Joshua Cox-Steib's Blog

Why You Should Care About SEO

Large artistic print of the letters SEO

The modern world is one of abundant information. So much so that without guiding tools like SEO, it would take forever to find specific content on the internet. Of course, this doesn’t hold true for those situations where someone already has the URL of their destination. Instead, this is a fact of life for anytime someone uses an internet search engine to find particular kinds of content.

The majority of internet traffic is search-driven instead of direct. This means there’s more potential to get people on your website by optimizing your site’s visibility than by handing out your URL. You should do both, but if you have to focus only on one, my recommendation would be to choose SEO.

When you optimize your site for search engines, you increase the number of people that will see it when searching for the kind of content that your website contains. This means that if your selling, let’s say, coffee mugs, your website, when properly optimized, will pop up in response to any searches that might be related to coffee mugs and will rank even higher for searches that include things like “buy coffee mug.”

SEO in 2019 is all about content. Long past are the days of choosing a few keywords and stuffing your site full of them. The algorithms have gotten smarter since then, and now the way to get ahead in search engine rankings is to create robust, relevant content. This doesn’t mean you can throw those keywords out the window, though. They’re still an essential part of your website visibility strategy.

Instead of ditching all those carefully chosen keywords and phrases, you want to generate engaging content written around them. So, to continue our earlier example of coffee mugs, you would want to write about coffee mugs with the intent of it being read by human eyes and not just algorithms. This could mean talking about the history of mugs, or writing reviews for coffee mugs, or even creating content around pairing different mugs with different holidays, seasons, or activities.

That’s all well and good, and now you have a site that will show up for anyone looking to study coffee mugs. What you want, though, is to rank particularly high for people who are interested in buying coffee mugs, not just learning about them. Don’t worry; this part is easy to weave in once you have the main content. What you’ll do is add 3-4 (per 500 words) instances where you talk about buying coffee mugs. Best practice is to have this in mind when writing the main body of text and to incorporate your chosen keywords and phrases into the structure and style of that text, but for explanatory purposes, I’ve presented them as separate steps.

Let’s say you chose coffee mug history for the body of your content. Work into the end of a paragraph something along the lines of, “If you like these historic mugs, consider buying our Xyz coffee mug and have a sip of the past.” Now, if you’re going to use that line, then you want to make sure that this Xyz mug in question has some reason to be spoken of in such a way. It doesn’t matter whether it’s built in an old style that was just being read about, or if it has imagery on it that somehow references the era discussed in your text; all that matters is that it does the job and doesn’t make the readers (potential customers) feel deceived.

Two paragraphs up, I mentioned adding your keywords and phrases only 3-4 times per 500 words. This is a loose parameter to simplify the process. Experts in the SEO field vary in their opinion of what keyword density should be, but on average, they report that between 1 and 3 percent is optimal. Less than that, and it won’t significantly help your visibility. More than that you risk being flagged for search spam or keyword stuffing. When you go over these recommendations, the inclusion of these keywords or phrases can actually hurt your ranking.

Now that you’ve read an overview of how it works, you can see why you should care about SEO. Without proper search engine optimization, your website will be lost in the masses, forever buried from all but the most tenacious of internet sleuths. With search engine optimization, however, your site can rise to the top where all your potential customers are browsing.

If you’re interested in procuring professional SEO services, fill out my inquiry form, and I will get back to you asap to discuss further details.

 

 

Just a Little Graveyard Fun

arE YUo mAD? CAN yUo SeE mE? wHAt hAvE tHeY DonE tO yOu?

Jeremy fled. Running from the dark spirit with the power of utter terror, and complete desperation. The ground flew by. Bushes and branches were torn, and tore at him in turn. He was only aware of two things: the mad spirit that he'd roused, and theboundary line of the cemetery. He ran from one towards the other, and he prayed.

The leaning gate that highlighted his hopes of safety was within sight. His vision was an endless series of smooth glides leading into harsh jolts.His eyes bouncing in unison with fleeing feet upon the hard graveyard dirt beneath. It was close now. No more than ten yards. He was going to make it.

DOn'T gO. STaY aNd PLAY!

