All good on not being as active, real life and relationships probs will do that, it was just nice to follow and learn about the story initially from you.
My next question is, Do you have anything else saved weird headcanon for something not fully explained in the story that you think makes sense or is true?
Not particularly. At least when it comes to the canon of the game that hasn't already been explored. And it has been some time since I've dug into it so a lot of what I may have already done is a little fuzzy. There's a lot of wiggle room with the prophets that's unique to each person, however--
The dungeon mods for Enderal that restore cut content I think would be closest. Especially the Apothecary Monestary. You hear tidbits about it being inaccessible in the mountains but with enough persistence it becomes doable in one of those mods. I like the environmental story telling for it and the added context regarding Adila Dal'Varek about it (without delving into spoilers if you haven't tried them).
Also the Riverwood dungeon from that mod series. I like to think that even a quaint a town as that also keeps a dark past that's literally blocked and shunned. It's a common environmental detail (Ark Dungeons being another example off the top) that ends up crawling with undead due to the unrest; the implications of them being there in the first place to be...grim.
I have been following Enderal for years and your page here for awhile as well as I found it because of you. What would you say is your defining most important moment in the story?
Hey thanks for sticking around! Even though I'm not as active anymore, it's an honor to have been a part of the discovery.
For me, it's the Living Temple and Island sequence. The first time I went through it (before Forgotten Stories was released) was the first major gut punch, or three, (and there are several) that had me sitting for a bit before continuing. What happens to Firespark. Finding your body. Talking to the High Ones. What ends up being a futile attempt to prepare against the Nehrimese. Up until then, things were (sort of) going okay for you. Then it flips you on your head and doesn't stop the slippery downward slope of everything falling apart at the seams. The perception around you as the Prophet/Prophetess changes and there really isn't anything you can do about it but just...keep going and see it to the end with the burden of your circumstance and how everyone sees you at this point.
10 Years of Enderal is a free, digital fanzine celebrating the 10 year anniversary of Enderal: The Shards of Order. We are inviting artists and writers to join us in appreciating a game we love!
Theme: The Story of Enderal
The zine will follow the story of Enderal as presented in-game. We will be covering the main questline, Jespar and Calia's companion quests, as well as notable side quests such as the Golden Sickle, Rhalata, and Our Mark On This World.
Schedule:
Contributor sign-ups open: March 13th
Contributor sign-ups close: April 10th
Production start: April 20th
Check-in #1: May 11th
Check-in #2: June 1st
Check-in #3: June 22nd
Final Submission: July 13th
Publication: August 14th
THE CURE FOR LIVING is now available for preorder!
Walk blessed – or, as they say in Khîra, yâsh thûya,
It’s time. Five years after Dreams of the Dying, the next two books in the Twelfth World series are now available for preorder, at a special discount. The books are currently being printed, and will ship around the final week of March 2026.
Visit my website for more information, or head straight to the store. If you haven’t read the first novel yet, you can purchase it here – a new, premium reprint is in the works. Knowledge of Dreams isn’t strictly necessary, but recommended.
The Cure for Living is a single story told in two volumes. It concludes Jespar’s saga.
“I’ll tell you a story,” the Visionary said to the young woman. “When I’m done, I promise you I’ll undo these chains and let you go.” He met her gaze, his eyes as dark as the void between worlds. “You will stay."
In the oasis city of Qurrâb, wealth, power, and fame all bow to a single ideal: yâsh, the virtue of one's heart. There, a thirteen-year-old girl with a mind like no other resolves to become the brightest soul history has ever seen, inspiring others to follow her example. Her goal? To unite humanity and vanquish the Darkness, the destructive force within all of us that makes the world the wretched place that it is.
When veteran Jespar tre Moreste reaches the fabled City of Sages forty years later, his only concern is finding Loanne, the sister he once abandoned. Little does he know that his journey will soon lead him into the dark underbelly of the supposed paradise, where ruthless crime syndicates mingle with death cults and forbidden schools of philosophy.
As old wounds resurface and reality fractures, Jespar realizes that even after the tumultuous events of Kilay, he still has demons of his own to conquer — and that often, the most charming masks hide the vilest of minds.
At over 1,200 pages, this is one of the most ambitious and complex stories I’ve ever written. Even though it took much longer to complete than I expected, every second of it was worth it. It’s a story about identity, obsession, and how quickly we can become the very thing we’re fighting. It’s also a tale of grief and letting go.
Like Dreams of the Dying, these books come in three editions: eBook, paperback, and premium hardcover.
