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“That’s where they are you know? People say they’re myth, but so many stories talk about them ascending, evolving. If we ever make it to living among the stars, I’m sure we’ll rediscover dragons.” She paused a moment; they stared at the stars above them, “Do you reckon that the moon could technically be made of cheese?”

It didn’t feel like it should be the same day. The sun was shining, the rain from before had cleared up, and for once they had blue skies, but the faint tint of smoke on the air was a constant reminder of the morning’s events. No one was talking about it.

The bombs were still falling, louder and louder by the moment. Down in the basement, Owain had lost all sense of time.

Owain stared at the empty space where the boat, The Salmon’s Head, should have been. The rain was heavy, but not enough to obscure an entire trawler, and Salmon Ed and his crew were known for being loud in the mornings. The Harrands, their head family, had dealt with many complaints for the noisy crew.

There’s this blue house, it serves as a town hall, at one point a school, always a church, or a theatre, or a market. It’s a building of many uses, but its lower floor has always been living quarters.

Clik was sitting at the back of the caravan, armoured legs dangling off the edge, as it trundled over the dusty ground. Her brows were furrowed, and a frown replaced the almost constant grin that graced her features.

It was only yesterday for him, though the calendar was exactly the same, and future was past, and past was future, and tenses were thrown out of the window.

Amy sat cross-legged in the middle of her new room, staring into oblivion as she realised that the last hundred years of her life were real, and was coming to the conclusion that a century is rather a long time to only have grown one year.

To tell the stories of old is to sing the legacies of legends and humble folk, of man, guardian, and Ki across this great land of Racë. This story speaks of the curly-haired and bright-eyed Rosemary Bagworth, she who has never rested long enough to call one place home, and her meeting with coal-bearded and quick-minded Dugward Stonefeet, he who was yet to wander the world.

Dedicated to N. Waters, one of my best friends, and victim to rambles, pillows, and unedited first drafts.

What Lyall saw was nothing close to what he had been expecting, and even further away from what he had been ready for.

1947 TA - Ahlden "Hey, hey, look at me,” His hands were on my face, and their stark difference distracted me from the ghost hands I could...

Before time, before space, before anything one can conceive, there was Run’anor. The Father of All.