Spindlewheel Stories

No one remembers what these structures were for in their heyday; but today, they serve a nobler cause supporting our lean-to’s and clotheslines. The inscriptions that once covered them have been chipped off and now circulate as a kind of currency, traded or pick-pocketed from each other’s coats, as needed. When you’re rich, you can rest easy within that circle of glyphs, breath unstolen and throat unpunctured. But no one here stays rich for long, and soon you’ll be just like the rest of us sorry bastards: ears straining for the comforting sound of automaton whirrs and clicks as it passes by, counting breaths in the silence that follows, and wishing on all of your good-luck charms that it won’t be you that’s missing in the morning. Follow Kales on twitter @citadelofswords. Follow Sasha on twitter @sasha_reneau. Follow Spindlewheel's development @teacabbage. Check out the open beta at https://tinyurl.com/spindlewheel-openbeta.

To Holy Armiger, ey of starfire and sand, defiant captive, root and blossom of all life: I drank Rowena's potions, as your priests require. It sits heavy on my bones, but the flower of my eye buds without a bloom; a promise I fear won't deliver in my time. There is enough light in the afternoon to make a few moments out of bed worthwhile. Though uncoiling the vines wrapped vicelike around my legs takes some doing. Every day, the distance between desk and bed extends by a small mile. Today, as every day, I devote myself to the arrangements that must be made for your return. Your garden must be verdant, your voice amplified above all, your city faithful without exception. When you return, you will look upon my efforts, and though I may not live to see your renaissance, my children will gaze into your eternal fire and forget the fear of death. For this, there is no cost too great. [Content Warning: body horror, eye horror, mob violence, surgery, existential dread, dubious bodily autonomy] The tracks "Old

The belltower of that dreadful church is the first landmark to break the horizon on the return trip across the river. He spends every waking minute straining his ears to hear its bell over the choppy waves, the groaning wood, and the whining passengers. But even that is not a comfort, but the promise of even more dull-eyed figures desperately waiting to rush his boat and shriek if he so much as pauses to stretch his aching back. Just imagine if he could take a break. That crooked spine pulled straight and tall, those straining muscles at rest, a peaceful smile on his face. I really think he deserves it, y'know? He works too hard. I think I could help him. I mean, there are only two shores to a river, right? How hard could it be? Apologies for the hiccups in audio quality, this was edited down from a livestream on https://twitch.tv/pnelmatirian. Follow Sasha on twitter @sasha_reneau. Follow Ruby on twitter @IronSparkSyris. Follow Spindlewheel's development @teacabbage. Check out the open beta at https://tin

The final part to the story. Strain of Solstice by Mike. Follow Sasha on twitter @sasha_reneau. Follow Mike on twitter @MeAndAmpersand. Follow Spindlewheel's development @teacabbage. Check out the open beta at https://tinyurl.com/spindlewheel-openbeta.

I worked the stone in a dull haze, my ears still ringing as I shaped the frieze depicting my grand appointment to divine artisan, following the treachery and swift execution of my predecessor. The tools were still warm from his hands. I remember it rained hard that night, flooding the stone gutters and hissing steam off the bronze pipes that lined the halls of the labyrinth god. His vast face watched us all. Without thinking, I'd carved it into my own figure on the tableau. And then, a flash of lightning--and by chance I looked up to see her racing on the top walls. Hide flecked with ichor, dark silhouette at once wolf and deer, and that long vicious horn piercing the fog. As sharp as the chisel in my hand. As she ran, the god's face followed her, and the weight of his gaze lifted off my shoulders for just a moment--long enough to bolt--long enough find my brothers--long enough to drive the chisel, still warm from his hands, into the labyrinth god's neck. From his dying body, I see the dawn filterin

You look out on the western sea and it's hard to imagine, thousands of years ago, that broad horizon was broken up by mountains and jungle. The library's inscriptions speak of this and more of the old world, full of wonders and technologies that would be pointless in our stilt-legged city. But, for all the floral language about their alien passions and anxieties, we still can't find the words that describe how they kept the sea at bay for so long, or what crack finally split the walls of their great civilization. The answer, of course, is below us, in the sunken ruins. But it's a one-way ticket, and we're already too busy with the devils we know to go looking for trouble in the dark and deep. Maybe that's why it took an outsider, a blood-soaked old whaler, to put together this expedition. Maybe it's the wine talking, but something in the way he spoke made me believe it could be done. But I wonder, too, if we'd been more zealous and shoved him back into the sea rather than let fortune decide his fate, if we c

When we talk about magic--and we're not just telling fairy tales or parlor tricks--we don't usually talk about it like puberty. But when it returned to the world, it returned in fits and spurts, horrifying and impulsive and stupid, and there really isn't a word more apt. Alas, some of us are still hoping against hope for a graceful transition, a slow ease of the public into the idea of holding fire in your hands, or negotiating the opinions of a river. We still believe we can instill safety precautions so that fewer homes are demolished by botched cantrips, and old gods still bleary from centuries in slumber aren't hailed immediately by gunfire. Our organization has long maintained that lasting, positive change takes time, and must be introduced gradually. But the public is not patient, magic is not graceful, and time is not on our side. Rules edition: v1.0 Longform with Acts and Intermissions. This was recorded before Festival even existed, which is fun. Follow Sasha on twitter @sasha_reneau. Follow Calix o