This time, I chose not to use a print-on-demand provider and instead oversaw the printing process myself. That decision allowed for significantly higher quality across both physical editions, especially the hardcover. This is why quantities are limited for now - for this first edition, I simply couldn’t afford to print more. It’s an indie novel in every sense of the word.
Both hardcovers feature full-color sprayed edges, gold foil lettering on a matte-laminated dust jacket, and a colored bookmark. Part One of The Cure for Living also includes a full-color, 140-page appendix illustrated by Dominik Derow. See the store description for more details.
All editions also include a stunning watercolor map of the oasis city of Qûrrab by Francesca Baerald, cartographer for franchises such as Warhammer, Game of Thrones, and World of Warcraft.
I’m blessed and honored to have collaborated with several gifted artists on this novel—from my amazing friends Dominik Derow (illustration), Johanna Krünes (layout), and David Müller (linguistics), to my editor, my typesetter, to the various scientific advisers who helped make the world feel so much more textured. All are listed in the acknowledgments. 💜
The third book - and Jespar’s saga as a whole - is dedicated to my dear friend Katharina Lippenberger, a gifted author, poet, and beautiful mind who didn’t live to see it finished.
Thank you to everyone who supported me on this journey. Exciting things lie ahead. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.
Last Book: The last thing I read was Tokyo Ghoul manga.
Last Song: Fall Out Boy - Rat a Tat
Last Series: oh god I just realized I EVEN WATCHED Tokyo Ghoul...
Sweet or Salty: both? yea both is good!
Coffee or Tea: Tea but I will drink coffee whenever if I'm dead enough and need a kick of energy.
Working On: I've been working on a massive Tokyo Ghoul fan project. (I can't really share what but know that it'll be awesome once it's finished ^u^)
tagging (no pressure to do this but if you wanna go ahead :3)
@doublebadger @iamaweretoad @jhara-ivez @dueliz @ipsen @ghostie-bunni @essythewolf @coredeter @vverikae
Last Song: Queen of Clubs (Ysabella's Theme) - Vampire the Masquerade Bloodlines 2 Sountrack
Last Series: Uhhh I'll give two. Podcast wise: The Magnus Archives (I'm re-listening to that). Show wise: Love, Death, Robots
Sweet or Salty?: Both!
Coffee or Tea?: Coffee hands down with plenty of milk and sugar.
Working on: Some personal fics and headcanons with a good friend between Star Wars and Vampire the Masquerade. Will it ever see the light of day? Probably not. Doesn't mean I can't think about it on the daily.
Tagging: Any of the previous above or anyone who sees this and would like to.
Signs of a heart attack are different for each gender yet we only really teach the male warning signs. Make sure you’re aware of both and spread it to as many other women as possible!
EVERY SINGLE TIME I HAVE TAKEN A CPR CLASS I have had to be that person who points out that the training videos ALWAYS frame the “male” symptoms as the default universal heart attack experience, while the “female” symptoms are framed as though they’re a deviation from the norm, rather than the primary symptom set that cis women experience.
ALSO: I just showed this post to my roommate, who is an MD at a clinic that specializes in care for the LGBT community in the Baltimore area. I asked her whether hormones were responsible for the difference in the “male/female” symptom arrays. I asked how that would apply to her trans patients (which, she treats a LOT of trans patients). She said, basically, that the longer you’ve taken testosterone the more likely you are to get the intense chest pressure and the arm pain, versus the upper back pressure and shortness of breath.
Obviously I am not a doctor myself, consult your own health care provider, etc.
Reblogging this comment because this is the FIRST TIME I’ve ever seen someone address what XYZ medical condition would look like in trans patients. Also this is partly why my great-grandma died: the (male) doctor dismissed her heart attack as basically indigestion, because she didn’t have the typical male symptoms.
Here is the list for October this year. Write something short (or long) and tag it with #fictober25 in the first five tags. Let’s see your creativity!
"Just take my hand."
"This is new."
"I don't need a reason."
"Can you hold me?"
"But you promised!"
"This is annoying."
"You'll have to try harder than this."
"I know it sounds impossible."
"They didn't even touch it!"
"I'm here, am I not?"
"Stupider people than us have done this."
"Does this help you?"
"It's a balance."
"Do we have a plan?"
"It's rather complicated."
"I will never forget this."
"You're not alone."
"I think I see it."
"Yes, I missed this."
"Trust me, this will work."
"Just be honest."
"And how did that work out?"
"I believe in us."