Jeremy screamed as the voice assaulted his mind - layers of communication colliding, and shifting in perpetual taunt of clarity with all the sincerity of a desert mirage. His right foot caught on a sharp rock, sending him careening forward as he tried desperately to keep moving. With a resounding CRACK, Jeremy fell forward into a roll. He came to a stop against a weather-worn tombstone, his skull cracking against the old granite loudly before he even had time to register the broken ankle that had landed him there.

wHy dID yoO dO ThaT? doN'T YuO lIkE mE?

Screams of pain and fear mingled; suffering of body and mind combining to create something greater than the sum their parts. Something terrible. Jeremy struggled to stand but fell anew every time he tried. Between the dizziness from his head injury, and the shattered wreck that was his ankle, he didn't have a chance. He knew it. He knew it, and that knowledge only fueledhis futile efforts further.

YoU ArE sIlLy. I wiLL hELP.

Massive hands wrapped around his torso, lifting him—struggling—into the air. An enormous form danced in and out of sight. Bits and pieces passing through the corners of his eyes. A gleam of a gigantic forearm; there, and then not. The hint of a huge skull blocking out the heavens, gone as soon as it arrived. The spirit had him. Only it wasn't a spirit. This was much, much, more than that.

DOn't WoRrY. i'M hElpINg. EaT thIS.

A small mass of putrid vegetation was shoved into his mouth.Invisible fingers held his jaw until he'd chewed, and swallowed the foul stuff. The fingers shifted back to gently carrying him deeper into the shadows of the cemetery. A warm tingling crept outward from his stomach, easing his struggles, but not his pain.

ThAtS BEttER. GOoD bOy. We'Re GOiNG tO HaVE So MuCh fUn toGeThEr.

Jeremy's screams echoed through the night. A single note of entreaty amidst an infinite backdrop of indifference.

The End

Crambo and Poetaster

Crambo spoke in careful, measured words; his mind crafting an image from his phrases and triggering those mental mechanisms of magical imbuement that would turn his metaphor into a reality. The pressures of his art bore down upon Crambo with relentless might and tireless vigor. He was well into the third year of his studies at the Academy for Metaphorical Mages, and the time to prove the value of the Academy’s investment had come. The time to display his skills in the art of metaphor and magic under the eyes of his instructors and peers in a glorified ceremony that was nearly as ancient as the venerable Academy itself.

The Academy grounds were vast, with their eastern half taken up by a meticulously thin forest, interspersed with verdant, grassy knolls. A broad clearing, stretching hundreds of meters in diameter, had been carved out of this forest long ago to serve as the meeting ground for this sacred rite of passage that all Academy students underwent. The crowd was dwarfed by the vastness of the clearing. Some three-score mages watched the youth with variations of impatience, sympathy, and gleeful anticipation.

Crambo was oblivious to his onlookers as the words formed with images in his mind’s eye. He felt that peculiar click in his brain that accompanied the metaphysical might of magic when it arose to his beckoning. Beatific words spill forth from his mouth in a frothy stream of magic as he wove metaphor into reality.

“The cloud-shadowed grass bends in the wind before me, like the ocean waves ebbing with the tide.” Crambo stopped speaking. Paused expectantly. Watched the wind-bent and cloud-shadowed grass with growing trepidation. A minute dragged by with no apparent change or any other indication that the young mage had succeeded in his trial.

Surprise was apparent on Crambo’s face but notably absent on all others. He had expected an impressive aquatic display as the grass turned into water that rushed away from him. Though he had no awareness of it, despite years of earnest indication, those who witnessed his rite had seen exactly what they had expected. The younger of the spectators, Crambo’s fellow students, were barely restrained from chortling exclamations of mockery by those few elder mages present that still garnished some sympathy upon the maladroit youth.

“I don’t understand… that should have worked. I could feel the magic.” Crambo’s voice wasn’t lost, or even bewildered. The tone and stance of the young mage resembled simple indignance more than anything else. The bellicose flare from his eyes eagerly confirmed the student’s continued barrier to learning. Professor Poetaster sighed, dramatically.

The crowd quickly dwindled as it became apparent that Crambo wasn’t likely to perform further spectacles for their delight and derision. Professor Poetaster lingered, waxing loquacious about the beauty of the clearing in a distracted and obnoxious voice. With anticipated swiftness, the soliloquy spouting professor was alone with his wayward pupil. The student in question was arguing with himself over comparative potential between various lyrical lines of metaphor that, unbeknownst to him, bore equal voids of value.

“Crambo, come over here.” Professor Poetaster’s voice brooked no argument, for it invited complete compliance.

