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Tales of the Arcane - 1215

The Arcane Light’s


Shakespir Edition

Shakespir Edition

Contributions by:


LC Schwartz

Cover art by: LC Schwartz

The Arcane Light’s


Copyright © 2015 by LC Schwartz

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters are productions of the

authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.


Casefile: The Butterfly (Chapter 4) – by LC Schwartz

*The Organizers*- by Teeko

Silken Whispers


by LC Schwartz

Chapter IV

The Cave

Interviewer: It doesn’t sound like all was well in paradise.

Welsh: Nah, it was fine. Silk just gets in a snot when things donnae go her way.

Interviewer: And I am certain you do not make any efforts to elaborate on her errors.

Welsh: Well, ya. It is sort of required, you know. If she gets to thinkin’ she’s always right and perfect, she’d be impossible to live with. It’s, like, hard enough as it is.

Interviewer: Of course.

Welsh: Well, I dinnae want to roast her too much, ya know? She was pretty proud of herself on that Kanji business.

Interviewer: And I would imagine you were as well. To crack such a code could not have been easy.

Welsh: Ya, well, she had help — like a cryptography program the NSA even used.

Interviewer: Quite…

Welsh: Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little bit impressed. But donnae you go tellin’ her nothin’…

Tuesday, 4 March – 16:48

Tetepare Island, Solomon Islands

Under the seasonal deluge, the pair run through the brush to the offered protection of the ridgeline. The thick foliage hugging in around their flight made them even wetter than anything the clouds could do. They didn’t as much for themselves, but for the sensitive equipment and papers they had with them.

As the islands lies just to the south of the Equator, the Solomons are heading into the winter months — turning the rains are a little cooler than comfortable.

It took only seconds for the skies to open up over their heads. The humid air is quickly saturated with water. The ridge line is a steep wall of volcanic rock — jutting up vertically from the land around it in a strange series of terraced shelves choked thick with vegetation.

Welsh catches sight of some nearby cover under a lip of rock deep enough to hide herself and Sylvia, though the cover is only barely adequate. The pair ducks behind some over-hanging foliage dripping with the tumbling rain water.

The overhang is just enough to keep most of the rain off them and give them a momentary break from the deluge.

“Well, this is just bullshit,” Welsh grumbles, fussing with the cool water dripping off her.

Sylvia ignores her complaints. She busies herself with trying to get their boat pilot on radio.

“Forget it, Syl,” Welsh says after Sylvia’s third attempt. “Buddy has probably run off after dumpin’ us here. There’s likely a tribe of cannibals around here lookin’ for their monthly sacrifice of idiot tourists…”

Sylvia snorts. She tries once more to raise their pilot. But with no response other than static, she tucks away the radio.

“You are such a pessimist,” Sylvia says. “You always think the moment something doesn’t go quite as planned that somebody just set us up to die.”

Welsh nods. “Yeah. Because that is, like, always the case…”

Sylvia huffs. “Not always.”

“Uh huh.” Welsh gives her partner a glance.

“Well… perhaps it could be more often than reasonably expected…”

Welsh just waves her off, peering through the rain and foliage for anything else of interest beyond their barely adequate rain shelter.

“Besides,” Sylvia adds. “There hasn’t been any hints of cannibalism in these islands in… at least twenty years.”

“Yeah. Comfortin’ that ain’t.”

Welsh’s eyes narrow as she looks through the trees off to her left. The ridgeline comes around the jungle-saturated plateau they found themselves on, forming a half crescent rise around the eastern and northern edges of the flatter ground, leaving the rest to fall away into rocky cliffs and steep ravines that plummet down to the ocean below.

Under the dripping boughs, Welsh notices a faint line of black against the dark shadows of the trees. It seems to follow a more or less horizontal path a couple dozen feet at least, and bulges up in vaguely the middle.

“Hey, Syl. What’s that?” Welsh asks, peering at the strange shadow.

“Honestly, there are no cannibals here…” Sylvia sighs with some exasperation, shaking out her platinum hair. She tries to eke out some good behaviour from her pale locks.

“No, not that. Seriously,” Welsh groans. “Look.” She points out the vague shadow.

Sylvia follows the point of her companion’s finger, her sharper eyes lighting on the form and shape of the darkened shadow.

“I… don’t know?”

