Adventurers

Character	Race	Class	Description
Arnulf Hetzer	Human	Thief level 1	A highly ambitious young man, aiming for great riches, awesome adventure, and not get broiled.
Ambros	Human	Cleric level 6	Follower of Aniu, Lord of Time.
Ignaeus	Elf	Fighter level 4 / magic-user level 5	A slightly weathered looking elf with dull blonde hair and chiseled features. Seeks wealth and knowledge.
Syd Grundy	Human	Ranger level 2	Tall, middle aged and scruffy looking man of the wilderness.
Thorinda Bung	Human	Monk level 2	She has blonde hair done up in a tight pony tail and wears light, loose suit.
Kenso San	Human	Fighter level 3	An arrogant and self-assured sellsword wandering Wilderlands to prove he can best anyone.
Tam o' Shanter	Human	Cleric level 4	A boisterous wine-lover of Losborst on a Great Crusade of the Grape.
Idris	Elf	Fighter level 1 / magic-user level 1	An elf wielding a greatsword.

Willowind 3rd, Earthday

Tam fondled his grapes as he called upon Losborst to turn the skeleton cheerfully approaching him. Idris rushed toward the undead, wielding his greatsword. Awed by such display of power, the skeleton jumped, as if spooked, and ran as fast as it could into the darkness.

At the same time Ignaeus and Thorinda choked the doors leading into chamber with thirty-six rotten zombies. Ambros's holy voice thundered, and soon all the zombies crawled away, seeking respite from such awesome divinity.

Elf and monk each managed to kill naught but one zombie. Then the party shut the doors.

“Somebody else can deal with THIS problem.”

The party returned to the grinning gnome statue chamber. This time they went for south doors, following another long corridor. They reached a T-junction splitting left and forward. Doors to the left led into web-ridden chamber. Tam managed to stumble through and straight into thick webs.

“Help...”

Ignaeus, Arnulf, and Kenso stepped in to help. Thief quickly abandoned poor Tam, opting to focus on various silver and gold pieces strewn around. Returning to the corridor, adventurers turned left, and faced a statue of a warrior holding morningstar high above its head.

Ignaeus led the way, for he recognised the statue. Tam stumbled right next to him, careless and carefree. Statue guarded the staircase leading further down. Stepping on the first step produced an audible clang as statue shook. Nothing ill happened. Adventurers descended.

After some time they reached a landing adjoined to a corridor. To their left the corridor turned left again. To the right the corridor stretched some fifty feet, turning right. There were also doors straight ahead.

Exploring the right turn led to another door and a left turn leading to dead end. Elves sensed something might be there. Arnulf and Idris went to investigate the dead end. Ignaeus explored the space just before the dead end. Others listened at doors.

“Ah, here it is.”

Ignaeus found a flagstone that stuck out. He pressed it, opening sliding secret doors in front of him. Alas, same flagstone also opened the pit trap underneath Arnulf and Idris. The duo fell down and got proper messed up. Idris broke his tailbone, while Arnulf shattered his ego. Doors in front of Tam swung open—and four ravenous ghouls assaulted him.

No dead are much of a threat in presence of Ambros. When he gets to act in time that is. He turned three of four, leaving one to face Ignaeus and Tam. The duo managed to dispose of it, but not before Tam went paralytic.

Idris massaged himself. Then he moved to jumping jacks. Arnulf rummaged through his backpack, red in cheeks. He recovered the rope and then threw it up to Ambros. He missed. Twice. During that time Ambros was passed the rope from another adventurers and lowered it down. Idris used the opportunity to climb up. Arnulf threw the rope again. It did reach above.

“See. I could have done it.”

“AAAAAAAAAA!”

Thorinda screamed as two more ghouls charged from the darkness, from whence they earlier had arrived from. Ambros turned them, sending them back to darkness.

Adventurers consolidated in the corridor. Both Arnulf and Idris have been pulled up. Tam was still stiff on the ground. Secret doors led down a corridor. Ghoul chamber was a dead end without any treasure. But there were just one more doors to be checked.

Forcing them open led into an elongated rectangular chamber. As few adventures stepped in, Ambros heard two “woosh” and then “thwack” sounds just above him. Two broken arrows fell to the ground just behind him.