"There's not enough time."
"We've done this before."
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Why would they do this?"
"I'm not lost!"
"Where did they go?"
"Do you trust me?"
"I still love you."
This event is open to fanfiction and original fiction.
Start the first of October. You do not have to do the prompts in order. Tag your posts with #fictober25.
Please state at the top if your entry is original fiction or fanfiction and what fandom. State common warnings and triggers at the top and tag accordingly.
No AI generated text or art.
I reserve the right to not reblog fics that I find inappropriate. I will reblog things here on @fictober-event, follow this blog to see all the entries.
Go forth and write!
More items from the strange chest at the Ruin-on-the-Sea...
These are for @essythewolf and @thespritesden
If you'd like one of these for your Vyn OC, just pop me a message or Ask 😊
(Details + Credits under the readmore)
Bracer of Dark Instinct (Leanara)
Lycanthrope talents may be used outside of wolf form. Claw attacks do 15% more damage. Health and Fatigue slowly drain to 1/4 outside of combat.
Compassion is a poison. Heed the beast which has none. Surely this will not unmake you.
Pendant of Potential (???)
???
Who are you? Who will you be? Do you think you'll have a choice?
(This was inspired by the tags left on my previous post :) )
A mysterious letter, a cordial invitation for a guest rather than summons for the Prophet... Jespar, Calia, Tharaêl, and the Marksman meet up before heading to the Star Summer Night celebration.
[~1200 words]
The Marksman prepared for the Masquerade the same way he prepared for a dangerous expedition - all his gear laid out, arranged, inspected.
Lacking anything better to occupy himself with, Tharaêl wandered into the kitchen to observe his friend’s preparations. Their house was sparsely furnished - neither of them had a taste for opulence - leaving the kitchen table one of the only flat surfaces, save the floor.
Upon the table lay his gear for Star Summer Night: special soap, forbidden for general use, apparently imported from Kilé. Perfume, purchased with Jespar’s assistance. A box containing the mask he’d ordered for the event. The outfit he intended to wear, smoothed out carefully to prevent wrinkles.
The Marksman looked upon it all with the same concentration he employed when counting his arrows or checking his armour for damage.
Ridiculous, in Tharaêl’s opinion. He himself hadn’t bothered to remove his outfit or mask from whatever cupboard he’d thrown them into the day they arrived by courier (he’d ordered them in advance from a catalogue, as was his wont, saving himself the purgatorial hell of dealing with salesmen face-to-face).
The Masquerade was at dusk! It was midmorning!
“Is all this really necessary?” He asked his friend, tone indicating that he was, in fact, suggesting it was not.
“The letter said it would be grandiose.” The Marksman said, his accent tripping over the unfamiliar words. “That there would be the utmost elegance and grandeur. I have only a few hours to figure out how to be elegant and grand.”
“Those are just fancy words to make you want to go. It’s just a party.”
He flicked his eyes over to Tharaêl. “Have you ever been to a party?”
He’d prefer not to answer that. “Have you?”
“I saw one once, in Kilé. From the rooftop opposite.” Yes, no doubt as he leaned into his bow and aimed at someone enjoying the celebrations… Best not to speculate.
His friend sighed, concluding his inspection. “Would you get the fire going? I’ll fetch the water for a bath.”
-
Washed, dressed, and bemasked, Tharaêl and the Marksman idled in the living-room, watching the fire’s last embers burn down. Dusk was soon, and their friends were to meet at their house before they’d all head to the Ark Theatre together.
Sure enough, as if on cue: a rapping at the window. Jespar appeared, grinning and waving.
“Door’s unlocked.” Tharaêl called, not getting up.
Jespar let himself in the front door and joined them. Playing the gracious host, the Marksman stood to allow him to sit - the living-room had only two armchairs.
“It amazes me that you’ve still managed to look like a vagrant.” Tharaêl told him. “Though one who's stolen some finery.”
Jespar brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his fine clothes. “It astounds me, my friend, that you’ve divested yourself of your swords for the evening. Surely you’ll fall over without their weight at your hips and the confidence their presence brings?”
“I’m weighed down by all the gold I’ll need to bring tonight - to pay off the guards when you inevitably cause a scene trying your luck with someone’s wife.”
They smiled at each other, unkindly - no warmth, all teeth.
“I like your mask.” Jespar tapped his own. “A tomcat, very fitting.”
It was a panther, and Tharaêl knew Jespar knew.
“What are you?” The Marksman asked, finally joining in the sparring match. “A badger?” His tone contained only polite, genuine enquiry.