Welsh is about to suggest they brave the dousing rain in the hopes of better shelter— but Sylvia is already on her way, her explorer’s curiosity piqued by the hidden mystery.

Welsh grumbles and follows in her companion’s wake. She tries with futile vanity to keep as dry as she can, but there’s no point. What the cloudburst doesn’t drench, the soaked foliage saturates her through to the skin. She follows in Sylvia’s steps, grumbling as she ducks under the swaying branches and leaves of her friend’s leading passage.

The forest envelopes them once more, the thin leafy canopy provides little shelter from the storm. The ridgeline forms a natural barrier against the Pacific winds that also entraps moisture and soil enough for the forest to grow thick in this eastern half of the bluff.

With only a few meager steps into the dubious shelter of the trees, Sylvia stops up sharply in her footfalls. Her eyes turn upwards along the ridge.

Something has tripped her attuned senses — a vague notion of something out of place amidst the rain and wind.

She lifts a silencing hand when Welsh starts muttering at her, complaining about the rain. Sylvia’s sharp blue eyes scan the foliage, looking for any hints of what caught her attention; a branch moving against the motion of the wind, a shadow shifting where there should be none.

But whatever it was has vanished. Or was never there in the first place.

“I thought I saw something,” Sylvia says to the redhead’s cussing.

“Seriously? That ain’t funny no more.”

Sylvia ignores her companion’s complaints. She shoves aside the nagging pickles on the back of her neck, before moving to lead the way under the sparse canopy to the base of the ridgeline.

Tall grass and hanging flora curtains down the rocky wall, covering the stone underneath — or the absence of such solid foundation — behind a leafy veil. Up closer, Sylvia finds that the darkness that Welsh spotted is a deep depression in the rocky face. Intrigued, with a mind more consumed by the idea of discovery than whether this could be some creature’s home, she pulls aside the foliage to look beyond.

A shallow cave lies hidden by the overgrowth. The mouth is wide, narrow at the edges, but opening to a height of about five feet a bit left of center.

Nothing seems untoward with the cave itself — a polite split in the rock not unlike hundreds others scattered throughout the island nation.

Noticing that the local animals haven’t marred up the shelter with their messy livelihoods intrigues Sylvia to look further inside. Still, mindful of the uneven ground, she pulls a flashlight from her duffle bag, and carefully steps under the lip.

Welsh follows on her heels, eager to be out of the rain.

The pair glance around the dark shelter, the rain outside echoing off solid walls with moisture-ladened reverberations.

“Well, at least it’s drier,” Welsh grumbles, kicking over a rock.

Sylvia shines the lamp around entombed space, but it looks like nothing more than a natural fissure in the ridgeside — though still better shelter than their first find. The lack of animal-sign continues to nag at the taller woman. Why any of the island’s indigenous species would avoid such exceptional cover makes little sense to her. And yet there is no indication of any other recent habitation either.

The cave itself is not deep, at least initially. It is merely a wide cleft in the side of this rocky ridge; and at most a dozen feet deep with a jaggy back wall thick with shadow.

However, a closer examination at what looked to be only a fracture in the back wall turns out to be a natural gap in the rock. This gap leads into the cave’s deeper penetration further back into the ridge. The deep, hidden fissure enflames Sylvia’s curiosity into a bonfire.

She passes the duffle bag back to Welsh and tries to climb inside — with some difficulty due to the tight gap and low ceiling.

“Oi,” Welsh says, yanking on her. “Stop it. You’re only just embarrassin’ yourself. Seriously.”

Welsh drops the duffle bag of equipment, and motions for the flashlight.

“Give it here. You did the nerdy brianiac shit, now it’s my turn.”

Sylvia sighs and climbs back out. The sensibility of letting the smaller catburglar go first overcomes her curiosity just enough to let her relinquish the lead.

Welsh takes up the light.

With the graceful ease of a cat, she climbs into the hole with a smirking chuckle at her “over-legged tomato” companion.

“Watch out for cannibals,” Sylvia says with a slight smirk to her lips.

“Oi! Shut up,” Welsh yells, her voice hollow and echoing from the chamber beyond.

There comes a clatter of noise, then some swearing followed by a yell — a disturbance enough to raise Sylvia’s concern.

She calls out if everything is alright.

There is no reply.

Sylvia listens to the darkness of the cleft, but can’t hear anything over the droning rain outside. This close to the cleft, a draft blows against her cheek. It is cool against the warmer air outside, leading her to suspect the cavern beyond is something much more than just a modest extension.