Crambo ignored these truisms by ignoring his professor. He continued to struggle with his metaphors, determined to prove his mastery of magic upon the insubordinate grass. Despite attempts of increasing volume, Poetaster failed to harness his student’s attention. His patience lost, the professor resorted to the rude tool of magic; ominously chanting a magical metaphor that would grab his student by the throat and force his rebellious mind to attendance.

“knowledge serves as the grasping fingers of the hand that throttles ignorance, and focuses the minds of straying supplicants.”

Crambo coughed, gasping as he felt a vise-like hand clasp around his throat with indomitable strength. He sought to struggle and object, but found his attention wholly focused upon the professor, eagerly awaiting further words of guidance and wisdom. A surge of self-hate rose along with the forced feelings.

“Much better. If you want to learn magic, Crambo, then you must first internalize how to learn. You refuse the advice of your instructors, taking only what bits and pieces suit your fantasies. You failed your rite, but this is not the end. I spoke with the Head Magus earlier today and requested that you be allowed to receive further tutelage even if you were to fail the rite of passage. She acquiesced, but with the requirement that I personally handle your education. We’re going to make a mage of you, have no doubt of that my young pupil.”

The portion of Crambo’s mind that hadn’t been snared by Poetaster’s magic screamed bloody murder at the old man, wholly intent on learning everything the professor had to teach and shaping it into a weapon of vengeful independence. Little did he know that the professor had anticipated and intended the rise of such dark and powerful motivations within the otherwise listless student. Poetaster saw students, like words, as mechanical things that needed the manipulative guidance of such trained and articulate minds as his own.

Creatures of Passion

Man standing before ocean waves on a pier.

Such a great maelstrom to be triggered by so few words. A simple phrase of mundane sounds delivers anguish of the sacred injured, or even lost. Calm comes first. In truth, its shock. A collective system, your sentience, struggling to integrate information that it can’t accept. The mind is tough, though, and yet still malleable. Acceptance occurs. And it happens in layers, working from the outside in. A thin veneer of truth surrounding a tempestuous storm of defiance.

At the core, hidden behind veils of turbulence, a throbbing sphere of pain. A line of agonized warmth running through the torso, from top to bottom. From here, the storm rages outward even as the truth pushes inward. Wherever the two meet they clash, as they must. Powerlessness is one of those facts, the unacceptable kind. Hellbent on survival, we’re designed to fight, no matter the odds.

The truth moves inward with a succession of battles. Each layer changed represents bursts of pain. Anguished acceptance marking its inroads. Yet the defiance is strong and lengthens the journey; an illusion given power. Yet far greater is the illusion that ignoring knowledge changes facts. This is about grief, but it goes so much farther. When defined by feelings and idealizing passion, this process is crucial, but it comes at a cost. Identity and growth are gained through pain.

Peculiar People

Reptilian eyes gazed at her from within a hooded, serpentine head. Not unlike the cobras that often entertained her father’s guests. The creature had a long neck that matched its hooded head in crimson scales. That was where this creature’s resemblance to her father’s snakes ended, though.

The child stared in awe at the adventurous contortion of beasts that comprised the rest of the strange creature’s body. One front leg was clearly that of some great hunting cat, while the other was akin to the knobby limb of a flamingo except for a disturbingly human-like appendage at the end of it. By craning her neck, the child could clearly see that it’s back legs neither matched the front ones, nor each other: one, the leg of a goat, the other like that of a mouse grown to monstrous proportions.

Charcoal-grey fur covered the creature’s body, starting at the base of its neck—where the scales began—and ending just before the large, striped barb that crowned its long, thin tail. The child stepped back a pace, eyeing the creature with fearless wonder. Amused chuckling escaped the animal’s shadowy mouth, a forked tongue darting forward from that darkness in punctuation of its humor. Words followed and the child’s eyes lit with startled delight.

“What iss your name?”

“Claudia, sir monster.”

Claudia had a curious thought. “Do you have a name?”

The creature hesitated, its lidded eyes registering the faintest sign of shock as they regarded this young human. After a moment of doubt-filled consideration, it answered.

“I do, but I have never shared it. The world sees me as you have described me; a monster. We are all defined, and named, by how we look to others, and by the shapes of thought available to them.” The creature paused. “It is for this reason that I chose my own name. I cannot control how they define me, but I can strive to define myself. By the rules of others, this conversation would never have happened. For being brave enough to see differently, I will tell you the name I have chosen for myself.”

