full excerpt. You can find past excerpts by checking out the Valkyrie: Ragnarok tag (bookmark it).

Author’s Note:

We leave Faya’s memory of the dwarves to return to her flight through the city of Bastion. She has just stabbed a man and lost a business associate, and now, with the authorities after her, she tries to make her escape through the labyrinthine city of Bastion. Faya knows that, as a half-elf, she isn’t likely to receive a fair trial; escape is her only option.

If you’ve missed parts of the story, don’t worry, I’ll be compiling all of these into a complete novel, so enjoy these highlights from Faya’s adventures in the meantime.

Flight Through Bastion

Faya slid under the giant’s tabard and through his legs. Leaping up, she caught a slender stone strut that angle up, into the darkness.

Below she could see the lamps and burning torches of the Undercity. Above sparkled the undying magical luminescence of glow globes.

With her hands and feet, she climbed up and up as arrows whizzed past her. She had to somehow slip out of sight of the watch and escape.

More struts, like stony black ribs, appeared out of the darkness above her. She jumped for them, but as she flew through the air an arrow punched through her upper arm. She caught one of the struts with both hands, but the pain was too much and her right hand slipped.

For a moment she hung in space, illuminated by the torches of the watch and dangling in the open.

Faya gritted her teeth against the pain and caught the strut with her injured hand, then hauled herself up. More arrows bit at the stone between her and the shouting men. She hopped from strut to strut, as her pursuers followed her along the parallel walkway below.

The series of struts ended abruptly at a wall, which the walkway cut through via a narrow tunnel. It was too far to jump back to the walkway, which was packed with men brandishing halberds. Where in the Abyss was that giant, Faya though? She could sense the tempo of the archers now and waited for the lull between their firing and reloading. Then she swung out again and caught the edge of the tiled roof above and pulled herself up, screaming against the pain in her arm. In a moment she was running up the sloped roof, then over an adjoining roof that covered the wall. The guards followed her through the tunnel, their arrows ready to catch her if she hesitated for even a moment.

There was nothing on the other side, only a deep dark void and a covered bridge that crossed from left to right above her. It was too far to jump.

Suddenly Faya heard a sharp crack. It took her a moment to feel the pain across her cheek, but by then she’d already turned to face her assailant. A city watchman, dresses in the burgundy and black of their number, stood higher up on the roof, his whip coiling through the air for another strike.

“Oh yes, let’s play!” The man was slender, with angry red skin and a sneer. His whip arched back, then snapped forwards in a flash.

“No games,” Faya said, as she caught the whip. She gave it a hard pull and it came free from the man’s hand. The momentum pulled him forwards and he stumbled towards the edge. In a flash, Faya jumped onto his back and launched herself towards the bridge. As the man fell to his death, she lashed out with the whip and caught one of the stone pillars of the bridge. She swung across. She climbed up as fast as she could, aware that an arrow could catch her at any moment.

Springing through one of the stone arches, she bumped over a baker and her basket of fresh bread. Other people stopped to watch the commotion, and the shout went up for the watch. It was early morning, and if she stayed on the street she’d never escape.

Looking around Faya spotted an ash dwarf chained to a post. The post was affixed to the wall by brackets and ran up into the rafters of the bridge’s roof.

Just then crowd parted, and the giant came into view.

The rest of the story continues later this week, but you’ll have to be a newsletter subscriber to get the rest of the action.

Rising Phoenix Games’ RPG Con is On

Rising Phoenix Games’ RPG Con is this week, all week, right here on the blog!

Rodney

Hi there, I’m Rodney.
Writer, Game Designer, Editor, Kitbasher, Skateboarder, and Ork ‘Ed Banga. But Nothing Without Christ!

www.risingphoenixgames.com/

This is the fourth excerpt from Valkyrie: Ragnarok, which introduces Gawn and the intrepid crew of the Rat, a dwarven mine crawler. Far from home and running out of supplies, the Rat’s crew look for hope in old legends.

For the full excerpt, be sure to subscribe to our newsletter. You can find past excerpts by checking out the Valkyrie: Ragnarok tag (worth bookmarking the link too).

Not recommended for readers under the age of 12.

Gawn Dwargstul stood atop a rocky ridge, surveying the desert with his telescope. Its gears whirred like angry bees as he refocused the lenses. Below his vantage point, Ratta spat into his goggles and wiped them with the corner of his greasy apron.

