The stone halls of the palace of the Shadow King are never truly silent, filled with the endless susurration of whispered voices even in the dead of night. The carved templars lining its twisting, labyrinthine corridors in high relief seem trapped in an endless dance, stone limbs writhing in tranced ecstasies as the flickering torchlight plays upon them. One is left with the disturbing impression that these stone women are the source of the endlessly echoing murmurs, the true living inhabitants of the palace. When I first came to the Naggaramakam, a confused and wistful child plucked from my dying mother’s mud-brick hovel to become yet another bride of the Shadow King, I wondered for a time whether those stone women waited only for us flesh-and-blood women to leave or to die, so that they might live and serve our Lord and Husband in our place.
For a massive book of his art: "This Brom hardcover art book will be the largest, most comprehensive retrospective ever published on this renowned dark fantasy artist. "
Take a look at the kickstarter. There are a couple of levels for signed prints and sketches, if you're interested in that. It's already funded, with well over a month to go. Book delivery set for June 2013, about 10 months from now.
The ancient road to the Mekillot Gate is straight and wide enough for three argosies to pass side by side with room to spare. The paving slabs, each some four yards across, are irregularly shaped, yet fit together so closely you could not slide even a hair between them. Even after countless millennia of heavy traffic, the wagon ruts that mar their dark blue-grey surface are at most a quarter-inch deep. Like the fort and causeway in Bremil Pass, the Caravan Road was built to last out the ages.
A new Eye on Dark Sun article by Rodney Thompson is up today:
The people of Gulg have been told a lie by their goddess: that the primal spirits of the natural world are evil, always seeking to destroy the city and its residents. This falsehood allows Lalali-Puy to control access to primal magic without worrying that a citizen might learn the truth—that the primal spirits are oppressed by the sorcerer-king and her templars.
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The wind picked up again near dawn, a powerful yet steady easterly that filled the silt skimmer’s wyrmsilk sail easily, and the crimson sun had barely cleared the horizon at our backs when we reached the edge of the first Nibenese noble holding. The eastern sky was a lurid green, as often happens around dawn when there have been dust-storms in the distant Sea of Silt. Gazing out in that direction, I could just make out – with my soul’s eye if not my mortal senses – the distant spike of power that was the Pristine Tower.
"Enamdis was already past us, kneeling in the soft, dark moss beside Mei’s sprawled form."
New Eye on Dark Sun article by Rodney Thompson is up today:
The long lost crown of Daskinor, mad sorcerer-king of Eldaarich, was a simple circlet made of a rare silvery metal, and imbued with a healthy dose the sorcerer-king’s psionic power, not to mention all of his paranoia. Now the Crown of Whispers has found its way back into the world, and it seeks to return to brow of its former master.
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"Bayl went ahead of us, the soft lavender glow of the chunk of quartz I’d enchanted spilling out from between the fingers of his upraised left hand. His feet made almost no sound as they compressed the soft, rich loam. His broad back slid to one side, then the other, casting long, monstrous shadows as he ducked and danced around branches strung with rope-like vines and bearded moss."
Enamdis turned out to be right. As evening drew in, the walls of Nibenay were still just a thin, dark line on the western horizon. The Crescent Forest grew closer to the road here, a looming presence off the starboard bow, filled with the mournful calls of the birds and beasts that dwelt within its sheltering gloom.