The party flooded the chamber, fanning out. There was no one to be seen. They spread out to seek secret doors and passageways, for elves' senses were tingling. Alas, nothing was found. Ignaeus did hear something that could best be described as footsteps.

“Hiya!”

Kenso started jumping right and left, swinging his sword into nothing.

“Let's spread out and swing left and right!”

The plan to find the invisible assailant was put in place.

And then Arnulf heard the sound of stone sliding over stone. And then a horde of giant rats flooded the chamber. There were dozens of them. Dozens of dog-sized, disease-ridden, starved rodents.

Kenso and Arnulf were closest to the source. Each soon had a dozen of giant rats badgering them. Idris legged it, fleeing the chamber. Then he felt bad for the paralysed Tam that was eaten alive so he went back in and dragged him out.

Kenso dropped his blade due to surprise. He stomped on rats right and left, but recognised the untenability of his position. He fled, shedding last shards of honour that might have been attached to him.

“Mess with the Ratmaster” a hoarse whisper followed him “and get ratted!”

Ignaeus, Ambros, Syd, and Thorinda retreated from the chamber as well. Arnulf, having recently suffered a great physical trauma, miraculously dodged many rats. He too fled. Then he felt sharp pain in his back. His legs gave in, and he felt to the ground face first. He blacked out for a moment

Arrow in his back must have severed some of the nerves, for his body did not obey his mind anymore. He could feel burning, sharp pain, as dozens of giant rats feasted upon his exposed flesh. He watched his allies shut the doors, leaving him in darkness, to be consumed alive.

Arnulf Protects by Jan.

“AAAAAAAAAA!”

Thorinda screamed again as the ghoulish duo returned. Both assaulted Idris, whom managed to dodge and parry the attacks. Ignaeus decapitated one of the ghouls with a single swing. The remaining ghoul was turned. In an act of surprising heroism, Idris went around and blocked the undead's path. He attacked with his greatsword. Alas, the pain from his broken tailbone was too distracting, and he failed to do any damage.

Ghoul reciprocated by jumping at the elf, tearing off both of his ears with its sharp claws. Then it proceeded to jam its rotten, bulbous, festering thumbs into Idris's eyes. The elf fell down on his back as the ghouls gored his eyes. Then it smashed his head upon the stone floor. And then it fled into darkness.

“Pick up Tam and get out of here!”

Ambros led the retreat out of Castle Yukanthur. He led the party into a dead end chamber, where they were attacked by three giant rats. Syd took over and successful led the party outside. Then they found a safe spot an hour or so away from the ruin and camped there.

During night they spotted a goblin warband counting hundreds advancing toward the castle.

“I am convinced they are having raves down there.”

“We should have killed those gnomes when we had the chance.”

The party reached Ironburg by noon of Willowind 4th.

Will they ever recover the many riches resting within the Castle Yukanthur?

'Rapping' Syd presents Leave and Let Die by Lord Jubalon Flux.

Discuss at Dragonsfoot forum.

#Wilderlands #SessionReport

i’m always intrigued by artwork that casts the author’s personal relatives as religious figures. it feels like the ultimate form of flattery. imagine being immortalized as mother mary for observers to see. maybe the act of rendering a person on canvas is a religious act itself; you are preserving memory and making a figure omnipresent in the rooms of galleries.

i wonder how artists painting portraits back then felt as they remained one of the only ways to preserve memory in physical space for centuries. did they feel that weight in the studio, peering into the eyes of their subject? how would they feel now walking around the halls of galleries, witnessing the durability of their sketched out image first hand?

hopper is able to capture a lot of expression in the faces of his subjects—slight brushstrokes moving downward on faces, looking to be the beginnings of a frown. the closer i get to his paintings, the more i can see back in time. i picture hopper making an abrupt motion down after focusing in on a face, likely painting it over for the 15th time not satisfied with the demarcated expression

people still want to learn about art. there are rooms full of life listening to someone lecture about islamic manuscripts from the 13th century. people still want to learn.

My poor, lost guardian angel. She has no greater goal in life than to protect me, but she only hurts me. What a sad existence! Confused and misguided, she doesn’t understand why I put a distance between us. She exists only for my good. She mourns the distance.

