My Brother, the Master of All

Today we go to The Voxel Box, a Minecraft server I’ve been playing on occasionally since the games early beta. I sometimes feel like the amazing builds there lack something: life, and a story. As nice and aesthetically pleasing the might look, many of them are meaningless, which I find sad. This is why I’ve started writing short accounts of things that could very well happen in the VoxelVerse as finger exercise, only a bit more serious than the usual tale. But without much further ado I’ll leave you with this story, taking place on the island of Daigon.


Music of the Moment: Glorian´ Music Marks – New Ashos


It was quiet, Daigon, quiet and peaceful. He had just stepped off the Eorlund, a big, bulky trading ship with powerful engines and rough sailors and entered a world of weird smells, queer voices and strange people. The air was damp and warm, completely unlike the clear, cutting iciness he was accustomed to. The mountains were also different. High, rounded peaks full of vegetation, not quite as tall as the ones at home, but not even the greatest of them seemed to have any snow atop it. It was hard to see, though, as the distance was clouded by a nebulous mist.

To his left, men were carrying containers and taking inventory of the Eorlunds wares, bringing them into a number of warehouses. In front was a great hill, with alien plants and a granite wall with wooden watchtowers on it. Small waterfalls were coming out of holes in the stone and flowing into the sea, and farther off right he could see a windmill with it’s own plantation at the waterfront. Only his brother was familiar, and even he was wrapped in Daigon’s peculiar garbs.

“Hjolf!” He shouted from the end of the pier. “Brother, it is so very nice to see you again.”

Hjolf was a true man of Skol. He was tall, broad of build, with a square jaw, blue eyes and braided brown hair that went over into his shaggy, untamed beard. As every good warrior from the city of Skogr, he was clad in an armour of boiled leather with dark steel plating, offering good protection while still allowing the wearer to remain flexible. On his back was a two-handed battleaxe made of the same dark steel. Hjörning, it was called, and only the smiths of Skogr knew its secrets.

His brother, however, was a different matter. Wulfjorn had no hair to speak of, only faint stubbles on his nearly clean shaven head. His face had always been a bit softer than Hjolfs, but without a proper beard to cover it he looked about as intimating as a snow rabbit. Only the eyes, the eyes they both had. Bright and blue, like a frozen lake in the spring sun. Instead of armour, Wulfjorn wore something that reminded him of a short cloak. It was made of thick grey cloth with black borders, wrapped around his body and held together by a black belt decorated with a plate of jade, a plate of lapis, a plate of copper and a plate of white marble, all with the same symbol carved into them. Underneath the belt he wore some sort of black skirt with grey pants underneath.

“I thought you were a fighter. Do you only wear your armour on special occasions?” It was supposed to be a jest, but Wulfjorn didn’t quite get that.

“We call this a Gi. It is the only armour I need.” He smiled.

“Glad to hear you still have no sense of humour.” It was a good thing. At least some part of his little brother remained.

“Follow me.” Wulfjorn said.

They went into a cave that turned out to be a tunnel through the hill. The tunnel looked more like a natural cave than anything, the only man-made thing being the Daigonese symbols written on the stone with glowpowder. Why would anyone build a wall if you could just go right beneath it?

The question was answered when they entered a small valley, with a great waycastle stretching across it.

“How fares our father?” Wulfjorn asked.

“Oh, he’s fine, I’ll tell you that. He’s retired, so now he drinks and eats and whores like never before. ‘I don’t need to stay in shape no more’, he says. Alfric is captain of the guard now.” To say their father had disliked Hjolfs wish to visit his brother would be an understatement. Ever since Wulfjorn decided to travel the world instead of joining the Skogr city watch he had been dead to the old man. Although he and Wulfjorn stayed in contact with sporadic letters, Hjolf and their father never talked about him.

“I’m glad he is happy.” There was nothing left of the boy who once spit on his father boots and went cursing out the door in his brother. An intangible calm surrounded him, coming from deep within his soul. His master-at-arms had once told him that a calm warrior was just as dangerous as a raging berserker.

Up the hill he could see the village, an olio of exotic looking houses in dozens of colours with much to broad roofs. Gaily coloured garlands with paper lamps spanned from house to house , all surrounding the big pine tree in the middle. There seemed to be more, walled off areas ahead, but Wulfjorn turned left. Several of the townspeople greeted his brother with small bows, some even Hjolf, but most of them gave him strange looks, or at least that was what they seemed. It was always hard to tell with those slitted eyes.

