Circe the Deceiver

In ancient days it was the wanderers and adventurers who fell victim to the sorceress known as Circe the Deceiver, drawn to the island prison by her enchanted disguises of long-lost loved ones, missing sailors, even gods they worshipped and believed they had found.

In the days of the Lost Civilization, Circe grew weak as Man refined his gift of science; he knew all corners of the earth and had no sense of exploration. Circe’s wanderers dwindled, then vanished. The sorceress waited alone on her island for centuries, scanning the horizons for a glimpse of a topsail or debris from a shipwreck. Continue reading Circe the Deceiver

Steampunk Part 3

Tork yanked on the shoulder straps to ensure the steel backpack could not shift once Caustor ignited the fuel that would spray from the nozzles along the bottom. He checked the flame rifle again and found specks of grit near the trigger. As he turned to take it inside the shop for cleaning Caustor pulled the weapon from his hands.

“It’s fine,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll swing it like a hammer. Seems heavy enough.”

“If it doesn’t work,” Tork said, “you’ll be too busy screaming and burning alive.” He’d grown to almost like the flameless Pyromancer over the previous days as they worked to tailor the weapon system to Caustor’s shape and movements. Continue reading Steampunk Part 3

Steampunk Part 2

Far to the east on the fringe of dead forest below Grimm’s Crossing, a line of Legion soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their swords, spears, axes and hammers ready behind overlapping shields. To their rear civilians scurried about a tiny, shabby settlement, some fool’s suicidal idea to occupy the no-man’s-land between Caldavar and Hell’s Keep in an attempt to force the daemons to retreat. Continue reading Steampunk Part 2

Steampunk Prologue

The pale body lay within a soiled cloak under a busy swarm of flies. The family of vegetable merchants who had found it in the roadside ditch near the City of Iron sat in their open wagon, the father insisting his wife and children keep their eyes away from the corpse. Against his own advice he mustered furtive glances to make sure it did not stir with daemonic life.

He knew not how the man had died. The body wore the armor of a Legion foot soldier, but if his soul had been replaced with a Hellbourne seed that began to grow, the merchant would see how fast his sway-backed mule could pull. If it were up to him, he’d get a fire going and the body would be ash before nightfall. The dead could no longer be trusted to stay so. Continue reading Steampunk Prologue