She becomes increasingly concerned at the continued silence.

Caves are rarely flat walkways through a gap in the stone. They have severe twists and hidden plummets to entrap and kill unwary spelunkers. Judging by the natural state of the entrance, this cave hasn’t yet seen the mark of explorers for many years — if at all.

Sylvia waits a couple more tense moments.

But the silence becomes unbearable, and she has to determine if Welsh is alright.

She grabs a second light from the duffle and steps over to clamber up inside the cleft — stumbling back when she’s blinded by a faceful of bright light.

“Oi, careful there, buttercup,” Welsh says, peering out through the cleft with her flashlight in hand.

“I have been shouting for you,” Sylvia says, righting herself and trying to recover her dignity.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. There is some wind in there, and sound is like all over the place.”

Sylvia nods, her motherly concern wilting away.

“But yeah. It looks like just more cave. Real nasty one too. All sorts of low hangin’ rocks to scalp you if you ain’t watching and a real big drop that’ll certainly put you out of your misery after you brained yourself.”

Sylvia frowns. She had no idea what they’d find — but she did hope there would have been something.

“So, there was nothing else?”

“I dinnae say that,” Welsh says with a grin. She reaches back and pulls out a dirty, torn sheet of fabric.

“Donnae ever let me tell you that you ain’t no over-schooled know-it-all smart cookie,” she says, holding up the fabric. It is a field of what used to be white, with the emblem of the flaring red sun dominating the center. Stylistic kanji, the same form Sylvia decyphered, runs in two parallel lines down one of the narrower edges.

“Found this way back there coverin’ up the plummet of doom. Just about did a header meself, but I got mad skills.”

Sylvia takes the fabric, gingerly caressing the material in the harsh light of her lantern.

“Looks old. But then I ain’t the specialist on old shit… unless it’s like made of gold and stuff.”

Sylvia nods.

“Yes, you are right. It is old,” Sylvia says. “The silk looks authentic to the Late Shōwa imperial period, perhaps even earlier.”

“Sure. Cool.”

Sylvia rolls her eyes.

“Was there anything else?”

Welsh shrugs. “A bunch of garbage at the front here. Likely some sort of alarm or trip-trap that fell down in oldie times; then just the flag way at the back. Nothing else but the plummet.”

Sylvia nods, frowning.

Welsh steps back inside the gap, holding out her hand.

“Come on, I know it’s killin’ you not seeing.”

Sylvia manages to squeeze through the gap with some effort, despite her companion’s aid — aid which mostly involves the redhead chuckling with smug satisfaction at the taller woman’s difficulty.

“I don’t laugh at your foibles when you… attempt… to do research,” Sylvia growls, finally getting through the gap.

“Uh, yeah. You do.” Welsh snorts. She mimics an exasperated roll of the eyes, shifting her heavy Cockney-influenced accent into the high brow arrogance of Received Pronunciation. “Honestly. Tha’ is Eblaite script, not Akkadian. Honestly, how many times do I got to explain the dumb subtle-ass inflections?”

“Was that supposed to be me?” Sylvia snorts.

“Ya, pretty damn accurate too, me thinks.”

“As if I would use ‘got to’ in a sentence… ever.”

Welsh waves her away with a dismissive shake of her hand.

Sylvia dusts herself off — but given the state of her clothing the gesture is more habitual vanity than beneficial.

“I kept off the ground after that little trick-trap back there. So, just be careful where you put your feet, ya?”

Sylvia nods, her eyes turning low to scan the cave floor for any further surprises.

Welsh shows off the cave beyond. It is little more than a narrow fissure in the rock. The ground is modestly level from gravelly debris fallen from the jagged ceiling some dozen feet overhead. The cavern itself isn’t wet, defying Sylvia’s expectations — though the walls do have a vaguely “melted” look to them. Though not wet at the moment, water has flowed through here at some point to erode the rocky faces — and leave behind a variety of colourful minerals in its wake.

Welsh leads Sylvia through the winding gap. She points out bits of low hanging chunks of rock before Sylvia cracks her scalp on one them.

Sylvia estimates it travels back some fifteen meters into the ridgeline — about fifty feet —terminating at second narrow gap that Welsh points out where she found the hanging flag. She walks carefully, her sharp eyes watching the ground ahead.