“Don’t they like me?” He asked.

“Well, they’re not used to seeing many Skolmen around here.”

Hjolf frowned.

“You are a Skolman and they see you every day.”

“They do, but after a while of living here you become Daigonese. Besides, you do look quite fierce with that beard.”

“Heh, that’s why my enemies fear me!” he laughed a booming laugh.

They continued up a narrow path of stone steps that lead over a bridge crossing a small stream, to become a full stairway. While they were climbing, Hjolf asked:

“So, tell me about this fighting of yours. Is it any good?”

This time, Wulfjorn chuckled.

“You are about to enter a Monastery of the Four Schools, brother. It is not just fighting, it is a way of life.”

“Fighting is a way of life. It’s a warriors way.”

“True, but the Four Schools offer more than that.”

They arrived at a shallow pond with water lilies floating on it. A number of stone platforms were placed across, leading to a stream running down the steep mountainside into the pond. Two Daigonese boys in white gis were fighting on them, jumping, dodging and maintaining impossible balance. They were supervised by an older man in the same coloured gi, although Hjolf noted that he wore a skirt, just like his brother.

“This is Shinjao-Aoeha, the School of Air. It requires flexibility and strong leg muscles, focusing mostly on unpredictable moves and the use of ones surroundings. I am sure you have heard of the ninja?”

Hjolf nodded. The Shadow Warriors were fabled even among his own people, although he believed them to be cowards for not facing their enemies in the open.

“Well, to make it simple, it’s what the ninja do.”

“What about the skirt?”

“The ‘skirt’ is called Hakama, and it is reserved only for masters of at least one school.” He pointed at a long pavilion behind a tree. Hjolf could make out a group of people in red gis practising a series of quick strikes against the air. “That is Shinjao-Takea, the School of Fire. It is used to quickly incapacitate enemies by attacking certain points on their body with precise strikes and dealing blows of massive force to vulnerable areas.”

A series of stairs lead along walls of massive granite bricks and up to a three-story building made of dark wood and stone. The monastery.

“So what is your school?” He asked. Wulfjorn chuckled again.

“I have no single school, I am a Mitao-Shinjei, a Master of All, but I am best in Shinjao-Ubahe, the School of Water, which I also teach. Think of it as a way of controlling your enemies force to benefit yourself with minimal effort.”

“So what is the fourth school about?” Hjolf asked as they stepped through the door and into the cool, fresh interior if the monastery. The walls were covered with wooden panels, and the floor was bright bamboo with a gigantic mattress of reeds in the middle.

“Please, remove your boots.” Wulfjorn stripped his woven sandals from his feet and carefully put them besides the other sandals that looked exactly the same.

“Is that really necessary?”

“Absolutely necessary.”

He sat down, unclasped the ties of his boots and pulled them off with brute force, proceeding to place them neatly by the others.

“Oh, I hope I find them again in this chaos.” he said, sarcastically. His brother didn’t laugh. “So, the fourth school. Let me guess: Earth.”

“Correct. Shinjao-Nihura is all about immobilizing your enemy and pinning him to the ground with strong grabs and holds. You would like it.”

He lead them up a corkscrew stair to a room where several people were kneeling in circles and drinking hot tea from wooden cups. Most of them were wearing red, blue, white or brown gis, but the three sitting in the middle all wore the same grey colour as his brother.

One of them was very tall and had a long face and a clean shaven head. His belt displayed only three small plates: lapis, jade and white marble, the copper one was missing. Sitting in front of him was a short, green-eyed one, who had all of the plates. Next to him sat an old man with a round face and a big, happy smile. He had not only four but six little plates, the two additional being one of wood and one of iron.

“Hjolf, these are Ahaimi Aihatsu, a Master of Three, Mishima Jinjio, a Master of All, like myself, and Kojima Heihachi, a Senseitao-Shinjei, a Teacher of All. He is our spiritual leader and the uncle of Kojima Neheoki, the current head of the noble house Kojima.”

“So Kojima is his last name?” he asked.

“Well, it’s obviously not his last name but his family name.”

“It is strange to strangers.” Kojima said in heavily accented Skolje. “Please, have a sit, and a tea.”

While the Teacher of All poured, Hjolf and Wulfjorn sat down. Hjolf needed a while to get the seat right and immediately noticed that it was painfully uncomfortable.

