Fomorian Fantasies of the Future

Gráinne was bored. Outwardly, her expression didn’t change as she stared out the window, absently watching the waves in the bay, but she was still feeling peevish about being chased out of the library earlier that morning. Sure, her mother and father-in-law needed to discuss something in quiet with Aidan, but did it really have to be when she had just curled up in the armchair? And it wasn’t her shift on the wireless scanning rota, so she couldn’t even make herself useful by listening to the enciphered messages that Aidan suspected were coming from somewhere named Cruagh Island.

Her train of thought didn’t so much leap as make a sharp right-hand turn into wondering who they were meant for, and if it was possible to reach across the sea with these radio waves. Not the immediate one between Cleggan and Inishbofin, but the wider sea out towards North America. And if so, could they reach the other side of the world…and if so, could they be used to send something other than dotted bleeps and dashed creeps?

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Serpentoid Site Scouts

A pair of snakes with arms, lurking in the grass. One holds a telescope.

PDF version

“Smell that?” Kerigoo hissed, his tongue flickering as he tried to identify the unusual scent on the wind. Debraa slowly lowered her spyglass and began to taste the air in turn, her eyes roving over the human fort that sat four hundred furlongs to their south. She nodded silently; it smelt quite different to wood or peat smoke, yet somehow similar enough that it had to be something burning.

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Fomorians in their own words: The Clerk’s Daughter

This piece is from the perspective of recurring character Maebh. She was born inside the disaster zone, and so far has shown up as the viewpoint character of Maladaptive Vigilance. As far as she’s concerned, being on the lookout for reality going out to lunch is entirely normal.

I am a Fomorian, born and raised on the surface in the Maam valley. My father was once a clerk for the labour and livestock agents – slavers and cattle traders, to be frank. He did not particularly care for it, but trading livestock has been the basis of the entire economy of that valley for generations. I do not know what prompted him to finally take us and leave, but I know that it took him a few years to fully work up the courage.

Life in the Homeland Region is apparently more difficult than elsewhere. One has to be constantly on the lookout for the “glitches” – any such place where the very fabric of reality has been torn apart. There is no rhyme or reason to where or when they occur: I once experienced gravity reversing itself while I was asleep, and what I remember most about that was that I had rolled out of bed while it was happening and didn’t fully awaken until I landed on the ceiling. 

While it was alarming at the time, all I suffered was some bruises. There are other, less pleasant effects that I would not wish on anyone. I simply do not have the words to describe the results of an “inside-out” patch – an area where the victim is turned inside-out – but I can tell you it is gruesome.

I am told that these things simply do not occur outside the homeland. Even two years after we left, I find this hard to fully accept. At night, I find myself waking up because I think I’ve smelt or heard something – anything – that could be a glitch occurring. This is apparently not considered normal; in Connemara, it is a basic survival instinct. One simply doesn't live very long without it.

The Brotherhood are mainly present in the southern and eastern parts of the homeland, particularly around Corcóg and Mam Ean. They tend to avoid the western edge (around the mouth of Killary Harbour) because of an ongoing feud with the O’Rourke clan of Letterfrack, but I don’t know the full details of that. What I do know is that most people that I knew in Maam wished they would stop drawing attention from the British military and the League – or at the very least, not draw it towards us.

Maebh Ní Bhrodaí

Side note: Maam Valley is to the east of the Maumturks. In the real world, the main livestock mart of that area is actually a bit to the south, around Maam Cross. However, since in this universe the dwarves managed to build a network of tunnels through the quarztite rocks of the Twelve Bens and the Maumturks, I’ve decided that it makes more sense for Maam Valley, particularly around what’s now Keane’s Bar, to be the surface trading hub.

I’m going to skip over how they built the tunnels, given that quartzite is a very hard rock. Let’s just say that the Firtollán stonecrafters were highly regarded.

Fomorians in their own words: Preface

This is something I’ve had on my hard drive for a while: Formorians discussing what it means to be a Fomorian. I’ve decided that it makes sense to split these into different blog posts and add new ones as I go.

What I’m trying to do here is write from the perspective of people with different levels of education. Comments on that side are particularly welcome.