Claudia leaned forward, turning her head slightly as the creature whispered its name into her ear. With a squeal of delight, she hugged the startled creature, exclaiming as she did so. “It’s wonderful! And so are you!”

Claudia had understood her new friend’s words with an insight that balanced any lack of intellectual comprehension with the visceral conviction of empathy. At such a youthful age, she had not yet been taught by the few to fear the many. Neither scarred in body nor mind by the world or the actions of others, Claudia had yet to learn of the dangers that came with life.

On that day, a great friendship began. One that blossomed over the years and played no small part in the events that would later encourage historians to refer to Claudia as the greatest empress of an era. She never lost the open-mindedness of her youth. Not for lack of pain or strife, but because of her own resilience, and the support of a wonderful and unusual friend. The emblem of Claudia’s rule was composed runes that translated to: “past fear is peace”. And though fear within her people was never eliminated, her reign dealt it a harsh blow. It took a lifetime of effort, and the greatest seat of power, but before she died, Claudia saw a land come true where there were no more monsters. Where all were accepted by simple right of existence.

Fen Telum, Queen of the Hill (#5)

Bloody arms reaching upwards.

Crows swarmed the skies overhead, their shadows blocking the sun like some living cloud of dark omens. Fen didn’t notice. Everything she was, everything she had, was fully engaged in the battle for survival. Securing her own, and ending it for so many others. The ground beneath her feet had been soaked with the blood of comrade and foe alike. That was back when she could still see the ground. Now, if she were too look down, she would see the faces of her former companions, lying where they’d fallen beside her.

Fen didn’t look down, but she could feel the truth of what was there through the insecure footing that had become just one more environmental hazard to remain aware of. Even if Fen had been the sentimental type, now wouldn’t be the time for it. That way lay death.

Long spears jabbed towards her from all sides, thrusting in such a way as to leave her no escape. Light flared up around Fen as she contorted the fingers of her left hand into the appropriate sign and screamed out the ancient and forbidden name of the dead. Her right arm hung limply, unable to aid her. It had been shattered hours before, dropping her fabled sword where it now lay buried within the hill of corpses.

Dead arms lunged upwards from the hill by the dozens, rising between Fen and the threatening spears before they could reach her. The weapons were ripped from her enemies and slowly sunk into the corpse hall. The restless dead returned to stillness as the spell ended. Fen heaved an exhausted breath and tried not to stagger. Her body was beyond exhaustion, blood and bruises paired with the snarl upon her face to paint her in a worse light than many of the corpses she stood upon.

Calling on the dead had cost her, depleting her precious reserves of energy. The enemies were climbing the hill with swords and axes, prepared to deal with the dead limbs should they rise again in Fen’s defense. They wouldn’t, but she wasn’t about to tell them so. Fen reached down with her good hand and pried the hilt of a longsword from a dead man. She couldn’t think far enough to remember if he’d been friend or foe. Not that it mattered.

When the first four enemies reached Fen, she was ready. One of the four darted forward, seeking to engage her and leave her exposed to the other three. Fen didn’t oblige.

The sorceress dropped backwards, pouring just enough magic into her legs to give her the strength and speed required. The movement sent her sliding down the twisted bodies, all the way to the base of the hill. Blades flashed towards her, but too slow. Her own blade flicked out three times in her brief retreat, leaving two soldiers disemboweled and one more with a slashed hamstring.

In the chaos, Fen was able to gain her feet before anyone could close on her. Fen Telum, ancient sorceress of a forgotten era, drew in a deep, ragged breath, and screamed. It was a sound of primal fury. Of strength and tenacity. A sound of life and death.

Everyone within thirty feet of her fell to the ground, writhing. Still, she screamed. Blood began pouring from the ears of her enemies, and the hill of corpses began to buzz with vibration. The terrible sound coming from the sorceress’s reached a crescendo and the hill burst, all the corpse erupting blood and organs into the air.

The macabre mess twisted in the air, forming into a gory cyclone that spun with the force of Fen’s cry. She stopped screaming and walked into the cyclone.

For a moment, the battlefield calmed as all around saw the sorceress’s apparent demise. Harsh voices shouted orders and screams of fear burst through the air a second later when the gruesome display of sorcery collapsed inwards, leaving Fen standing at its center. Clean of blood and healed of wounds. In her right hand she held the fabled blade of Vi Scelerata.