Yet not all threats are visible.

Some lie hidden below the ground in cunningly concealed trickery that even the keenest eyes could never see. A misplaced footfall squeezes on a tiny snap-trap, the jaws closing under the woman’s weight to sever an already age-weakened line. The freed line snaps away, dropping a hidden Type 97 grenade tied at the other end and suspended overhead. An old fishing weight partways along the length serves as a stopper. When the weight hits a narrow cleft, it yanks violently on the sliding line. The grenade’s falling momentum pulls the safety pin loose, dropping the live weapon onto Sylvia’s head.

Sylvia’s unnaturally sharpened senses alerts her to the unmistakeable ‘ping’ of the weapon’s arming. Her yell of alarm spins Welsh on her heel. The redhead grabs her trailing companion, and shoves her back behind a jutting outcrop of rock just as the half-century old grenade hits the ground. The weapon bounces from the impact, then deflects off the wall

After lolling and bouncing about, the explosive comes to rest in a pit of gravel — and lies still.

Several seconds of silence pass. No detonation.

Welsh peaks her head around their barely adequate covering rock. She shines her light on the inert diminutive iron pineapple.

“Phew, a dud,” she mutters. “Probably got too old.”

“Well, whatever happened, it is for the better,” Sylvia grumbles.

Welsh nods, “yeah. Totally.” She helps Sylvia back to her feet. Welsh decides to leave the neutered weapon where it lies.

“The drop’s right here,” Welsh says, indicating the split in the rock just ahead. Only a deep darkness lies beyond. “Try not to step in any more shit that can kill us, ya?”

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Sylvia says with a growl in her voice.

“I tried real hard, honest,” Welsh grins back in the harsh light of their electric torches.

Just beyond the sudden drop, the flashlight beams bounce off an opposite wall about twenty feet away, the floor is empty darkness.

Welsh leans over to shine her light down.

“Looks about forty feet or so,” she says. “Some water down there too. Though not much to tie off to on this end.”

“Over here,” Sylvia says, her keen eyes lighting on a scraped and damaged section of jutting rock. Even six decades couldn’t mask the tell-tale signs of use. Just around the side, out of sight from the main passage, an iron ring has been hammered into to a split in the rock. The remains of a rotted rope is still tied around the loop.

Sylvia gives the ring a tug or two. It is still very solidly into the wall.

“That’s convenient,” Welsh says.

“Rather so.”

Sylvia opens the duffel bag to take out a length of nylon dynamic climbing rope. Unwrapping the line, she ties off one end around the iron loop. After a couple strong tugs to make certain it’s secure, she moves to the edge of the lip and glances down.

Welsh gets in her way.

“I know it’s like killin’ you to know what’s down there, but if that ring ain’t goin’ to hold, better I go — ‘cause you’ll just flap about like a wounded pelican, then I got to break my ass in rescuin’ you,” Welsh says with a grin, holding her hand out to take the line. Sylvia sighs and passes it over.

Welsh wraps the line around herself and secures it before dropping over the edge. Easing it out, she jumps down the side of the rock face to the deep, dark pool below. A ledge is just off to the side, covered by about two inches of cold water. It is close enough for her to swing over to reach.

Once on solid, if soggy, ground, she unties herself and calls up to Sylvia that she’s clear.

While she waits for her partner, Welsh takes a moment to shine her light around. The area would, at first glance, appear to be little more than a watery cenote. But that is little more than trickery of perception, just as above. Her flashlight highlights a long deep shadow just off to the left at the far end of the narrow ledge.

As Sylvia makes her own way down, Welsh indulges in her curiosity, stepping over to have a look at the opening gap of rock.

The redhead can hear Sylvia’s expert decent behind her. With several years of climbing experience under their collective belts, a descent down the wall is simplistic — far easier than their clandestine entrance into the necropolis of Umm el-Qa’ab in the Abydos’ ruins the year previous.

Sylvia is almost to the ripping surface of the dark underground pool. She has one more bounce, and then the swing — when the women’s entire world explodes with untethered violence.

The walls shake as debris is flung down on them in a shower of deadly shards.


A Beginning”

by Teeko

“It is done! The embryo is complete!”

The laboratory technician hunching over the microscope could not hide his excitement as he let the good news be known to the two persons standing next to him. To his left stood a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a fashionable pants suit with modest heeled pumps. Her brown hair was tied up into a knot at the back of her head. Her brown eyes beamed with excited as well.