As anyone with even the most cursory knowledge of current affairs should know, the ongoing quarantine of the Dwarven Homeland Region in Ireland is in part motivated by the presence of the Fomorians. Fomorians, or “orcs”, are popularly known to be lumbering, mentally stunted minions of the bean sidhe with brainpower inversely proportionate to their muscle power, fit only for extermination or menial labour under heavy guard. The Firtollán Church of the Tunnels has been quite strident in simultaneously advocating their extermination and rehabilitation, and one need only peruse the popular press for exchanges where one individual has accused another of being a covert sympathiser.

In the course of my duties as an alienist attached to the War Office, I have made the acquaintance of numerous Fomorians that have been detained by the British Army and Royal Navy. Some are guardsmen, forcibly exposed to Fomoritis in the line of duty. Some are children raised beyond the Corrib. This personal experience has lead me to conclude that affairs are far more nuanced, as is the case with most things in life.

Connacht Trading’s recent public admission and denunciation of a rogue (albeit successful) experiment to determine the actual mechanism behind Fomoritis has sparked a high level of public interest in the Fomorians. To that end, I have attached several letters from some individuals with which I am acquainted. Among these are the two confirmatory subjects, Mstr D and Miss S. I trust that these may shed some light on the situation.

Dr Nicholas Magnusson, Department 11, War Office

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Big Head Mode is not conducive to effective scouting

I honestly love the classic Big Head Mode cheat effect in video games. There’s just something about it that always tickles my funny bone, and I think it’s something that more games need. Unfortunately, I don’t think it would really be as harmless in real life as it is in games. And so, here’s a story where this happens from the perspective of a banshee (or an ehdis-naeb, as they call themselves).

I originally intended this series to be similar to the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. games in that the “anomalies” are rather grim and dangerous, but after watching too many videos from the Failrace Youtube channel where game physics does a peculiar goes wonky, I seem to be leaning towards making them more absurd…albeit possibly still dangerous.

It was just another day west of the settlement known as Claddaghduff. The daystar remained hidden behind overlapping streaks of clouds, the wind that blew off the sea was biting cold, and the waves that lapped at the shore kicked up an awful spray that made the skin raw. The natives were at best indifferent, if not outright hostile. And there was always the chance that reality would randomly decide to invert itself.

Efioa had long since turned his ears down against the older generation’s complaints about the sea in this new world. New to them, not to him. He had been born here, not that the Fomorians seemed to make any distinction, and had learned to pay attention to the sea. Among the things he had paid close attention to over the last week was the “cursed island” of Cruagh, situated about two dwarven miles out to sea. He could have sworn that he had seen a giant metal shape disappearing behind it to the west.

Lacking anything better to do, he and his bond-sisters had elected to leave Omey Island and get a better look from the west of the Aughrusbeg peninsula. And so, with the spray kicked up in his face and the wind piercing his bones, he faced out towards the spiny northern flank of the island. It might have been his imagination, but it looked as though there was a large net hanging over something. He stepped forward-

He suddenly pitched forward as his head began to feel inexplicably heavier and larger. Sprawling on the rocks that covered the coast, he blinked and shook his head muzzily. The motion felt slower than usual. Had the clouds darkened, or was his eyesight fading?

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Submarine Drop-off

In which The Kingdom Of Scandinavia somebody drops some crates of guns off the coast of Connemara by submarine, and the Dwarven Inquistion are stumped. The PDF version is available here.

“Holland boats” are a reference to John Philip Holland, often referred to as “the father of the modern submarine”. I figure that dwarves might have even more use of them than humans, so perhaps I’ll expand on it later. Since merchant submarines were a thing in the WW1-era, how about Connacht Trading have a private fleet of merchant submarines to avoid North Atlantic storms (and other dangers)?

The listening and observation posts west of Ballyconneely had long since been established as part of the quarantine network around Connemara. Approximately a company was garrisoned in a series of blockhouses around the peninsula, connected to the main forts at Ballyconeely and Roundstone by redundant telephone wires. Within ten minutes, a report of a suspicious ship would be filtered through the command station, plotted on the mapping tables and relayed out to the corvettes and destroyer boats on standby or already out on patrol.