“Where did you learn Skolje, Neheoki. Or should I address you by some title?”

“No no, Neheoki will do. I visited Kaldakr once and I liked the speech, so I decided to train it. It is not very easy, but your brother learns me sometimes.”

“Neither is Daigonese, by the way.” His brother noted. “It is like a more complicated version of Hanai’i.”

Hjolf took a sip of the tea. A stream of cold fire went down his throat, making him cough.

“It is strongmint and stinging nettle. Very good for breathing deep.” Neheoki chuckled.

“And for burning up from the inside, it would seem. Do you have any mead?”


The Man Made of Ink

Today we will explore fantasy, but not your average orcs-elves-dwarves type of fantasy, but rather a much weirder approach. Imagine an infinite number of worlds, all floating in the same substance we call reality and accessible through means of magic. Imagine truly alien worlds, not just science fiction alien, but really alien, like changed laws of physics, discworlds and worlds with no ground or no sky. Most known worlds are inhabited by humans, but other sentient beings have also been found. This type of universe is the sort of thing that I wanted to do since I was a little boy (then again, exploring other worlds was always my dream job. It still is, by the way.).


Music of the Moment: Koji Kondo – Clock Tower


Zantoom was a truly beautiful world. It featured a wide selection of colours, each shimmering brighter and livelier than the last, but it was mainly white. The deep blue pools and crystalline fountains were enclosed by white marble, the magnificent green gardens were surrounded by white columns and statues, the beautiful gold-and-brass ornamentation was adorning majestic buildings of clean, white stone and even the armour of the guardians was white, becoming the metal canvas of elaborate golden scrollwork.

Even though the sun was high up in the clear, blue sky, it was neither warm nor cold in the City of the Ageless, and, aside from the splashing water from the fountains and the occasional footsteps over the white-flagged floor, it was completely silent. People were rarely seen in the labyrinth of streets and plazas, most of them being soldiers and pages, hurrying around in white uniforms or scholars in white robes, thoughtfully discussing important topics with low voices. Most of them were Ildari, humans with pale skin, white hair and white eyes, claiming to be direct descendants of the Old People, who had first built the city.

One man stood out, though, like a drop of ink in an ocean of milk. He was leaning on a white half wall, motionlessly observing the transparent water falling out of a nameless white statues mouth into a wide, shallow basin. His eyes were pitch black, as was his long, flowing hair framing his oblong face, falling over his shoulders like a waterfall of darkness. The long coat he was wearing was also black, covered with complicated geometric patterns of thin, black rubber. His other clothes were black as well: a black chemise with black buttons, black pants with a belt of black leather, and black shoes with black laces. Even his arms and hands seemed to be made of black metal.

They called him the Shadow Master, more of a title than a name, but since nobody knew his real name (or anything else about him, for that matter) it had become just that. Some rumours claimed that he came from a far-off world, yet undiscovered by the explorers, others said he was one of the Elders, immortalized through ancient magic, and even others were certain that he was a wandering god.

No matter what was true, the Shadow Master was spoken highly of in Council circles and in charge of the Shadows, their very own army of spies. The Council of Zantoom had an enormous army at their disposal, as was necessary when governing thousands and thousands of worlds, but they preferred to remain unseen in their operations. Giving the worlds a feeling of independence was of paramount concern, and having soldiers stroll around them didn’t really help that cause.

The Shadows did employ humans and other beings, but most of their agents were Shades, sentient creatures of pure darkness that could morph into almost every living thing imaginable. Their wills were bound by powerful magic, making them loyal and obedient servants.

A young, uniformed woman approached the Shadow Master. She had blond hair and green eyes and carried a glass cartridge with brass caps inlaid with a circle of ivory. It had to come from the Council.

He grabbed through the glass as if it was not there, taking out the scroll inside of it. It was sealed with a clasp that bore Grand Councillor Alcvir’s sigil: two interlocked crescent moons on a hexagon with rounded corners.


Shadow Master,


it has come to my ears that you managed to capture one of the Strangers. If that is true I am most pleased and would advise you to make his interrogation a top priority. I will make certain the Council gives you access to any resources you might require, but we will expect a full report within the next twelve cycles.


Adeitasun osoz,

Grand Councillor Alcvir


It was true. They had indeed captured a Stranger. A man with skin pale as milk, violet eyes and no hair anywhere on his body, immobilized by magical forcefields and held atop a blue granite tower on a nameless world tormented by eternal tempest.