Fen released the sword’s restraints, loosing its power to a degree that she’d only used once before. There would be a price to pay for the magic that had saved her this day, and another for drawing so heavily upon the blade’s twisted power, but she would be alive to pay that price. The army surrounding her, however, would not. To Fen, that was an acceptable tradeoff.

Fen Telum, The March of Broken Souls (#4)

Marsh with trees and fairy lights.

Mud splattered up her legs with every trudging step. Her clothes were covered in muck, and not even her scowling face had been spared. The Marsh of Broken Souls was a foul place. Fanning out to either side of her for farther than she could see, and separated by ten handspans each, were Boreant’s Blades—mercenary soldiers with a moderate reputation. Fen had signed on with the band specifically for this mission. Though they didn’t know it, she was also the one who had hired them. She needed them, and if they knew what for, then they wouldn’t have gone; no matter how good the pay.

After years of research, following leads, and interrogating strangers, Fen had found a way to access the resting place of Ragmor’s titan. The most potent creation of the best animancer that had ever lived, Ragmor’s Titan had been near-deific in scope. It had taken the combined might of three kingdoms to destroy it. Ragmor himself had died long before, one of the Titan's first victims. Both of their corpses were out here, buried in the Marsh of Broken Souls.

That wasn’t the most important part, though. When that titan went to its grave, it took something with it. Something that Fen was determined to obtain, no matter the cost. These thoughts brought her attention back to the soldiers trekking through the swamp with her. The poor fools didn’t have a clue. They thought they’d been hired to hunt for lost treasure, forgotten and unguarded. In their minds, the putrid environment was the worst of this journey. They were wrong about that, as they’d soon learn.

“How much farther?” The whisper carried to Fen from her right.

Fen turned her head, responding at a normal volume.

“Not much. We should see signs of it within the next hour. Keep your eyes open and remember what I told you to look for.”

The soldier nodded, and went back to marching through the mud, her eyes peering uncertainly at every wasted tree. Fen had hired on as a guide, professing herself knowledgeable about this area and well acquainted with the use of a sword. The captain had paid her fee eagerly; no sane person went into a swamp blind. Fen had paid off the locals in advance to support her story and to put her forward as their best guide. It had been easy. Expensive, but easy.

A faint sound whispered through the damp air. Though quiet, it was distinct. A slithering that had buried within it an undertone of wooden thumps happening so fast and smooth that the individual noises blended together into the infamous hiss of a swamp golem. Dangerous constructs that could be created sane and useful by those skilled enough but were more often made by arcane convergences in the world and quite mad. Such as would almost certainly occur around potent objects like the bones of Ragmor’s Titan.

Fen Tellum grinned and loosened her sword. Her smile turned to a slight frown at the touch of the unfamiliar weapon. She’d left her own sword, the blade of Vi Praevaricatrix, behind. Its presence would have made today’s task impossible. Her own magic posed a similar risk but to a much lesser degree. Coalescents, like the swamp golem, would be the least of her worries if she didn’t maintain the utmost caution. If she failed, it would be another century before the alignment of powers were right, and her task could be achieved. That was a wait she was determined to avoid.

The mercenaries of Boreant’s Blade had spotted the swamp golem, and though visibly shaken, all had their weapons out and were responding professionally. The soldiers wielding longer melee weapons drew together and formed up into a wedge, stomping through the mud in a determined march towards the coalescent as their bow-wielding comrades started a barrage from behind them, arcing the arrows up and over the marching soldiers’ heads to land with remarkable accuracy.      

The creature was made of rotted wood and old carcasses tied together by thick vines that moved with a life of their own. Its face was a swarm of insects, feasting upon the golem’s collage of a skull. Fen recognized bones from numerous species in the creature’s construction. Other than its grotesquery, the golem maintained a humanoid form, though of daunting size. Its bizarre appearance may have left the attacking soldiers unprepared for the power of the golem’s response. Fen recalled her own first time underestimating a coalescent.

Thick vines shot forward, entangling the front row of mercenaries and flinging them into the ones marching behind them. Arrows continued to slam into the golem from above, mostly harmless and wholly ignored.