In theory, at least. In practice, every single sighting in the last thirty years had turned out to either be one of their own ships, or phantoms due to atmospheric conditions. Only once had an unidentified ship turned out to be something unusual – a bulk carrier out of New York had got lost in a storm, and been very glad to be steered away from the orc-occupied quarantine zone.
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Black Blade Extraction

Completely unrelated to anything I’ve written so far, but I often get scenes popping into my head when listening to Two Steps From Hell. When I first heard Black Blade, the scene that popped into my head involved the following:

  • A ruined city
  • A warship on a bay
  • Jets screaming in across the bay towards the city
  • A helicopter hovering over a building just long enough to pick up somebody (or multiple somebodies)
  • The city being firebombed
  • The helicopter bursting through flames, heavily damaged by enemy fire, and landing on the warship
  • The bombers from step 3 flying back overhead

With that in mind, here’s a piece that has been sitting on my hard drive in a half-complete state for a very long time. Back when I was working on Spamocalypse about 4-6 years ago, I had the idea of portraying spammers as zombies created by a deranged cult known as the Word of Turscar, so I’ve made them the perpetrators of a city being overrun by…zombies that lurch around groaning about how to E N H A N C E your length…

Side note: “Turscar” is an old Irish word for rotting seaweed that has been repurposed as the translation for spam. For some reason, this struck me as a perfect name for a fictional deity, and that lead to the above deranged cult of spammers…

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Interception of an Enciphered Message From Orc-held Territory

Some of my previous stories have involved what would be state-of-the-art radio communication for pre-WW1. While reading up electronic warfare during a slow day at work (or at least, the Wikipedia page on it), I noticed that the earliest recorded instance of this was the Russo-Japanese war of 1905. Just prior to the Battle of Tsushima, one of the Russian cruisers was denied permission to try jamming a Japanese cruiser that had located them. Between that and Drachinifel’s excellent video on the British effort at tapping German radio during WW1…here’s a related story.

World War 1 hasn’t happened in this universe yet, and I’m considering turning it into a long-term, low-intensity conflict. As part of that, the British military have created a unit specifically for monitoring radio and telegraph traffic, known as the “Wireshark Corps”, and some of them are stationed around Connemara to catch any possible radio transmissions from somebody supplying the orcs.

The crackle of static in his ears and the flashing blue light to his left caused Able Seaman Davis to shoot upright from where he had slouched in the wooden chair, his right hand resting idly on the notepad on his workstation. Pressing his left hand to his earphones, he leaned forwards and hurriedly transcribed the short, staccato bleeps and longer creeps in the approved shorthand terminology.

“Found something, Davis?” the Lieutenant asked. He automatically nodded, focussing on converting the shorthand transcription into something more legible. Even as he finished and moved onto translating the dots and dashes into possible letters, something about it started to niggle at the back of his mind. It almost looked as though…

“Sir, I don’t think this is English.” He handed the piece of flash paper over to the Lieutenant, who accepted it with a raised eyebrow that turned into a quizzical frown as he perused the message. Davis glanced over at the door into the main passageway, satisfying himself that it was closed. On the wall next to the door was a poster of a shark looming up from the deep, aiming straight for a stream of letters on the surface. He turned back to his wireless set, listening for any other messages.

“Definitely not. Nor Gaelic, French, German…possibly a cipher,” the Lieutenant mused, reaching for the telephone to the bridge with one hand and pointing with his other at the third person in the wireless room. “Jacobson, prepare a message to the Caledonia. Wireless room to bridge. We have just intercepted a message coming from port. Requesting current bearing and location.” He jotted down the response, acknowledged the current bearing was one hundred eighty-three, and waited. Seconds later, he repeated the apparent latitude and longitude. Fifty-three degrees and thirty minutes west, ten degrees north and thirty-two minutes north.

Jacobson had already finished his draft English report to relay back to the main control station aboard the Caledonia. Glancing over it again, he carefully drew a bold line on either side of the intercepted message and began to translate his draft into Morse.

“You don’t think that was a Fomorian transmission?” Davis asked. Both of his comrades snorted, though he could have sworn that Jacobson had paled slightly. The orcish homeland in Connemara – what was once the Dwarven Homeland Region – wasn’t that far away. In fact, the entire reason that the Wiresharks had been added to the naval cordon on the coast was that somebody was decided it was possible – no, a certainty– that somebody else would attempt to supply the Fomorians by submarine.

Up until that point, he would have thought it completely ludicrous and that they’d be better served tapping the telegraph cables between Norway and Iceland. But with a possibly coded transmission coming from the east – from the orc-occupied coast – it was starting to look as though they were going to earn their hazard pay. At least he wasn’t freezing his arse out on an airship further out like Rob.


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Snakes should be sexy!! (according to drunken orcs)

Following on from Why Do Humans Constrict, here’s another short story which involves humanoid snakes discussing human orcish nature. In this case, the widespread trope that snakepeople would have breasts for no other reason than ZOMG SEXY!!1! This makes no sense to me, and it has occurred to me that they’d find this idiotic and annoying.