Even the Shadow Master knew virtually nothing about the Strangers. They came out of nowhere, stronger and faster than any human he’d ever heard of and operated in seemingly irrational patterns. But truly, they were not irrational. Quite the contrary was true. When seen on a larger scale, the Strangers actions worked like parts of bigger plans, creating outcomes no man could possibly predict. Something that interested him personally, though, were their coins. They displayed nothing and were made out of a grey metal unknown to him, but he knew they were the key to the Strangers ability to step into other worlds in a moments notice, as opposed to travelling by worldships or riftdoors like everyone else.

He turned to the envoy.

“You are not a Shade.” He assessed.

“No, Sir.” She seemed nervous.

“You don’t need to call me Sir, I am not a member of your military.”

“Yes, Sir, I mean, yes.”

He gave an amused smile.

“What is your name?” He asked.

“Andriah Vorrell, S- uhm.” She swallowed the ‘Sir’ in the last moment.

“What world are you from, Andriah Vorrell?” The Shadow Master was well aware that he made most people nervous, especially junior officers who wanted to make a good impression.

“Detton. I am from Detton.”

“I have heard of that world. You have a violet sky and two blue moons that always remain at the same place. Your sun pulsates very slowly and most of your stone is as blue as your moons. Is it true that your trees have black leaves?”

“Yes, Master. The leaves are black.”

“A strange world.”

“It is, yes.”

He smiled.

“It is not for you, you grew up there. You don’t need to agree with me because of my position.”

“Yes, sorry, Master.”

The Shadow Master made the scroll disappear in the palm of his hand.

“I will take my leave now. I wish you a nice day.”

“Thank you, Sir, Master.”

But he had already crossed half the plaza. When the Shadow Master walked around the next corner, he simply disappeared.

Mountain Flight

Welcome to this strange teslapunk world I had floating around my head for ages now. I’m starting to really getting a grip of it, meaning that the picture of this particular scene crossed my mind when taking a walk the other day. I wont explain much, as most of these words are self-explanatory, but know that ships in this universe don’t use balloons to fly but Astyrium, a special element with anti-gravitational abilities. Also, this is my first “real” post on this blog, meaning that this type of bits and pieces of text are what you might expect from this site. Have fun!

Music of the Moment: Jeremy Soule – Secunda

The moonlight reflected off the untouched snow that covered land, rock and treetop alike, illuminating the night in that surreal fashion only snow could do, where the world was barely visible and no shadows were cast. The wind lifted some of the snow from the ground, making it cascade over hills and ridges like waterfalls made of icing sugar. It was a silent spectacle, entertaining the few who could value its beauty, hiding the life of the Southern Highlands for the night, so it may rise again upon the morrow, interrupted only by the rattling sound of the engines propelling the Only Daughter, an airship of the Monarchs Royal Fleet.

She was a luxury shuttle with a small Astyrium-core keeping her afloat, blimp-shaped, little, quick and lightly armed, providing every comfort lords, officers and royal protégés might expect. Her hull was polished copper, seeming almost golden from a distance and a few of the little windows and portholes were illuminated, but only a dim gleam came from the great window pane of the starboard observation deck, where Gullen Bonds admired the dance of the cold.

He was a lightly tanned man with groomed yet chaotic, long, brown hair and eyes of the same colour, wearing an expensive black suit with a bright brown chemise. Bonds sat on the broad settee of red satin, holding a crystal glass of whiskey. With him was Sir Joseph Hayward, a bald general of the Royal Army with a fleshy face and bushy eyebrows. He was of advanced age, but broad and muscular in build, with bulky arms and enormous ears. Gullen was never sure whether to call him “Sir” or “General”, which is why he tried to use both from time to time.

It had come as a surprise when he found out that someone else than him had a passion for the night and its calm beauty, especially a military man. In the five days of their journey from Rycantis he had actually grown quite fond of the man, even though he still expected him to erupt into a walking tank of death and destruction at any moment, but that was just what he thought of every soldier, so it wasn’t personal.

“Have you ever been to the South before, mister Bonds?” Hayward asked.

“Well, I’ve been as far as Sheridan Post several times, General.”

“That’s only a hundred leagues from Rycantis, still in the realm.” He shook his head.

“It’s cold and majestic, far away from civilization.” Gullen argued.

“So is Rycantis, but we don’t call it City of the South, do we?”