“A wolverine,” Jespar graciously corrected, “known, I will add, for their ferocity and strength.”
Tharaêl saw the Marksman’s lips quirk in a smile, the only flash of the oncoming blade in the dark: “Oh. Why’d you pick it for yourself, then?”
They laughed, and Jespar raised his hands in mock affront. “Bah! You damned impish creatures always gang up on me. Unfair, I say!”
He was rescued from further teasing by Calia’s arrival - Jespar had left the door ajar for her. “Hello!” She called, making her way inside.
Tharaêl stood to give her his chair.
“I like your dress.” He complimented her, moving round to lean his back against the wall by the fireplace. “Is it new?”
“Oh, this? No, I bought it for the Masquerade a few years back.” She gave him a smile. “You're looking nice in your new clothes. Very dashing.”
Tharaêl looked away, quite unused to kind words - which is how he caught Jespar pulling out a metal flask from about his person.
“What's that?” He demanded, instantly suspicious.
“Hm?” The mercenary was all innocence as he took a sip. “They always water down the drink at these functions. We’ll need a head start.”
“We are not pregaming the Masquerade-” Tharaêl began, but too late: the Marksman had already taken the flask off Jespar and had a greedy swig.
Calia accepted the drink as it was handed to her. “It'll help us loosen up a bit for the dancing. Besides, Jespar's right - they really do water down everything.” She drank, coughed slightly at whatever was in the flask, and proffered it to Tharaêl.
Successfully peer-pressured, he took it reluctantly. It burned all the way down his throat. “By the fucking sun, you could strip paint with this! I'll kill you if this makes me go blind.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.” Jespar grinned.
“I have a complaint for you, Jespar.” The Marksman began, locking the front door behind him as they set out. “That soap you recommended was not from Kilé.”
“I had it on excellent authority that it was.” Jespar replied. “What was wrong with it?”
“There is something wrong with the soap in this country! It won’t lather!”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tharaêl snapped, having already put up with his complaints earlier in the day. “The soap lathers fine.”
“No it does not. I never had this problem before coming to Enderal.”
“My friend…” Jespar tried to ply his words gently. “Have you not heard of hard water?”
“Ice? You think I’ve never heard of fucking ice?”
Jespar politely pretended to have a sudden interest in looking in the opposite direction, so the Marksman wouldn’t see his smile. Calia appeared to be trying to fit her whole fist in her mouth, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. Tharaêl, not entirely parsing what was funny, kept his confusion to himself.
The narrow cobble street along the river had just enough room to allow them to walk two abreast, but soon they could make no further progress - the roads were packed with people in all their finery waiting to be allowed entry into the Ark Theatre.
The queueing snaked across the bridge and blocked up the shops (which at this time were thankfully closed). Resigned guardsmen watched from the sidelines, having surrendered any hope of organising people into any semblance of efficiency.
There was a festival excitement to the air, a lively hubbub as people talked and shifted about impatiently. Calia and Jespar struck up an animated conversation about the songs they hoped would be played this year, bemoaning the previous where their favourites had been skipped in favour of that season’s latest trend.
Tharaêl looked to the Marksman, who hadn’t joined in the discussion. His friend seemed to be the very picture of patient ease… Betrayed by his eyes, which flickered about the crowd that surrounded them.
He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but a frisson of animation ran through the queue and people began moving eagerly forwards - the doors to the Theatre had opened.
Hastened by the gap in front and people pushing from behind, they allowed themselves to be swept into the Masquerade.
It would be over soon. He needed to shoulder the burden of Prophet for just a little longer. Just a little longer...
He could trust himself with a blade, now. Could carry a dagger on his hip without issue.
But in the quiet times, the weak times, in mornings where he felt the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix... With the razor in his hand...
Wouldn't it be nice? To rest?
[~1k words]
The Marksman
Water in the cup. Brush wetted, applied to the soap, whisked. Foam to the face. The daily ritual, familiar and easy.
The cut-throat razor on the table by the basin. The daily ritual, familiar and easy. Pick it up. Pick it up.
Shave away the shadow of the previous day. Cheeks, chin, under the nose-
The blade stilled at his throat, as it always did.
Oh, the temptation.
Every morning he met his own gaze in the mirror. Every morning he checked to see if that day, finally, would be the day he looked into the eyes of an evil man.
And it would be final. One pull of the blade…
He felt… Tired. So damn tired, on the cusp of his limit. This grim march to his end and to the end of the Cleansing. And at the end of the road, so little of it left, now - Absolution. At last.
