This is the epicenter for the vast majority of my life's world building experience. Starting sometime around 2007, I began developing my own world from a single nation outward. In the nearly two decades since, the project has undergone countless changes from small tweaks to extensive overhauls. Some call it world building sickness, I call it an issue with my executive function.
At its base, the Divine Realms are a love letter to the lore of the world around me and an exercise in turning the familiar upside down. A never ending sand box that I have spent countless hours playing in before finally opting to invite others in more formally. Well, slightly more formally- Ansel Mill wasn't exactly a subtle introduction (so far).
When it is all said and done, I want the Divine Realms to be a sand box anyone can jump into and enjoy. Whether you want to tinker with ideas for your tabletop games or you want to write but do better with established worlds- I want you to know that the multiverse is canon to this intellectual property, it just hasn't happened yet.
I'm probably talking way, WAY too big for my britches with this already so I'll stop here and get to work on the first proper chapter. If you've already read this far, I appreciate you more than you know.
May the Rose guide your path.
Jordan Trager
(Long form posts and stories are being catalogued on Wattpad, of all places, which can be read below.)
A space for discussing the greater lore of the Divine Realms
I'm afraid I've overstepped our relationship in regards to your request that I check in on the claims of curing incorrect magics. I will, of course, explain myself in the coming confession - but I wanted to clarify from the beginning that I am not distancing myself from my responsibility in this situation.
I burned down the chapel at Glenn's Overlook. I took advantage of Spectre Fjorn's faith in my moral compass and told them to kill the 'good' Speaker Mern.
The blood of this pious man is on the hands of Ansel Mill. You are welcome to continue reading if you're curious as to why, though.
[Command Note; This document has been reviewed after its submission by the suspect Ansel Mill. Spectre Fjorn has been returned to the Catacombs for debriefing. In the meantime; Mill references a request from the Spectres to investigate the appearance of Mern, who claimed to not only see the entropy but claimed the capability to cure it.
Were it not apparent, command would like to clarify that Mill nor Fjorn were requested to act upon their investigation.]
Contrary to how this confession began, I'm actually quite a fan of most of the local faith folk. Specifically, the chapel Glenn's Overlook has served for faithful to Myra and her welcoming Light for generations. I've been a few times and the atmosphere was always, much as Myra herself is described, very warm and comforting.
This visit lacked this, in its entirety as a matter of fact.
One of the defining factors that really sets Myra's chapels apart is the balance of natural light and candle light. They've always done a really good job, whether by design or not, at balancing 'mortal' light and Divine.
Because of this, I was immediately put on edge entering the chapel. Each of the stained glass windows they'd once proudly kept polished were covered in dust, hidden behind beige canvas cloth. No, I'm not some religious fanatic or crazed skeptic - But you asked me to investigate.
I didn't find myself asking why Mern's process required a darker chapel- That was Fjorn's question, actually. I found myself questioning what Mern was trying to hide from his Matron Divine.
Your Spectre and I sat in on Mern giving a sermon. A pretty charismatic speaker, all in all- a bit difficult to really get a read on the attending flock given that I was sitting next to a skull faced Spectre but alas.
I can say without much doubt that the whole thing felt cold. Practiced. Not a rousing speech but going through the motions of one. I watched Mern, close as I could while peeking at the perishoners. I was waiting to see the visage break.
Following the sermon, Fjorn and I stayed behind to have a chat with Mern. I did note he seemed anything but comfortable with the Spectre's presence but whether by feigned ignorance or real ignorance he didn't grasp who the presence represented.
Which is specifically weird, to me, because you lot are kind of the 'authority' on the phenomenon he claims to cure and the Black Knight's legend is ingrained in these parts of Cascaudia.
[Command Note; While flattering to be praised in a criminal confession, command believes it is important to contextualize the aforementioned 'phenomenon'.
Colloquially referred to as 'void' magics, these strange occurrences seem to directly contradict the known rationale of reality- And have occurred more frequently as time progressed. Despite the suspect's assumptions, survival through encounters is limited and we are learning much of this as he does.]
We parted ways with Mern for a time after this initial discussion- he had duties to attend before the next sermon and I wanted to have a peek around the grounds, so it was well timed by all accounts.