One soldier managed to dart out from the grasping vines and fling a brightly colored flagon at the golem’s feet. The mercenary gave out a strange cry, rhythmic yet wordless, before turning and diving face-first into the muck of the swamp. All at once, the other soldiers quit trying to untangle themselves from the vines and each other, focusing entirely on burrowing down into the mud with a mad, desperate vigor.

The onslaught of arrows changed. The archers each pulled a strange shaft from their quivers. As they set the projectiles, they struck the tips along small metal plates embedded in their bracers. The arrows sputtered putrid smoke as the archers drew their bows and took aim for the brightly colored flagon at the golem’s feet. Fen cursed, turning and diving back towards the safety of the marsh’s embrace. The archers fired.

There was a shattering blast. Fen could feel the force of it through the protective mud as it quivered around her like jelly. After a moment of ringing silence, Fen pulled herself from the mud. She saw that the other soldiers had already done the same and were gathering around the swamp golem’s smoking remains. It was a disgruntled sorceress that trudged through the mud to join the excited and victorious soldiers of Boreant’s Blade.

“Well, guide, what do you make of that? Didn’t you say we should avoid these things, and run rather than confront them?” The soldier’s gloating voice and the snickers of his comrades were almost enough to break Fen’s composure. Only focused visualization of her prize kept her from killing them right then. It wasn’t by accident that she usually worked alone.

Besides, the brat wasn’t wrong. She had said those things and done it knowing full well they wouldn’t heed her advice. They’d attacked precisely as she’d anticipated, except for that last stunt with the fire-bomb. Nothing she knew of them had indicated that they had an alchemist, or employed their devices. Most mercenary companies that could afford such weapons made sure to boast of it to their would-be employers.

Fen had to wonder why Boreant’s Blades had kept such a powerful piece of marketability so secret. It irked her that she would likely never learn the answer to that mystery. The mercenaries were unlikely to survive long enough for her to learn from them. Of course, she could always hunt Boreant himself down afterward and ask him. The fat merchant technically ran the band but couldn’t be further from a soldier himself. He was just a very wealthy and resourceful criminal.

Fen turned her eyes upon the jeering mercenaries. “I did say that, and I’ll say this now. You certainly surprised me, but next time give me some warning before blowing us up. Better yet, save your explosives for the digging. That treasure you're looking for has sat in the swamp for a long time. Things here have a way of sinking. Fire-bombs are a lot faster than shovels and have the benefit of hardening the mud.”

The soldier started to respond with an uncaring dismissal, but stopped himself and thought carefully about Fen’s words, his eyes turning dangerous. “That’s pretty strange knowledge for a swamp guide to have. Especially one that claimed, just yesterday, that she’d never heard of anyone doing something ‘so foolish as digging for treasure in a swamp.’”

Fen looked at the suspicious soldier contemptuously. “I know alchemy well, sell-sword, and the effects of heat upon mud haven’t been a secret for thousands of years. Your paranoia betrays your insecurity. I told you when you hired me that this was a fool’s hunt. I doubt there’s any treasure, but you’ve paid me well to suspend that disbelief.”

The soldier snorted. “Fool’s errand or no, we get paid the same. If there’s one treasure, though, there might be more. Anything we don’t have orders about is free for the taking. So, don’t worry lass, even if this treasure hunt is some gimmick you swamp folks have cooked up, we won’t punish you for it. Angry employers sometimes forget to pay, and none of us want that. Better to give it an honest look, get an honest pay, and if we’re lucky, find some dishonest loot.”

Fen couldn’t fault the mercenary’s logic. It was his knowledge that was lacking. Which, of course, had been her doing. Everything she had told the mercenaries had been specifically tailored to her purposes. They needed a reason to go deeper into the marsh, and Fen had to go with them. She shelved her thoughts and gave the pragmatic mercenary a mild attempt at a smile.

“Sounds reasonable enough to me. It’s getting dark soon, though, and finding buried treasure in this place is going to be hard enough without trying to do it by torchlight.” Fen nodded at the burnt golem and the seared ground around it. “This spot should serve us well for the night.”

The mercenary leader eyed the sky, then surveyed the ground they stood upon and nodded slowly. “Alright, guide. That’s advice I’ll take. The ground here was already a bit more stable than the rest, and now that it’s been flash-cooked it should hold even better.” He turned and singled out five soldiers. “You lot, go with the guide and gather wood to shore up the rest of this turf. We need enough to get everyone out of the mud for the night. And be quick about it. The rest of you start breaking out camp. Start with this swamp creature; its corpse should make for a good fire.”