“Grease, grease is what she needs. No water. She has water, plenty of water. Grease will keep her smooth.’ Ratta muttered on.

‘I’ll run smoother with some water.” Gawn removed the telescope from his eye, revealing a harsh vertical scar over his eye.

Gawn was a handsome dwarf, with thick black hair and a full beard he kept in a simple braid. He had sharp green eyes under his thick eyebrows. Blue tattoos covered his arms, the entwined dragon lords of Fear and Death. ‘Come on Ratta, you old fool. Cap had good intentions, but no amount of fresh air will do you enough good. Back to the Rat.’

‘Aye. Grease. Greasy gears. Good, greasy gears.’

Gawn patted the older dwarf on the back and led him over to a hole in the ground, which they promptly disappeared into. There was the muffled clank of a metal hatch closing, followed by the growl of an engine. Suddenly dirt exploded up from the hole, sending down a shower of grit. When the dust finally cleared, the hole, and the dwarves, were gone.

The Rat was a sleek mine crawler with eight births and a cramped cargo bay. It was a machine to be proud of, with an intricate combination of valves and chain-driven cogs that worked together in synchronized harmony to propel the drilling rig through the earth. As much as Gawn loved the Rat, it was his brother crewman that filled him most with pride.

Big Beir was the crew’s cook and joker, a dwarf who never seemed to worry, no matter what life threw at him. He stood near the Rat’s small stove, rummaging through a box of dry rations. ‘Anything?’ He asked the returning dwarves.

‘Not a drop.’ Gawn said.

Sal was Bier’s opposite, a contemplative loner who seldom shared his thoughts. He was dependable to a fault and the most widely travelled of the crew. He sat cross-legged on the decking, cutting wood for the stove.

‘See anything?’ Gawn asked Sal.

‘Same as you, I reckon. But follow this ridge and we’ll hit something.’

‘Aye aye.’

‘Or dive and we’ll hit all the water we could ever want.’ Tav said, lazily buckling on his breeches as he stood by his bunk. The ship’s weapons master wore his dusty orange hair in a tight mohawk that showed off the scars that crisscrossed his scalp.

‘I told you Tav…’ Sal began.

‘The Abyss runs shallow here, Tav. We can’t dive, Tav. Your mother’s a whore, Tav. Give it a break already. We’ll find water before we ever hit the boundary. And don’t give me that ‘saltwater’ nonsense. We’ve got the Geezer.’ Tav thrust his thumb over his shoulder. In the shadow of another cot, an older dwarf harrumphed. ‘Not you too, Geezer.’ Tav said, throwing his hands in the air. ‘To the Abyss with all of you, I’ve got munitions to polish.’ The young dwarf threw open a hatch and disappeared inside, just missing the laughter that erupted in his wake.

‘So, Geezer, is it true? Can you turn brine into water?’ Gawn asked.

The old dwarf rose from the shadows. He was bald, but his long white beard was braided through with golden talismans.

‘I can turn brine to wine, and more. Lead to golden ore, or your mother into a lusty…’

‘Oi, that’s enough.’ Gawn interrupted, but the gleam in his eye was full of laughter.

‘No. In a different time, maybe,’ the Geezer continued, ‘but now, no, impossible.’

‘Why?’ Sal asked.

You’ll get more of the story about the Rat’s crew if you’re a subscriber to our newsletter.

Bunny Girls

April 1st wasn’t much fun for many of us this year, but we still had a good laugh with Book of Races: Bunnygirls. Kim Frandsen’s newest book for 5th edition is available on our Rising Phoenix Games store, on Drive Thru RPG, on Paizo.com, and on Itch.io.

Rodney

Hi there, I’m Rodney.
Writer, Game Designer, Editor, Kitbasher, Skateboarder, and Ork ‘Ed Banga. But Nothing Without Christ!

www.risingphoenixgames.com/

This is the third piece of fiction in the Valkyrie: Ragnarok and Valkyrie: Saga settings, and sits at the start of Valkyrie: Ragnarok, following on from Coercion. I hope you enjoy it. For the full story, be sure to subscribe to our newsletter.

Because of adult content, the following is not recommended for readers under the age of 12.

When she awoke, Faya was lying on the rotting floorboards. Her senses were muddled, and she gasped with pain when she tried to move. Bors had somehow broken a rib, she was sure. There was blood across the floor, leading to the door, but he was gone.