Opposite the woman, on the lab technician’s left, stood a man looking to be about the same age as the woman, with a serious expression. His tanned skin, long raven black hair, put into a neat ponytail reaching halfway down his back, and an all black clothing ensemble with a style from a past century made his white teeth look almost blindingly shiny when he smiled.

“Excellent!” proclaimed the woman. “There’s no time to waste.”

Without any further ado the woman picked up a hand-held com-radio from the counter next to her.

“Lieutenant Johnson, bring the subject to the lab ASAP.”

After a few seconds a reply came crackling through the com unit.

“Yes Ma’am. Goin’n get ‘er now Ma’am.”

“He’s a good soldier, if only he could learn to speak properly” she sighed as she put the radio away. Next, she turned her attention to the lab technician.

“You keep an eye on that thing. I don’t want any surprises now that we’re so close.”

“Yes Ma’am.” he nodded and kept his focus on the microscope before him.

The other man was already preparing a gynecological examination chair. She studied him for a moment before she asked.

“Would you like the honours Doctor?”

The black haired man looked back at her and hesitated for a moment.

“It would certainly be an honour Sweety, but this isn’t exactly my field of expertise. Robby there would be far more qualified and you do want the best to do this, don’t you?”

The lab technician at the microscope gave a pleased smile at the praise from his colleague.

“Very well” she nodded. “Dr Roberts, are you ready for the task?”

“I most certainly am Ma’am” the lab technician Dr Roberts replied with confidence. “And it will be an honour to complete this final step of our project.”

“Final?” both the woman and the other man said in unison. The woman continued.

“Final for this stage of the project, perhaps. But yet it is just the beginning. The beginning of something glorious! I hope… But we do not know yet how it will turn out. Only time will tell.”

“Of course, Ma’am. You are correct.” Dr Roberts quickly added.

In an office on the floor above the lab, Lt. Johnson attached his hand-held radio to his belt and nodded to the two soldiers with him.

“A’right! Let’s go get’er!”

“Yes sir.” the two soldiers replied and followed their Lieutenant as he walked with determined steps through the corridors of the underground facility. After a few minutes march they stopped outside a door that looked just like all the other doors they had passed on the way. Though outside this door was a soldier standing guard, who quickly saluted the lieutenant as he approached.

“At ease soldier. It’s time. We’re ‘ere to get ’er.” the Lieutenant let the soldier know.

“Yes sir!” the soldier replied and after a few seconds of fiddling to get a key card out of his chest pocket, he unlocked the door and opened it to reveal the hospital room behind it. As the lieutenant stepped into the room he immediately noticed something was amiss and when he spotted the blood that had dripped from the bed onto the floor he rushed in to check the status of the woman lying in the bed. The woman was a beautiful red haired woman with delicate and pale skin. Young. No more than twenty years old, but most likely in her late teens. Her deep blue eyes stared lifeless into nothing.

“Oh Hell no!” the Lieutenant cried out loud as he checked for a pulse. As he didn’t find any he let out another “Oh Hell no!” before investigating what had happened. It quickly became obvious that the woman had both her wrists cut and apparently had bled to death. Her left hand was still holding on to a small razor blade.

“Someone’ll get Hell to pay fo’ ’is!” the Lieutenant screamed and the soldier that had guarded the door instinctively took a couple steps back out into the corridor, knowing he would most certainly get a share of that Hell.

Back at the lab, the spirit was high, but the trio started to get restless as the soldiers had not yet arrived with the asset they were to escort there. The woman had a look at her expensive wrist watch, a delicate thing beset with diamonds.

“It shouldn’t have to take them ten minutes to get here” she said impatiently.

“Maybe the elevator got stuck?” the dark haired man suggested.

If looks could kill, he would have been struck dead in an instant by the look the woman gave him for that comment. He offered her a friendly smile as consolation.

Suddenly the hand-held radio sparked to life and lieutenant Johnson’s voice could be heard.


She rushed to the radio and picked it up.

“Lieutenant! What’s taking you so long?” her voice clearly telling how displeased she was with the delay.

“Ma’am. Yer not gonna like ’is Ma’am.”

“Of course I don’t like this! You’re late!” she snapped at him.

“Ma’am! She’s dead.”

There was a silence in the lab as the three people there looked at each other with surprised expressions.