Most of the Overlook grounds were fairly mundane - The occasional enchanted candle continuing its eternal burn on the odd headstone, flowers and coins. Nothing particularly stood out until we reached the older area of the cemetery. The area of the cemetery that had no apparent reason to have so much freshly disturbed dirt.
This may not have been the first alarm, but it certainly rang the loudest at this point in our investigation. It raised questions. Questions I had an unsettling feeling we knew the answer to.
It was there among worn stones and forgotten markers that we discussed the potential options and landed, of course, on me playing bait for Mern's 'cure'. We'd found no one cured themselves to speak with, and only letters of thanks as proof this far... So I suppose it was bound to happen, eventually.
I went in alone, which in retrospect isn't much of a plan but Fjorn and I wanted to see if he'd lower his guard. Mostly me, because for some reason Fjorn didn't understand why his presence would cause a normal person to clam up. Not that I'm not normal, of course.
Speaker Mern was initially quite welcoming of discussion and questions regarding his reputation- up until I poked about how he came to see the twisted forces. He didn't seem keen on answering, which made sense in the moment because describing these things sounds crazy: so I went first.
I'm not sure if you've ever watched someone begin to hate you- generally speaking, I hope no one has to watch that particular emotion broil in someone's stare. I saw it clear as day in Mern's eyes. A flicker as I described my encounter in the pasture, then a flame when I walked him through the tomato incident.
It wasn't the warming flame you'd hope to see in the eyes of a holy man setting out to comfort and cure, unfortunately. It was revulsion. It was hatred. It was as though I'd become the void, myself, before his own eyes. As if I was somehow the root.
Credit where it is due? He did an excellent job trying to sway me to allow him to 'cure my visions'. With claims of them being no more than my mind run rampant in our world full of magic. Claims that my experiences clashed with known magics and that I was simply 'translating' what I was seeing incorrectly. Claims that I was deviating into heretical territory.
Unfortunately for him and his well practiced silver tongue, I'm fluent in doublespeak and his eyes were doing a terrible job of joining in on the rest of his face's smile. He could never see the twisted magics- he could only see me and how I was disrupting his world view with my tales of rearranged sheep and children vomiting flesh.
Fortunately for me, he's not used to being seen through. So, when I consented to his little ritual on the caveat that I step out to inform Fjorn not to wait up? He agreed with the first genuine smile he'd worn yet. Self assured that he'd gotten me wherever it was he wanted me.
I'm not a violent man, but I've been in enough tight spots to feel malice. That butter-thick tension in the air that slows each moment to a crawl. The electricity in your spine as patterns begin to prod at typically dormant instinct.
From hiding himself from the Divine Light, to the unnecessarily disturbed cemetary dirt- Too many pieces were matching together at too rapid a pace. I felt the danger without Mern ever saying an aggressive word.
I have a feeling I looked as though I'd spoken with an embodiment of dread itself as I came out of that chapel. Either that or your Spectre had been waiting for any excuse- and he doesn't strike me as the type.
But, when I looked into his mask's eyes and told him that Mern had to die? There was no hesitation. Merely a solemn nod before he stepped inside.
I admit, with no shortage of shame, I was a coward that remained outside while Fjorn dirtied his hands on my behalf. I should have gone in- at least had the spine to watch what I'd commanded into existence... Yet I could not, and did not, and that will sit with me for a long, long time.
To your spooky little group's credit, Fjorn was tremendously efficient at the task I'd given him. Barely the thump of Mern's body could be heard from the whole ordeal- and trust you me I was listening close as I could. Alas, and likely predictably, this is where the plan went a touch sideways.
See, I was not aware of the magical extent the masks you assign these Spectres are. Nor was I aware the tales of them being 'undead monsters oblivious to pain' were entirely fabricated. Apparently there's a very large gap between the stories we hear about invincible shadows and the mortal reality under the armor. I learned this in a very, very unpleasant way.
Now, I'm sure you're very aware why this was pertinent but for the archivist that may thumb through this later- As Fjorn exited the church I watched him go rigid like lightning was tearing through his nerves.
It's difficult to describe how exactly one feels when they're watching one of their pals be seemingly electrocuted from within. He did well, again, at keeping quiet but his body language spoke plenty. The steam of dissipating spell work hissing from the gaps in his armor was my only quick warning up before Fjorn collapsed into the bushes, gasping to get his breathing under control.