Faya pulled herself slowly up and dressed. Each movement triggered a sharp pain in her side. It was hard to breathe. She carefully brushed out her hair with a hand while holding her side, careful to cover her ears with her bangs. She then rifled through the sheets and searched the dark corners of the room. Besides the sleeping pallet and a small smokey lamp in an alcove the room was empty, and there was no sign of her weapon. She cursed, then slipped out of the room, and into the darkness of the undercity.

It didn’t take long to find Anders lying in a dark alcove, covered in alcohol and his own blood. If the alcohol was meant to mislead anyone, it wasn’t necessary; the stab wounds spoke volumes. Here, so close to the Depths, nobody would care about a bloody corpse anyway.

Bors had figured out enough of Faya’s history to scare her. It was her mother, not her father, that was elven, but he’d been right on many other accounts. Her mother was a queen of the Lotus Courts, and that had given Faya an unlikely refuge in a world that hated her for her mixed heritage. She had never known her father. It was possible that he’d escaped during the Night of Betrayal, but she would likely never know. She knew how terrible life in Savonin was for humans—she’d known the whips and the thousand tortures herself—but she could only guess at his fate. So many slaves had fled into the deserts of Angor that night. Many had died in the weeks after, killed by the mokith, the heat, or hunted down by Savonin slavers. Still, it was possible that he’d died before that mass escape, even before her birth. Her mother had never spoken of him. She would whip Faya for daring to ask, so her life had been one of noiseless service within the gloom of the Lotus Courts. She had been a shadow, veiled and jeweled and ever silent.

After the Night of Betrayal, the hunters of the Savonin raided far into Angor. By the third cycle of the moon, they’d recaptured many of the last surviving slaves, slaves who had been too weak to run any longer. These were kept in camps for collection by the caravans that went back and forth from the forests of Savo. The mokith had proven to be a deadly obstacle, and so the caravans moved only under heavy guard. A lifetime under the green, lightless canopy meant that the Savonin could not stand the brightness of the sun, so they only ventured out across the sands when it was dark. It was slow going, and so supplies were always short, and morale low. Soon the Lotus Courts were sending the queens they could spare with the caravans, to heal and work their seductive magic over the Savonin’s elite hunters. Inevitably, Fethfaura, Great Queen of the Enticing Needle, Faya’s mother, was called to cross the scorching sands to work her needle magic. Faya went too, hidden within her mother’s palanquin as a favored slave.

***

The red desert shimmered in the scorching midday heat, a vast, uncrossable barrier. The caravan was camped out in the shade of a mighty crag of black-singed orange stone, spread out between the great blasted boulders between the cliff and the shadow’s shifting edge. The guides called the landmark “little castle.” Some of the soldiers had dared each other to scale the tower of rock, but most rested uneasily, tired from the nights of marching and their running battles with the mokith. It would be another long, harrowing trek through the dark desert as soon as the sun-kissed the horizon.

Fethfaura slept easily on her palanquin. She’d perfected the art of sleeping serenely, yet with a sultry smile on her face and her hair draped perfectly across her shoulders, accentuating her breasts. These were adorned with necklaces of silver shards and blood-red rubies. She wore a silk summer sadi, in the style of the Angorian badawi, colored in the black and red of her sect. Around her waist was the wide black belt of a queen of the Lotus Court, with her sect’s distinctive silver ring pierced with eight sharp needles. Each was as long as a finger and their wicked points caressed her skin but drew no blood.

Faya had often wondered about those needles, but she would never dare ask her mother about them. There were many rules in the Lotus Courts, but Fethfaura had given her daughter only two; go unsee, remain unheard. Faya had quickly learned the consequences of disobeying those two rules.

One of her earliest memories was of her mother’s terrible scoldings…

You’ll get more of the story if you’re a subscriber to our newsletter.

Wargaming With Kids

Do you play wargames with children between the age of three and ten? We’d love to hear about your experiences! I’m busy putting together an article to help wargamers introduce the hobby to their kids, and I’d love any insights you might have to share. Reach us on Facebook or via our Contact Us page.

Rodney

Hi there, I’m Rodney.
Writer, Game Designer, Editor, Kitbasher, Skateboarder, and Ork ‘Ed Banga. But Nothing Without Christ!

www.risingphoenixgames.com/