Weston Sazehn

The king tapped on the ornate cherrywood of his throne’s armrest. The echo of it bounced around the chamber, taunting him like the jester doll lying in the center of the room.

Aethylweiz glared up at the elusive Misty Goat, its four curly horns pointing in every direction, but his. Below. He’d spent the better part of a month laying delicate traps and baiting the creature at every gnarled branch and boulder for its fur.

Huldrin’s pickaxe struck stone one final time, and a tendril of verdant light surged through the tunnel. The glow clung to the cavern’s rough-cut gems and veins of ore, catching in the dwarves’ wide eyes

“A… singing starfish?” the man choked out, grasping at the impossible. “Incorrect,” the sphinx intoned, final as a closing tomb. The man scrambled backward, but the dead tangled his feet, dragging him down. Agony rang out, swallowed by stone, as the sphinx finished its task. Another stain.

A Fallen Wizard. Cherries, earth, and charcoal thickened the air of an unfamiliar forest as the wizard was dragged through its remains. His consciousness flickered—visions of a fuchsia portal torn into the sky, a crater wreathed...