Seeing Through The Wire Skin

“Sidney?” the upper-class Dublin accent broke into Sidney’s thoughts, causing him to mentally kick himself at the fact that somebody had managed to walk up behind him in spite of the mirror that ran behind the bar. The man who addressed him from his left was taller and thinner than himself, with slicked-back blonde hair. Pinned to the man’s left lapel was a yellow badge with the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps.

“Robbie Hickie! Fancy meeting you here.”

The other man grinned, exposing a missing canine tooth underneath the blonde moustache that had been waxed to points. “My favourite watering hole, actually. Haven’t seen you since New Year! I take it you’re on leave?”

“Indeed, I am.” Sidney turned back to accept his glass of whiskey, automatically thanking the barman as he paid, before looking back at Hickie. “What are you having?”

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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.

Preface

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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