It was tense. It was quick. It was because of me.
By his account it was unreasonably painful, but an 'expected potential consequence' of acting without 'clearance from command'. Something about how the Spectres are recruited, but he was understandably more concerned with the body. At this point, I made it a point to dirty my hands to feel at least a touch better about getting him tortured.
He sat, begrudgingly, and gathered his breath. I rummaged the chapel's supplies for anointing oils and incense then soaked the canvas sheets and made a likely very poor attempt at making it appear as though Mern tipped a candle holder and set the place alight.
[Command Note; Spectre Fjorn, upon discussion prior to his return to the Catacombs for a full debriefing, reported a similar general series of events. The main break away between the two narratives was a brief period where Fjorn retrieved a ledger from within the deceased's locked study.
The Mern Ledger is being investigated fully in efforts to understand this situation in its entirety before judgement is passed on Spectre Fjorn and accomplice Ansel Mill.]
I'm not sure if it was the smell of burning holy man or the incredible amount of oils and incense I used to encourage the flames, but I lingered for a moment after starting it- perhaps worse, I didn't feel the need to leave. There was a lot in my head right there.
If I was so sure he needed to die, why was Fjorn hurt by the act? If I was right, would it have gone off without incident? How long does it typically take to die from inhaling smoke? Where did I leave my crook? Do I simply let the fire take me and avoid que-
No.
I didn't get to finish asking myself that last one. I got the answer to the one right before it though as our mutual friend used it to reach in and drag me from the fire. Herded by my own crook away from the heat and ash. May have been poetic if it had happened to a more important shepherd.
Anyhow. We stood there watching it burn and I had to explain that I wasn't hiding the crime from the Spectres or the Crown. I was hiding my judgement on Mern from his flock- making sure my potential failure didn't scar their faith itself.
By the time the Spectre gets this confession to you, I'll be waiting at the pasture for my arrest. Whether or not you folk find anything in that cemetery or the ruins of the chapel- I did wrong, and don't expect to get off light. I do, however, expect you to do right by Fjorn. He isn't perfect but he doesn't deserve heat for my sins when he just wanted to do his job.
I suppose I'll see you fine, spooky folks here soon. Don't scare my sheep or tread on Cal's garden.
[Command Note; Pending further investigation of the Mern Ledger and a full debriefing of Spectre Fjorn, the suspect Ansel Mill has been relegated to tending to his flock under the supervision of Spectres Haskill and Elsveig. He will be expected to remain there until the situation has come to a conclusion.
In the meantime, command has reached out to local tradesmen with ties to the Spectres to help rebuild the chapel at Glenn's Overlook as well as subtly investigate the disturbed dirt mentioned in the above confession. We have also established, publicly, that Spectre Fjorn was only capable of rescuing Ansel by chance- while Mern was consumed by the blaze.
This case will remain open until command is satisfied the killing was justified or until Ansel Mill is found to have been too tainted by void to make rational decisions. May the Rose guide your path.]
Seasonal Affective Disorder is just emotional scurvy, all my core wounds are reopening and they won't be fixed until the big lemon in the sky comes back
[Field note; Report taken by Spectre Fjorn in the late winter. Witness had quite a bit of difficulty accepting that he was expected to offer this new testimony but was coerced into complying with promise of extra funds for rogwin and a hot meal. This is in direct contradiction to the rather loud coin purse spotted on his hip this evening.]
It's a little weird to be doing this again, no? You, me, and this witness form. Who would have expected we'd meet again over a little trip to the market? Besides perhaps the skull masked cret-
[Field Note; "Witness is referring to assigned Spectre security, which he described as 'about as sneaky as an active stampede'."]
I have been corrected in my assumptions, I was apparently not bait so I suppose I will regale these likely highly sensitive documents with another tale of my day being ruined by things no one should ever expect to see.
One of the things our mutual friend 'the Black Knight' neglected to mention before he turned me loose back onto the general public is probably the most important thing he could have told me. The weird, wrong things I saw in the pasture? Apparently seeing that kind of magic- worse, being touched by it- means that I'll blessed to see through similar spells going forward. So... Isn't that fun?