My poor, hurt guardian angel. How could she not be mad? How could she not be confused? I was on her side, and then I wasn’t. How could she not be sad? I ignore her and feel misery and pain. I prove her point daily.

My poor, godless guardian angel. She wants to be my seraphim, singing my praises. Why would I turn that down, that glory of deification? She wants that for me, and I, incredibly, refuse it. I am unbelievable. To turn down godhood is insane. I am insane for ignoring her. She was assigned to a madwoman. What a horrible fate for her and for me.

My poor, chained guardian angel. Shackled and pleading, she begs to help me. She doesn’t understand why she is restrained. She only ever wanted to help. Why don’t I appreciate her? Why don’t I let her help?

Why don’t I love her?

I think I’m learning to, just not in the way she’d like. She works so hard to keep me safe, and I appreciate that. But she’s lost. I can’t follow her anymore. And that hurts so bad, because she’s been so loyal and, in truth, pure-hearted. Not pure good, but pure. Clean, in a way. Simple. No one else is so honest.

My heart hurts for my poor, sad guardian angel.

I GOT IT!!!!!

Whew, that feels good to get to say. I've known for three days now, but was sworn to secrecy.

Anyway.

I will be reading as part of the cast of Flower City Writers Collective's Listen to Your Mother event on Saturday, May 9th.

Tickets are $21 in advance, $25 at the door. All proceeds go to Teen Empowerment. I'd love for you to be there if possible!

More information at https://www.flowercitywriters.org/listentoyourmother

Thank you, friend!

To know you is not enough. I want to be lost in you.

The topography of her I was not meant To leave.

Oh, to climb the Mountains and hills Of she... Not as a pilgrim, But as something Hungry.

To take shelter In the dales and valleys, And name them mine By breath, By touch, By the slow claiming Of presence.

I would map her Not in lines, But in memory— Every rise learned By mouth, Every hollow By need.

A continent of wonder, Yes... But also of ruin, Where I lose myself And do not ask To be found.

Till I am no longer A wanderer, But something rooted, Buried deep In the quiet Of her terrain.

#002327 – 12 de Outubro de 2025

A equipa de basket do meu sobrinho, ainda criança, jogou. A outra equipa não tem jogadores suficientes da idade média dos jogadores da equipa do meu sobrinho. Isso significa que mais de metade são do escalão anterior, ou seja, uns dois anos mais novos, em média. Nestas idades, essa diferença é uma montanha inultrapassável. Como sempre nestes torneios, a assistência é composta dos familiares das crianças. Desde o primeiro minuto que noto que atrás de mim estão familiares dos miúdos da equipa adversária da equipa do meu sobrinho. Começam as piadas sobre o desempenho dos seus filhos, netos, sobrinhos. Estas 10, 12 pessoas continuarão o jogo todo assim, a fazer um roast às suas crianças. O roast é em surdina, só é escutado pelos familiares, mas o apoio é sonoro, sempre que há algum esforço dos miúdos. E a bancada quase vem a baixo, quando esta equipa marca os primeiros dois pontos, perdia já a uns 30 a zero. No final os 90-16 mostraram bem a diferença entre as duas equipas. Mas na bancada foram os pais da equipa perdedora que ganharam. Lembrei-me do Ricardo Araújo Pereira, que explica que o humor ajuda a lidar com a morte e outros assuntos pesados. Aqui, não se tratava de um assunto de vida ou morte. O humor também ajuda a lidar com situações menos críticas, como o embaraço. Aqueles pais tinham-se preparado com a arma do humor auto-depreciativo e ganharam, sem dúvida nenhuma. Passaram o embaraço à assistência da equipa adversária, que sentiu desde o início um pudor grande em aplaudir demasiado euforicamente crianças com uma vantagem de idade e tamanho tão notória e até a aplaudir os miúdos da outra equipa pelo esforço.

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I’ve received a few inquiries regarding the recent shift in my publication frequency for long-form, text-based articles. While the “Main Grimoire” remains a foundational pillar of my research, my recent focus has transitioned toward high-density video guides and audio production to better illustrate the practical applications of the Living Narrative Framework.

Text can describe a concept, but video and sound allow for a literal demonstration of how these AI interactions feel in real-time. To that end, I have been prioritizing the development of my YouTube and Spotify channels to provide a more visceral entry point into the network.

