“If everyone went to bed on the Honor, and slept straight through the Work what day would it be when we woke?”
“It would be the Grace.”
“But if no one knows how long they slept, would they not believe it is still the Work?”
“Then it is the Work.”
“Then what of the day we missed? What is its name?”
“I suppose… it does not have one.”
Thanks for visiting. A Nameless Day is a fantasy series I’ve been developing for the last… who’s counting? It’s full of haunted manors, secret societies, forgotten sorceries, and a droopy-eyed burrow hound named Droppit.
Gather close by fire, come near
In Kalemus, a thousand years ago, you could ride a horse from the kingdom’s southern coast to its northern coast. You’d never leave road, and on your way, you’d never want for town or tavern. But those gilded days are long past; the wilderness has reclaimed those towns, and miles of road lie buried under earth and trees.
But brave farmers still live in the interior provinces, beside deep blue lakes in summer, and unyielding ice in winter. Around their bonfires, in the festal week of Warding, they huddle together to sip maple burnwyne and tell stories of the Wood Wraith and the savage Omruk folk. But even the children know those are only Warding tales. The only real dangers here are the cold, the wolf, and the city.
Many journeys — wonderful, tragic, and strange — begin in the shadow of the lakes’ hidden ruins. A wealthy guildsman catches a golden fish longer than a rowboat but dies savagely before he can bring it home. A humble miller rises from his deathbed to become a cunning politician. A templar comes to hunt the followers of a long-dead cult. And as the province lord struggles to keep his lands — and his head — a man in humble gray robes appears in his library, with a humble scroll that no one can read.
To the east, in Ennyk, a bishop of the church declares that Talfar, the one god, is dead and that his remains have fallen to earth on the southern continent of Patheran, whose people embrace far different gods. Many have branded the bishop a heretic, but the Queen of Ennyk has embraced him, and given him an army and a hundred ships to seek the deity’s remains.
To the west, across the Auroral Sea, three towers — each the size of a small city — house the world’s greatest library. Three more towers lie in ruin from wars, and yet three more — mentioned all over the library’s records — are nowhere to be found.
These are but a few of the thirteen kingdoms united centuries years ago by the powerful Merchant’s Circle, who maintain an iron grip on commerce of every kind. With their vast fleets and ranks of gifted assassins, the Circle enforces peace among the kingdoms, safeguarding the Union against Pirate syndicates and the fierce nation of Patheran to the south.
But in the words of the singer, Paul Hundredtongue: No tong may grip nor hammer crush, the steel that goes unseen. For what is written on the humble scroll, carried by the man in gray robes, is a story which threatens not only the Union but the foundations of the world itself