“Dead, Ma’am.” the lieutenant continued when he didn’t get a response. “Seem’s to ’ave offed ‘erself. Found ‘er dead in bed. Wrists cut. Seem’s to dunnit ‘erself.”

After a few more seconds of silence, the woman finally managed a reply, obviously shaken by the unexpected news.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Secure the area for now. There will be a thorough investigation on this. I’ll get back to you.”

“Yes Ma’am. Over and out.”

She put down the radio and had to hold on to the counter for a moment to keep herself standing.

“Why?” she asked with despair in her voice. Then her voice changed to contempt. “That ungrateful little bitch! We’re about to make history here and we let her be a part of it. And she does this to ME? And NOW, of all times!”

She was getting furious. The two men looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Dr. Roberts gave the other man a nod to go ahead and approach the woman, knowing his relation with her had a more… intimate nature than what he had. The black haired man nodded back and walked up to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder.


“Don’t ‘Sweety’ me!” she snapped at him and shook his hand off. But he didn’t give up and continued.

“This is a setback for all of us. And at the worst possible time imaginable. We’ve worked so hard for this. But we’re so close now. We cannot just lay down and give up. Or let us be overcome by rage. We need to keep our heads clear and find a solution. And quickly.”

“Yes I’m afraid he’s right. If we don’t implant this embryo soon it’ll go to waste.” Dr Roberts filled in.

The woman looked at them both and a determined look came upon her face.

“Alright then. There’s only one thing to do. I’ll do it!”

And with that she walked over to the gynecological examination chair and started to remove her trousers.

“Sweety? Are you sure?”

Dr Roberts agreed with his colleague.

“Ma’am, are you sure about this? I wouldn’t recommend you putting yourself through this. Besides, no offence, but you are past the prime age for a woman going through pregnancy and giving bir…”

Dr Roberts was cut short by the woman, who by now had taken position in the chair.

“You don’t see any other women around here, do you? It was obviously a mistake to not keep a spare. But the plan was to keep the subjects as close as biologically possible and for that we only had one fit. Now that plan is ruined so we have to make do with what we have, and like it or not, that is me.”

Although her the naked lower half of her body did not seem to matter to her, the two men found it embarrassing and they had trouble looking straight at her when they agreed with her reasoning. She noticed this and scolded them for it.

“Come on now! You are both medical doctors. Be professionals for fuck’s sake!”

The two men glanced at each other and agreed. There was no time to waste so they immediately got to work. They all knew what had to be done so they continued in silence. The woman was given a couple injections with hormones and a special substance they had created to prepare the human body for the embryo and when that was done, Dr Roberts carefully implanted the prized embryo into the woman’s womb.

It was done. It was not according to plan, but now it was done and as the woman had said, only time would tell if the project would succeed.

Nine months later a little baby girl was born. She had deep blue eyes and a few strands of red hair on her head. She was named Dorothy.

Thank you.

Thank you for reading this month’s Tales of the Arcane short story anthologies.

It is our hope to bring you a selection of short stories and longer chapter serials each month.

Tales of the Arcane is a collection of works by members of an online community, The Arcane Light; and endeavors to promote the written word and story-crafting by giving those wanting to develop their own writing style an outlet for their creativity — or who simply just enjoy the opportunity to create worlds and stories.

Tales of the Arcane - 1215

Tales of the Arcane is a monthly collection of short stories by those with a love for the art of story craft - both amateur and professional writers. The Tales will be mainly themed in the genre of the supernatural, though will cover a host of genres with changing short stories; or the continuation of longer stories as told in a serial chapter format. These works have been created by members of an online community, The Arcane Light, and endeavors to promote the written word and story-crafting by giving those wanting to develop their own writing style an outlet for their creativity. In this issue: Silken Whispers - Casefile: The Butterfly The continuation of previous chapters, as the ladies of Silken Whispers Artefact Recovery Agency pursue their new job in the South Pacific. When a freak storm hits the uninhabited island, the two treasure hunters are forced into shelter lest they be drowned under the Autumnal deluge - and locate a site of great interest. The Organizers; A Beginning Every story has a beginning, and this section of The Organizers looks back with hints of a origin tale.

  • ISBN: 9781311796264
  • Author: LC Schwartz
  • Published: 2015-12-19 18:50:08
  • Words: 5048
Tales of the Arcane - 1215 Tales of the Arcane - 1215