The appointed soldiers saluted and ambled over to Fen. After a moment’s thought, she gave them a grin and beckoned them to follow her deeper into the marsh. Overhead, the sky darkened as the sun snuck behind the horizon. It took longer than Fen had expected before the soldiers with her grew nervous and bold enough to question her.

“We’ve passed more than a few twisted little trees that would have served just fine. You looking for something better ahead or is it true that you’re swamp-addled?” The soldier’s voice started slightly squeaky, with more than a little self-doubt, but it quickly strengthened as his frightened mind pursued the security blanket of condescension and arrogance.

Fen ignored him. For a few minutes more the soldiers followed wordlessly, then the same one broke the silence with a curse.

“Enough of this. We’re heading back, we’ve passed more than enough plant life to gather what we need. Go on if you want, witch, but we’re not going any farther with you.”

The outspoken mercenary put action to words with his comrades following suit. Before long all five had faded from view, leaving Fen standing alone with a satisfied smile. She’d led those soldiers in a series of mostly random zigs and zags at the fastest pace she’d been able to keep them moving. The chances of them finding their way back to the campsite were quite low. Their chances of waking up more of the swamp’s predators, however… well, that was almost a certainty. Fen smiled and waited.

It didn’t take long until the screams reached her. The sound would reach the camp just as easily. What she didn’t know was how the commander would handle it; so far, he’d shown less recklessness than she’d anticipated. Would he send people to inspect the cries and look for his missing guide and soldiers, or would he play it safe? Fen sincerely hoped it was the former. If it came down to it, she’d kill the mercenaries herself, but in doing so, she would cheapen the meal she was offering the marsh’s guardian.

Proditione, spirit of betrayal, was no easy deity to please. Fen had studied the minor god extensively before concocting her plan. As with all such beings, certain eccentricities existed within their nature that could be exploited. With most, it involved a sacrifice of some specific kind or means. In the case of Proditione, that sacrifice had to be delivered by betrayal. If Fen’s research and conclusions were correct, then her use of Boreant’s Blades would prove an ideal offering. After that, she’d only have the Titan’s remains to deal with. Compared with getting past Proditione, the last part of her task would be simple.

Fen squashed a mosquito on her arm and considered her options. The scene was set for the people of Boreant’s Blade to meet a gruesome demise in the Marsh of Broken Souls, by means of thorough betrayal. She’d hired them under falsehoods, led them into the marsh, seen them encamped by her word of safety, and misled their minds the whole way. She could, at this point, just sit back and enjoy the show she’d assembled for passage. If not for seeing first-hand just how competently the mercenaries had handled the golem earlier, the prospect would have been appealing.

It was with no small amount of irritation that Fen Telum concluded that further involvement was required of her if her plan was going to be a success. Her actions were more limited than she was used to. She didn’t have the blade of Vi Praevaricatrix, nor could she use any magic that might linger in the air. Any stray power that wasn’t entirely contained by body or object could stir the long-dead titan that Proditione guarded. The construct might not rise from this distance, but the area would be bombarded with arcane energy and the mass emergence of many more coalescents like the swamp golem. Still, that left her with more options than most.

After a few minutes of consideration, Fen pulled a small object from her pouch and began walking unerringly in the direction where the mercenaries had made their camp. She glanced at the artifact in her hand.

It was a small cylinder, scuffed by age and engraved with runes that shone with unfaded vibrancy. Once, long ago, this artifact had powered remarkable contraptions. Now it was broken, the last token of a culture buried beyond the past. The one thing it was good for, in its current condition, was spitting unfocused bursts of magical energy all around itself when activated.

Fen moved quickly through the marsh and was soon within hearing range of the mercenary camp. She slowed her pace and moved forward at a crouch, counting on debris and her coating of mud for cover. Ahead of her, the encampment was abuzz with activity and torchlight.

She’d been right; at least five more soldiers were missing from the group. Almost certainly having been sent to find the ones Fen had taken searching for wood. A cruel grin lit the sorceress’ muddy face. Her eyes scanned the people, carefully noting each and moving on until she saw the one who had secured the swamp golem’s destruction. When Fen saw that mercenary, her smile grew broader. She’d made three plans—each a potential contingency—for achieving her goal, and so far none of them had been derailed.