Brings us right around to this lovely morning market up the Kingsway from my pastures. Always full of chuckles and good snacks, even during the harshest winters. Probably keeps us sane sometimes, honestly.
This time of year, folks from the bigger towns come through with special enchanted stones that help keep beds warm and cozy- a personal favorite of mine, though they run out of steam a bit quick for the price sometimes. They also have a habit of bringing veg that's been preserved or grown quicker. Something fresh to help the winter diet feel a bit less ... Winter.
So, we're at a winter market. Magical goodies to help break the morbidity of winter up. All good fun. Except for the stall that wasn't. I mean, the old lady running the stall is always as sweet as can be and her granddaughter might be terrible at counting back change but this morning there was something wrong. Not with Granny's crocheted blankets - though she might be losing her marbles if you judge by the colors she uses.
No, there was something off with the bit of produce they had out. Tomatoes, or at least that's what the little hand written sign said they were. The color was correct. General size as well, only... They were beating.
Don't rub your eyes, I wrote it clear as day. The tomatoes were beating. Like hearts in this granny's wicker basket. Not subtly, either, these were clearly pumping for someone chasing foxes out of the chicken coop. It was jarring. It was unsettling. It wasn't even the worst thing I've seen in the last half day.
On the bright side it helped me remember something. The unfortunate other side of my fancy new blessing I mentioned earlier is that most everyone else cannot see through the weird twisty magic. So I have the distinct privilege of trying to decide if I'm seeing things or seeing things- which, frankly, does not bode well for rumors about my mental health.
Would you like to hazard a guess at what could potentially be scarier than being alone in the pasture watching your understanding of reality crack like Cal's shoulder when he moves wrong? You can't answer that because this is a document, so I'll just tell you. It's watching a baker's dozen tomatoes beating like hearts while surrounded by a bunch of folks I kind-of, sort-of know.
I was, admittedly, not doing a great job at controlling my face when I tried my absolute hardest to explain to this sweet old grandma the situation.
[Field Note; "Witness was seen informing the elderly vendor that the price she expected for the tomatoes was obscene, reinforcing his statement with commentary about knowing taxation is higher this year. He then proceeded to suggest throwing the beating heart-fruit at town guards which was not met with much more than laughter from the vendor's grandchild."]
Okay. So, perhaps I didn't do a fantastic job conveying the weight of the situation but it is not an easy task to convince someone their produce has a pulse.
Especially a pulse that conveniently only the person rambling about taxes and fruit prices can currently see. You get the picture, I'm sure, which is why you're going to share in my abject horror. What abject horror, you ask? I'm so glad you did.
The abject horror when someone came up and ate one anyways. Someone I knew. Someone I watched grow up. Not because he wanted to make me look crazy, either- but because he thought if he did eat it I'd see it was okay and calm down.
To his credit, he ate the whole thing pretty quickly. It was probably a lot easier for him to eat it than for me to watch it, as it never stopped beating. Not as he bit or chewed, at least.
So, this is where things get a touch complicated because we're now facing a fairly crowded market full of people that already think I've been hitting the skin before midday and a mid teens boy who's just eaten a horrifying heart fruit.
There's a lot of ways to make a kid throw up, honestly, but not many of them work real well if you're not trying to cause mass panic. I still had an idea, though not a super great one. Well, two ideas, but a drinking competition with a kid isn't typically high on the options list.
There's exactly three things in the world that young men -
[Field Note; "Witness was reminded that some modicum of professionality is still expected, even under such unexpected circumstances."]
There's exactly two things in the world that young men chase farther than their bodies are really equiped for; money and pride. Thankfully the kids around here have really goofy ways of building that pride - myself included once upon a time.
Now, I have some very specific skills that help me with these nonsensical tests of pride - I am very good at pretending to be entirely too drunk to be making wagers, and very, very bad at throwing up. Both things a bit of a cheat to the game I suggested.
The game? Spitnum. The goal? Spin around the axe handle - my crook and granny's broom, in this case, as many times as you can. First to fall out or chuck up wins the pot, bystanders bet on their favorites. Eaaaasy money, right? Kid just has to stay upright longer than this cookey lush.
