It’s been busier than usual, and not the kind of busy that lends itself to stories. It’s that season again, the one where the gremlins need to be rounded up for their checkups. Teeth filed, eyes inspected, whatever passes for their health maintained before they’re shipped off for something resembling a “boarding service.” Supposedly to…

I’ve said it before, and I’ll no doubt say it again: Your bowl of stew and hot black bread are payment enough. Whether you eat it or not is your business, but their presence on the table is mine. There is no need for coins. No need for sticks, paper, jewels, shells, I.O.U.s, soda caps,…

The weekend stirs once more, and with it I descend again into the calibration pit, a place not unlike the frey-pits of old, where sweat and precision are traded in equal measure. I had intentions, honest ones, of adding more to the library this week. Perhaps the pub had other plans. One of the gremlins…

I’ve returned. Mostly upright, mostly human, and mostly through whatever illness decided to drag me into the dark by my throat. The fever’s broken (for now), and I’ve restoked the hearth myself, though Management insisted on watching the entire time, just to be sure I didn’t drop dead into the kindling. More stories are on…

The innkeeper has taken ill. Fever, throat like rusted nails, joints popping like old wood in winter. He called off his usual rounds Sunday afternoon and has not been seen since. No new tales were pinned to the boards. The hearth remains cold. The stew, regrettably… still stirs. He left no formal message, but we…

I wasn’t sure what to post here first. A grand introduction felt a little too formal, and a pitch for my work felt… premature. So I figured I’d just invite you to sit for a while. The fire’s low, the ink’s still wet, and the stew’s… well, let’s just say it’s edible. Just don’t ask…