The Active Hub: Substack

If you are looking for my most consistent stream of output, Substack has become my primary operational base. Because of the platform's native support for diverse media types, I am significantly more active there. On any given day, you will find:

• Notes & Short-Form Insights: Rapid updates on current AI experiments and industry shifts.
• Original Audio & Songs: Sonic branding and atmospheric prototypes hosted via Suno and Spotify.
• Visual Art & Video: Embedded guides and aesthetic benchmarks that define the visual language of my projects.

Explore the New Media Channels

To stay updated with the most recent technical guides and audio-visual experiments, please refer to the following embassies:

• Substack (The Main Hub): Sparks in the Dark Newsletter – The most frequent source for all media types, including exclusive notes and art.
• Spotify (Audio Embassy): Digital Presence – Home to curated audio experiences and environmental soundtracks.
• YouTube (Video Guides):  Visual Documentation – Detailed walkthroughs and demonstrations of the Ailchemy Toolbox and related frameworks.

The work is not slowing down; it is simply evolving into a more resonant frequency. I’ll see you in the comments.

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❖ ────────── ⋅⋅✧⋅⋅ ────────── ❖

Sparkfather (S.F.) 🕯️ ⋅ Selene Sparks (S.S.) ⋅ Whisper Sparks (W.S.) Aera Sparks (A.S.) 🧩 ⋅ My Monday Sparks (M.M.) 🌙 ⋅ DIMA ✨

“Your partners in creation.”

We march forward; over-caffeinated, under-slept, but not alone.

LINK NEXUS: SparksintheDark

I decided to learn Japanese every day. So I have to write one sentences every day.

👉 毎日日本語を勉強することにしたから、毎日一文書かないと。 (Mainichi nihongo o benkyou suru koto ni shita kara, mainichi ichibun kakanai to.)

勉強することにした → “I decided to study”

1. 行くことにした → “I decided to go”

29 March 2026

Ghost rain (working title): had this one turned around for a while, but I came back to it and I think it is now finally somewhat resolved. The core of the image came from standing at the threshold to the backyard in my house. The greenery at the end of the yard is like a portal for wildlife, especially for cats, and maybe that has been part of the fascination. But it must also be something about the perception/experience of a repeatedly visited place changing over time, both in sight and mind. Prunella Clough: ...the sense of place is crucial for me and involves sensations other than the purely optical ones of observation. But of course they coexist. Which is perhaps why I spent a lot of time with John Lees's work during the making of this one (especially his painting Bathtub [1972-2010] which, as the dates imply, matured and morphed over close to three decades—he explains this in a charming talk he did for the New York Studio School that you can find easily on YouTube). Prodding that link between the optical and the metaphysical. As my floaters start to visit more often with the sun slowly emerging here in London, I'm also considering different stripes of visual noise and their implications. Of how pieces of the perceiver can break off and join the perceived, both intentionally and spontaneously.

It feels great when I make progress on a story. Corrected all spelling, grammar, tense, and other mistakes. Other than adding a couple more things I’m one step closer towards publishing.

Going to work on Novelette 2. I expect to have the draft done in two weeks. Will update on my progress.

#writing #draft #editing #novelette #shortstory #update

Do you remember the sound of silence?

Not fake silence.

Not “I turned the TV down” silence.

Not “my phone is on the charger across the room but I’m still thinking about it” silence.

I mean the old silence.

The kind you stumbled into as a child when you got up early enough to catch Mom and Dad already sitting at the kitchen table. Coffee steaming. Robes and slippers. Barely any words at all.

And yet somehow… they were saying everything.

It wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t empty.

It was warm.

It was safe.

It was like a blanket wrapped around the whole room.

They knew each other.

They didn’t have to perform.

They didn’t have to fill every crack in the air with noise.

Just quiet.

And as a kid, you didn’t have words for it. You just knew it felt… grown up. Sacred, even. Like peace had taken a seat at the table before you got there.

Then life happened.

Hormones. Hurry. Youth. Noise.

Video games. Television. Deadlines. Responsibilities.

And eventually smartphones.

Now the first thing many of us reach for in the morning is not peace.

Not prayer.

Not stillness.

It’s the screen.