As usual, the PDF version is uploaded here.

Graa idly scratched the back of his neck as he lay atop the cart, not really listening to the head of the caravan talking with the guards outside Cleggan. Something about checking their import permits for three carts of lumber from Tooreen. It made little difference to him or the rest of the band; their role had been to guard it against theft, and they had done so. In the meantime, the lumber was getting invitingly warm-

The gates squeaked open, drawing him back to the immediate surroundings. As the carts slowly rumbled inside the settlement, his eyes and tongue began to rapidly dart over the scenery. It looked like any other village in the region: a mix of dwellings built from stones that had apparently been piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other and topped with a roof apparently made of dried grass stems – how it kept the water out was something he had never figured out – with the local temple being the only one that looked like somebody had put some actual thought and care into building it. And of course, the obligatory drink-dwelling that had been strategically placed almost in the centre, right at the crossroads.

“Hey, Eggs! What’s with the snakes?” somebody called as they drew to a halt near the water. Graa mechanically tracked the orc, and dismissed him as a threat as he saw the Fomorian held a bucket in one hand and a short, stubby brushing implement in the other.

“Caravan guards,” the merchant who had hired the slitherfolk replied. “Anyway, here’s the planks you asked for.”

The orc who had addressed the merchant bared his teeth, something that Graa had been repeatedly told was their way of showing satisfaction or mirth. Even knowing that it was almost certainly the result of satisfaction, he still felt his blood briefly begin to pump before the more rational part of his thinklump reminded him that it wasn’t meant as a threat.

“More importantly,” the merchant ‘Eggs’ continued, turning to face Graa, “here’s your pay. Twenty pounds, as agreed.” Graa nodded appreciatively as ‘Eggs’ – apparently an alias among acquaintances – counted out and handed over two faded gold coins and ten silver ones. Slowly, Graa and the rest of his band slid down off off the carts and gathered off to one side for his to dole out the pay. One gold coin for himself, one for Maroo, and the silvers were divided among Debraa, Achoo and Praa.

“Something fresh to drink?” he asked, gesturing towards the drink-dwelling. A chorus of olfactory agreement met his flickering tongue.

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A Useful Politician

This is a follow-up to In Which The Kingdom of Scandinavia Plans To Troll The British Navy. I had originally planned to have a crate of guns be discovered on a beach somewhere, and have the police/soldiers who found it speculate on who put them there. However, when reading about Joseph McCarthy for some reason (I blame TV Tropes!), I noticed that both Truman and Eisenhower made snarky comments about how he might as well be an asset of the Soviets, given how irrational he made attempts to root out Soviet spies in the American government look.

Apparently, the KGB shared a very similar opinion to Truman and Eisenhower. Between that and the mess that is the last few years, it occurred to me that a similar politician might be a useful asset to the Scandinavians (or anyone else trying to stir up trouble for the British Empire, for that matter).

As usual, there’s a PDF version here. The formatting there is probably a bit better than here; WordPress’ block editor takes some getting used to.

Just one letter. That was all she had to do – post a letter. The gentleman with the genial smile, vaguely Continental accent and the icy blue eyes had paid her two pounds for a penny-rate letter, already stamped and addressed. He’d hinted that she might find it useful to write one herself.

Mrs Lynch smiled to herself as she approached the postbox just outside Heuston Station, revealing a haphazard array of tobacco-stained teeth. Hardly the best pay for her little favours, but quite good for such a trivial task and the extra two pounds would be very useful if Jimmy, Anna or Michael caught the flu again.

The name on the envelope was one she knew well. Jonathan Butler, County Councillor for Galway-Roscommon. Anyone in Connacht – the parts that hadn’t been overrun by the Fomorians – knew of him. A hollow-cheeked man with a very intense stare, frequently in the papers over London’s lack of support for Connacht. Sure, there was a heavy military presence, but not a lot else. Perhaps the man with the blue eyes wanted him to draw some more attention to this again.


“Jonathan? A letter arrived from Dublin. You might find it worrying.”

“Oh?” Jonathan Butler looked up from the dry, verbose report on education standards in the province. Sarah handed him the letter, her normally sunny face set into a grim frown. He frowned in turn and scanned it. His eyebrows ran north along his face as he read, stopping about halfway towards his hairline.

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