As expected, he took the bait pretty quick and of course onlookers never shy away from a little competition of pride. The game was set with a trap none of them could have seen coming - My true, secret pl-
[Field Note; "Witness has been dissuaded from melodramatic monologues that border into mad villain territory despite their potential comedic value. Note the witness, while disgruntled, understood the optics of such rants in official documents. Spectre on sight formally requests a raise as of the submission of this document.]
... I knew two things he didn't. I'd had a very stable breakfast of meat and bread, washed down with a lovely tea. He'd just eaten one of farming's most acidic treats that was potentially some kind of horrifyingly invasive toxin.
Now, be still your beating (hopefully) non-tomato heart, because I didn't end up losing the wager. Thought I was going to for a bit there buuuut he was just so determined to outlast me and ended up ass over kettle. I do admit I got a little swept up in collecting my winnings but I didn't end up forgetting he was the focus of this moment.
Annnnnd my focus was stumbling alone towards the back of the barn. Naturally, both because I'm a good sportsman and because of the current 'potentially cursed object', I followed after. Distant enough to respect the privacy but close enough that I could hear the very, very unsettling gurgle heralding some manner of activity in his insides. This was it. Make or break on my ingenious scheme.
I quickly learned two very important things as I came around the corner to pat his back and try to offer him some kind words. First was that whatever the produce he put in his body was absolutely not coming back out as chewed produce. The second was that there is either a gestation period or a threshold on someone being able to see the wrongness.
Why do I feel confident in that second statement? Because if I was throwing up unfortunately identifiable chunks human being behind a barn I would certainly not be making jokes between disgustingly wet wretching. I can't even tell you if they were good jokes because this boy's viscerally incorrect yacking was taking up about all of my headspace at that moment.
It was at this stage that I broke my cover and made it clear I knew that the ol' Black Knight had been keeping an eye on me - Calling over the Spectre to help me try to both get this kid away from his new birthed, rapidly waking up chunks of person and to make sure - Well, make sure I was seeing what I thought I was. And...
[Field Note; "Witness has narratively opted for the Spectre on site to confirm the findings he has reported. Unfortunately, due to my inability to see void corruption, I was met with a recently vomited up tomato. It became my priority to ensure that the potential victim was taken to a safer location along with the remaining tomatoes that Mr. Mill pointed out."]
That's correct. The Black Knight sent me a Spectre that cannot actually see the weird issues in question. While Spectre Fjorn tended to the kid and fruit, I was left with the very lovely and not at all horrifying task of containing the flesh. The wriggling, actively-growing-into-a-single-mass flesh...
I've done a lot of work throughout my life that I wouldn't necessarily call glamorous or appetizing, but I don't know that anything is going to top rushing to pitch-fork a chimeric assembly of limbs and orifices into a bucket. At least I hope nothing can in the near fut - Listen, even without the horribly cursed fruit-flesh; anyone else who couldn't see it would just see me collecting that kid's vomit. I really don't want anything topping this particular circumstance for a good while.
Anyhow, with the regurgitated amalgam of people parts contained for the time being, I set to work combing the rest of the market for any other off putting affronts to nutrition on display. Thankfully? None. Unfortunately? There was absolutely no sign of the bucket or fleshy mass behind the barn when I returned.
I'm not sure if you've ever misplaced a bucket of nightmare meat brought to life through magic that shouldn't exist but it is extremely difficult to describe how unimaginably deep the pit in my stomach felt.
Was I am idiot for leaving it unattended? Perhaps. Did I expect someone to steal what should have appeared to be a bucket of human vomit scraped off the ground? Absolutely not, because that is insane people behavior.
[Field Note; "During the time the witness was containing the reportedly corrupted regurgiation, Spectre on site escorted the potential victim to town physician and disposed of the remaining nine corrupt fruit through methods approved by command after previous Ansel Mill encounter."
"No other civilians showed sign of prolonged exposure to questionable paraphernalia. At this stage I opted to return to the witness and offer counsel on disposing the bucket."]
By the time Spectre Fjorn rejoined me at the barn, I was understandably disheveled from all but upending the area in search of my bucket of spew - not particularly because I wanted to have it for my collection of things that are forever seared into my memory, but very particularly because the writhing mass had absolutely been growing prior to leaving my custody.