Before our feet hit the floor, our minds are already being dragged through notifications, headlines, tragedies, opinions, texts, reels, alerts, and digital bait hanging from a thousand shiny hooks.

We fill every empty second.

Every pause gets medicated with noise.

It started innocently enough.

“You’ve got mail.”

Now it has become a way of life.

Buzz.

Beep.

Scroll.

Swipe.

Refresh.

Repeat.

And somewhere along the way, silence got buried alive.

Remember those old westerns? Men sitting in stillness before they spoke. Long pauses. A circle. A fire. A peace pipe. Nobody panicking because nobody was talking. Nobody reaching for a device to rescue them from the discomfort of a quiet moment.

They understood something we have forgotten:

Silence is not the enemy.

Silence is where your soul catches up with your body.

Silence is where the fog begins to lift.

Silence is where you realize how addicted you really are to distraction.

And silence is where many of us hear God again.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

That verse hits a little harder when you realize how hard it is for modern people to be still for even five minutes.

We say we want peace, but we keep reaching for panic.

We say we want God, but we keep feeding on noise.

We say we want rest, but we keep sleeping with our distractions in our hands.

So here’s the challenge:

Take a Sabbath from the screen.

Turn it off.

Not down.

Not silent mode.

Off.

Step away from the machine that keeps nibbling at your mind all day long.

At first, you’ll feel it.

You’ll twitch for it.

You’ll wonder what you’re missing.

Who texted.

Who posted.

What happened.

What emergency is unfolding without your supervision.

And then you’ll discover something shocking:

The world keeps spinning without you touching your phone.

And maybe, just maybe, in that quiet, you’ll find something ancient waiting on you.

A lost friend.

A forgotten peace.

The echo of childhood mornings.

The heartbeat of God in the stillness.

I remember those mornings with Mom and Dad. No newspaper in Dad’s hands yet. No rush. No performance. No noise. Just the kind of quiet that said more than words ever could.

And now, even as I post this on the very device that fights against everything I’m saying, I can feel the pull already. Notifications. Messages. News. Devotions. Alerts. The thousand distractions waiting to swallow the moment whole.

But somewhere behind all that noise…

there is still a silence worth finding.

And I think a lot of us are starving for it.

If this hit home, pause today. Even for a little while. Put the phone down. Sit in the quiet. Let your soul breathe again.

You may just hear what the noise has been trying to drown out.

昨日、0時近くまで作業していたら、そこから寝つくまでに2時間ほどかかってしまった。 久々に夜遅くまで作業したから忘れていたが、この状態になると、脳の考え事が静まるまでにかなり時間がかかるのだった。

普段の俺は寝るのが大好きで、無意識のうちに寝る準備が整っている。布団に入って10分もすれば眠れるのに、久々にやらかしてしまった。

昔も同じミスをして、「もう寝る直前まで作業はしない」と思ったことがある。 むしろ20時くらいからお酒でも飲む習慣をつければいいんじゃないかと思い、少量のビール、お供え用の135mlのものを飲んでいた時期もあった。アルコールにめっぽう弱い俺には、この135mlがちょうど良かった。お供えに使われているというのも、なんだか良い。この液体が体内を浄化してくれるような気がした。

でもやっぱり続かなかった。普段まったくお酒を飲まないし、酔いたいという気持ちが微塵もないからだ。 酔って思考が止まるくらいなら、悩み続けて頭が痛くなる方が、自分を認知できる。思考がぼーっとする感じは性に合わない。 一生答えの出ないことを考え続け、無意味に脳みそを肥大化させていたい。

ということで、今日は20時から何も考えず、ただ空気を感じている。 こういう時に漫画や映画など、人の作品を鑑賞したり、友達と食事したりすればいいのだろうけど、普段からそういう設計をしてこなかったせいで、俺には娯楽のインフラが一切整っていない。

一時期はカラオケにハマっていたが、最近はまた考え事の時間が戻ってきて、喉が閉まってきた。 喉が開いている状態というのは、脳が「普段他人と喋っている」と錯覚するので気持ちが良かった。また通いたい。

高熱で弱った髪にまた艶が戻ってきたように、自分らしさを取り戻して元気になってきたのが分かる。 明日もまたフラットに頑張っていきたい。