But today, it wasn’t only his own eyes he saw in the mirror.
Ah, dear brother...
A ghost at his shoulder, pale red and translucent, just like the beasts that had appeared before him on Halfmoon Isle.
The apparition wore the armour of their Family, his long hair tied in a neat ponytail, his dagger at one hip and his poisons at the other. Just as he remembered. He smiled, as he’d always smiled.
Rest. Join us. His hand came up to encourage the razor blade home. You know what to do.
A sigh. “Must you wear his face?” He asked the High Ones.
A laugh that wasn’t his brother’s. Do you not appreciate seeing it again? Hearing his voice once more? Is it not good to see him unbroken, unlike how you left him?
Blazes, it was. It was good. His traitor-heart failed him yet again.
You know how this ends, False Prophet. Would it not be such a relief? Would you not prefer to die by your own hand, at your own choosing?
“I will die at my own choosing. When I stop the Cleansing.”
So you say, False Prophet, so you say. Again and again, as if the repetition of it makes it any less - hah - false. You will not stop our harvest. You cannot. Even if you give all of yourself, it will be inadequate.
The visage of his brother in the mirror moved to his other side, placing his hands on his shoulders in a comforting gesture. He couldn’t feel them.
You are inadequate, False Prophet. The High Ones continued. You were never meant for this role. Fret not, however, for there is one thing you excel at, is there not? The only thing you’re good for. Mercy.
Mercy. They whispered to him, in a voice of legion, tempting and beguiling.
Mercy. It would be a relief. He’d given so much already - surely things with the Beacon could proceed apace without him now?
Mercy. Blood beaded along the blade’s edge-
A thunderous knocking at the washroom door, a fist hammering the wood with impatience.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” Tharaêl shouted from the hallway. “I know you don’t take this long to shave!”
Guilt bloomed hot and shameful. No matter how sharp the blade, it wouldn’t make a clean cut, unmourned…
Tharaêl barged into the washroom, shouldered him aside so he could use the basin and mirror, and plucked the razor deftly from his grip.
His friend took note of the telling red line across his throat, and belatedly he covered it with a hand.
“Cut myself shaving.” He lied.
Tharaêl narrowed his eyes at that, all too knowingly. “Go get dressed.” He demanded, harrying him out the door. “Summons came from the Temple an hour ago.”
“Tharaêl, wait.” He put a hand on the doorframe to halt himself as he was pushed through. “Am- Am I an evil thing?”
Foolish to try and have this conversation now, at this time. Foolish to seek comfort from a man who knew not how to give it.
“No.” He snapped, as if it was obvious. “Now get going! I’m not standing through another lecture from that cunt Arantheal about tardiness!”
- - -
Tharaêl
Cut himself shaving, indeed! Of all the half-assed blatant lies-
He sighed, wrath ebbing. He’d felt the call of that seductive void before, that promised an end to the pain and everything else to boot. He could afford his friend a little sympathy, and not question it. He’d seen the guilt on his face.
He poured water from the ewer into the basin and prepared to wash, pausing only to listen and check his friend really had gone to get dressed.
He had. Good.
Tharaêl turned his attention to the ghost in the mirror.
It was wearing the Father’s face, but all wrong… The robe wasn’t quite right, the mask never grinned like that, and His eyes certainly never glowed. It was like He was beyond the sight of whoever was copying Him, and they had only vague memories to go off.
This must be the High Ones, like his friend complained about seeing, come now to torment him, too.
Well they could fucking get in line! He had his own personal ghosts, and they were there first.
He will kill you, Soul-Corpse. They mocked him. His love will drag you to your death alongside his. Pointless and futile. A waste.
Washing finished, he picked up the shaving brush and soap. He didn’t get a shadow like his friend - just a few hairs - but it wouldn’t do to look like a scruffy teenager.
You cannot save him. The High Ones couldn’t get the voice right, either - too masculine, with an odd echo. He cares more for his crusade against us than he cares for you.
He washed the last of the foam from his face and carefully dried the razor. For all the fuss Arantheal made about these ‘High Ones’, they seemed a bit shit. Was this the best masterful manipulation they could muster?
They rallied for one last tiresome attempt. He has made a beast of you. He has made you weak. Yet another who takes what they want and changes you to their whims. Where is your stalwart defence against such banal feelings, Soul-Corpse? Where is your control?
“My control,” Tharaêl replied tartly, “is here.”
He turned the mirror to face the wall.
