Precurse

I've prepared to meet this thing for a lifetime — feels like longer — but I never thought it would be this strange. Not quite sure why.    Admittedly, angels have never been very caring of their appearance. As long as they get their message across.    I squint my eyes to see, on the highest sand dune in this sea of bones and dust, a figure in the darkest blue drapes. Slung over his — its? — shoulder, a staff terminating in ax-like blades.    I raise my hand to call to it—    It suddenly flares four pairs of wings and blinks out of existence.    Over decades of years of practicing the many schools of magic, I

    Mnemokinesis was an ugly business, and Risha knew it. Walking even faster down the empty evening streets, she tugged the brim of her floppy black hat down and turned left into an alleyway as inconspicuously as she could.    Swinging at her side was a regular briefcase. This was the point -- just a few days earlier, she'd looked up cheap, beaten-up briefcases on Amazon.com specifically to avoid looking like she was a shady businesswoman smuggling electromagnetic patterning stolen from a demigod's brain to sell in exchange for a Ziplock bag of crystal nightmares.    The sound of her clacking platform heels was joined with the light buzzin

In every soul and every heart Upon this planet earth we live There burns a fire for strong and smart Or brings the end; tears us apart Born with embers, hungry for more The heat and light we wish to give We burn the walls, tear down the door And rock the world to its hard core We burn in radiance, set free Finding constraints to tear right down Find another, no beg or plea Shine brighter than any can see The flame, the fire, devours it all But so is left without a crown It burns out in a blazing fall Or shines to cinders, dim and small Resigned to the wind, naught but ash More embers sing a quiet song To find a growing world to gnash And

In its little eternity, the world of Setsirn has seen little peace. The creation of the Spark Network may have lifted men high, but the continent is changing. In pursuit of utopia, they have set off devices that, if left to work, will return them to the dust from which they rose.    The dragons have left a twisted gift in the form of their machines. These mechanical abominations were given life and thought by magics lost to the ages, and this terrible power which they wield today was the same one that drove their creators out of this world. Emerging from tombs laid beneath the very foundations of society, they toppled the pillars of civiliza

    I slouch back from the computer screen and run my hands through my hair. I tug harshly and sigh, hating myself.    I inch my hands out of the way and dare to peek at the bane of my evenings, as well as most of my self esteem as a writer. Staring back at me is a screen covered with windows of different word processors. I lean forward just a bit, dropping my hands limply into my lap. I swear, they're making a disappointed face.    No wonder I have so few friends.    Weakly, I dredge my hands back up to the keyboard and get back into a position to type. With the last drops of my creativity, I gather my thoughts and press into the keys slo

    The Adjudicators and Administrators collectively hold the same spot above all other beings. Though they are two distinct groups (some members of either side despising the other), they both perform the same job of sifting through the pasts, presents and futures of every universe and correcting what they perceive as errors in the laws and codes of reality -- starting, moving and calming storms in the cosmic waters of existence.    A story concerning a great game surrounds these nebulous beings, one key part stating that there were once many more of them. The exact nature of this game, though unclear, has been assumed deadly. But some then

    "Gather around me," the demon said, with sweetness like honey in his voice. As the children of countless races clustered and sat impatiently, the demon raised a hand. "Hush, young ones. Before you go to bed, would you like to hear a story?"    "Yes, Mr. Badris!" the younger ones collectively shouted with glee. Beneath a mask of but two holes and a painted grin, the demon smiled. To be surrounded by so much happiness -- in an orphanage accessible by the entire universe, especially -- was a blessing most of his brethren never experienced.    "I must ask you this, first: what kind of story would you like to hear?" Mr. Badris innocuously as

    I fear.    Sometimes, I hide behind a pure grin and a rich laugh.    Other times, I need no more than staying low, with a simple 'no thanks'.    But I'm running. I'm escaping -- trying to escape -- this terror of failure. Of disappointing them. It grips me so strongly now, that I don't have the strength to fight anymore.    So I wear masks.    It's so unfortunate, now that I think about it. I make first impressions, and at first it seems fine. Great, even. But then it goes on. After enough time, the person that they first met -- the guy they enjoyed the company of so much -- is just a shadow of me. But I feel like they're demanding t

    The majority of the people driving alongside me have normal jobs. For a living, they sit in offices doing paperwork, or teach others, or do research and examine scientific formulas.    I kill people.    Oh, and a lot of worse things, too.    Along with my (surprisingly large amount of) colleagues, I design, construct and test weaponry intended entirely to subdue or kill a specific target. And the projects have been mostly fruitful, too. We've created rifles that encase their targets in ice. Swords whose tips could reach temperatures not dissimilar to lava. I personally led an assignment which resulted in the making of a landmine that t