“We call it City of Glass Towers. It’s more descriptive.”

Hayward laughed, silently.

“So you mean to tell me that you have written twelve novels about this place and never physically visited it?”

“Eleven, actually, Sir. Quips of the Frost Gods was a collection of short stories. But yes, that is exactly how it went. I talked to many a worker, soldier and adventurer that’s been down there.” He explained.

“Down here, you mean. We are in the South.”

I suppose we are, Sir.” It was still hard to realize that the vast expanse of nothingness underneath his feet was the white hell he’d thoroughly explored in his mind during the past seventeen years. After hearing so many stories about man-sized wolves, Icewyrms and barbarians shooting fiery lances of light that could set entire houses ablaze he was quite disappointed about the ongoing tranquillity. Not that he’d favoured a fight, but the occasional sight of life besides woods of massive pine trees would have been nice.

“So what drives you here? You certainly know how to write an intriguing book without having seen the place it’s about, so why the sudden change of mind?”

Daphne, he thought, I’m only going for Daphne, but instead he said:

“I didn’t really have the resources for such a voyage, General. It’s expensive, travelling to the South whilst still enjoying all the comforts I’m used to in the golden streets of our great capital.”

“You have been a member of the Royal Arts Society for five years now, have you not? The Monarch himself has invited you to his dinner table on many occasion. Certainly you would have had the chance to see the fabled South with your own eyes by now.” He is suspicious. He senses something is wrong. How can he know?

“As a general you must have sat at his table a few times yourself.”

“Yes, but as you say: I’m a general, a knight, and a nobleman. No disrespect to you, of course. I don’t view the bourgeoisie as inferior to those of noble blood.”

“To be honest I had been trying to avoid this voyage. The word is that the South is a dangerous place to be and I have my limits regarding the danger I’m willing to put myself in. Alas, the Prospector-Trilogy is finished and interviewing the workers arriving at Rycantis wont serve if I want to keep my face, so here I am. I was bound to run out of excuses not to go eventually, so I’m glad that it happened while I’m still young and vital.”

The general laughed his silent laugh again.

“Oh yes, Prospector. I have to say, Wollay Pence is quite the character you’ve drawn there. People are actually learning how to read just to have a go at those books. Although, my son Gillen is quite critical of them. He believes they empower the working class too much and make Lords and Leaders seem too unimportant.”

“What do you believe, Sir?”

“I believe my son is an idiot, but don’t tell him that.” he chuckled “Gillen’s been to the South many times, but what he doesn’t understand is that the men working in the depths of those Astyrium mines are the ones keeping us alive down there, not our nobility. Not only do they get the stuff out of the earth that makes our ships stay in the air, but the profits their corporations make bring food, wine and weapons down to us, not the Monarch and certainly not High Command.”

Bonds didn’t know how to respond to that, so they sat in silence for a while, contemplating the landscape passing by. Although the silence was disrupted by the low sound of the engines, after five days he didn’t really hear them anymore.

Lingual switchover

Hello Mandies and Gentlewomen, welcome to the insane world of my mind.

My name is Gwydion JMF Weber and I am a young writer from Germany with goals far beyond what I should be dreaming of. I’ve been writing since I was 11, but I always loved inventing complex worlds and stories, characters came later, but now I love them as much as the other two. For a long time, I kept my work in the secluded cabinet that is my hard drive, but a while back I started publishing stuff (if posting it on a blog that nobody reads counts as publishing, anyway), but I ran dry. Not of ideas, but of motivation and work flow.

The truth is, I have too many ideas, too many concepts floating around my mind, looking bright and shiny until I grab them and try to illustrate them with worlds, then they start looking like deep-fired dogshit. Eventually I left most of my projects and focused on writing down Ideas, developing characters and environments and plotting more stories than I can count (I’m not very good with numbers, so it may very well be just 5…), but the process of writing itself didn’t go, at all. I just couldn’t do it. It all felt so inorganic, so artificial, without any rhetorical pirouettes or abstract metaphors, bumpy descriptions and chaotic structures were the only things I got.

But at some point, meaning the middle of the night on a glass of pesto and old cheese, I decided to try something out: writing in English. And the words were flowing. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I do know that I find the English language much more fun to use when writing. I hope this was the right decision, but I’m positive about it. I do still have an “old” blog were I published some of my German stuff quite regularly for a short period of time, so if you are interested you can find it here.

I hope to get this running soon, so, see you then.