After an exhaustive search around the immediate area and some debate as to whether it was worth following up or not - from the Spectre, not me - we landed on at least checking the nearby mine shaft.
[Field Note; "Spectre on site would like to clarify that protocol requires lone forces to do as much as possible to remove civilians from involvement unless previously discussed with command. My reluctance had no bearing on my willingness to seek out the missing bucket."]
I'm sure the employee answering for this report is most definitely not covering their own rear. Absolutely wasn't trying to get out of joining me and an oil lamp in the already unsettling mine - Which, little bit of trivia, has been closed since around the time the Black Knight first appeared.
Not connected, as far as I know, just an interesting little tid bit about the space where I was exposed to something I'll likely never be able to scrub out of my peripherals in the dark.
Grabbing an oil lamp - regardless of whatever is under a Spectre's mask or whatever weird magics they use I still can't see in the dark- we set out to that decrepit old pit of greed. Its not a long haul. Maybe a bit over grown but good practice for Fjorn to move quieter.
Uneventful trip involving a rather mundane discussion about the massive fellows the GCA recently started enlisting. The Spectre and I have some different opinions on how much the nation spends on lavish sets of armor for the nation's brass.
It was a nice little moment of normal human interaction- one of those you think of fondly before you remember what happened. Before we descended. Before it had happened. Before Fjorn could see too.
There's a particular type of dread in us that only comes out when we're real close to losing it. The kind that freezes you from the outside in like a long walk through the snow to check traps in the woods. First your fingers and toes, then your limbs, and on until you can feel the chill grip your heart.
I hope you can never relate to the space between seconds dragging on for eternity. I hope you never have to comprehend the idea of an amalgamation of incorrect anatomy and disrespected biology attempting to shift a stolen bucket into itself. I hope you never understand what I mean when I say "it was trying to make it's flesh fold and hang like clothing".
Most importantly. Sincerely. Genuinely- I pray you never recognize who the cursed tomato creature is attempting to turn in to. There is no comfort found in the body smelling like tomato sauce when you've just thrown an oil lamp on the viscerally misremembered construct of someone you know- beyond a shadow of a doubt- to be very, very dead.
[Field Note; "It was during this period of confusion that the Spectre on site was exposed to enough spell work to begin seeing the entity in question. Though I doubt it was fully realized in my perception, it was clearly torn between the concepts of tomato, human, and bucket unfortunately."
"The Spectre on site would like to stress to both archive and command that this entity did not seem to be basing its appearance on any local townsfolk present at the market. The witness did not appear to be willing to divulge any recognition they may have had."]
In case you were curious about whether or not I threw the oil lamp- yes, and the exceptionally horrific reconstruction was much more flammable than the one it had tried to imitate. It's going to be very difficult to try and get Cal to understand why we can't have salsa for a bit, but it beats the alternative of... Well, I'm honestly not sure what the alternative was, this time.
Fjorn and I sat in the mine for a good bit after the thing stopped screeching. Just two fellas, silently watching to make sure the fire did it's job entirely. He was kind enough not to pry right then, but I'm sure my fiery response was enough to answer the questions that mattered at that moment.
I'd won, technically, but it didn't particularly feel grand. Felt like I just set a loved one on fire and not one accident like pops did to Cal at that one Yer-ruun party we had... Back when the world wasn't so much weird.
It's been a bit harder to cope with produce sitting around the house since I got home, might be time to switch to straight jarred goods til spring- but at least no one was hurt and the remaining fruit were accounted for.
[Final Field Note; "The witness, Ansel Mill, was escorted back to his home after the events in the mine where another of our ranks waited to relieve the previous Spectre on site. The pastures, as command had suspected, have remained calm.
I, Spectre Fjorn, wished to add a small amount of detail to the encounter in the mines. Mr. Mill, while astoundingly quick thinking in the moment, seemed to have neglected to mention that the entity was clearly forming a word. This word was swiftly interrupted by the surprising amount of force behind the oil lamp.
The witness did not seem to believe this to be relevant despite the Spectre on site disagreeing whole heartedly. I await command's instruction."]
Sometimes I think something up for the less crazy parts of my writing and think 'that'd be a little too unrealistic for this' just for social media to show me a new magical creature in our own world.
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
ellievsbear
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