If the mercenaries proved too tough to kill, which was looking unlikely, then Fen intended for them to aid her in a direct battle with Proditione. If they died as she planned, then Proditione would step aside from his post. Betraying it, as was his nature. And finally, among the mercenaries was an individual who, unbeknownst to nearly all, was a direct descendant of one of the wizards who had sealed the titan away long ago. Killing her in the right way, at the right place, would do more than stir the titan. It would awaken it in full, giving Proditione a fight too dangerous to allow him to bother with Fen.

Two of her plans were inherently at odds, but only by the success of the other. It was possible that she might get enough of the mercenaries killed by her betrayal to appease Proditione without losing them all, but that was unlikely. Which was why she’d snuck a powerful charm of protection into the gear of the ancient wizard’s descendant. That woman had to die last, and by Fen’s hand. Unless things went awry, of course. Then she would likely need to die much sooner.

Fen considered the potency of the charm she’d left with the descendant as she eyed the engraved cylinder. After a moment she shrugged. It would have to be enough. Her cruel grin turning playful and mischievous, Fen slashed her thumb and pressed the bloody digit onto the base rune of the cylinder. Then the threw it into the mud next to the mercenary camp.

A burst of fuzzy red energy lit the air above where the artifact had landed. A gurgling, croaking sound bubbled up from the swamp. The mud shifted, and a glistening, green head emerged. Bulbous eyes, the size of grapefruits. A bulging throat of pearly white. And, once it finished forming, a set of four oddly bent and incredibly muscular legs. With a suppressed chuckle, Fen realized that the energies had manifested within a marsh frog.

The frog had grown vast in size and distorted in shape, but to a calm mind, it was still recognizable. Somehow, Fen didn’t think that description would fit the mercenaries right now. Not that recognizing the monster made it any less dangerous. As if to punctuate her thoughts, Fen saw sword-like fangs sprout from within the enormous amphibian’s mouth. It let out a deafening croak and leaped towards the startled soldiers.

The giant frog landed on two of the mercenaries, driving them to the ground with bone-breaking force. Its tongue had lashed out while it was still midair and was even now pulling a screaming soldier into its gaping maw. Spears, swords, and arrows began to pierce the beast, and it let out a thundering shriek. With mad thrashings, the frog slammed into its attackers with fang and body. Its violent attack made it relatively easy to kill, but at high cost for the people of Boreant’s Blade. Fen counted another twelve soldiers dead before the beast was slain.

Fifteen mercenaries stood in a grim circle around their fallen comrades. Amongst the fallen was their commander. Slowly, they all turned to one face, clearly expecting orders. Fen watched as her intended sacrifice briskly took charge of the remaining soldiers; getting them organized into a tight defensive ring. Half of them stood on guard, encircling the others as they lay down in a close huddle to sleep.

Fen had lived a mercenary’s life, and she had no doubt that even in the current situation, those soldiers laying down would soon be asleep. Those who couldn’t learn the trick of sleeping under duress didn’t make it long in this line of work.

The buried artifact still had a few left kicks in it before the blood on it wore off. Fen settled in to watch. Faintly, she could hear the high-pitched scream of someone dying in the marsh far behind her. If the encamped mercenaries heard it too, they gave no sign.

Half an hour passed uneventfully before the broken artifact spat out another burst of magic. Fen’s eyes narrowed as she watched the arcane energies emerge and mix with the ambient magic of the marsh. It looked like… With a curse, Fen dove backward into the mud. For the second time since coming here, she trusted to the marsh’s murky embrace to protect her from an explosion.

After a moment, it was over, and Fen pulled herself from the mud, unscathed. The soldiers of Boreant’s Blade were not so fortunate. They’d had no way of knowing what was about to happen, and the blast had been far closer to them than Fen. The explosion had been a surprise to everyone, and if Fen hadn’t noticed the presence of Proditione’s interfering magic, she might not have reacted in time either.

If his magic was present, then the spirit of betrayal couldn’t be far off. Fen fought the temptation to locate him with a spell. Forcing off years of instinct, she carefully made her way through the muck and into the carnage that was all that remained of the mercenary camp. With relief, she noticed one mercenary still breathing. The woman who, unknowingly, bore a charm of protection. Fen stood over the woman’s unconscious form and turned in slow circles, casting her gaze across the marsh.

“Proditione! I have offered, and you have received! Through my betrayal, these lives have been given to you! As boon, I ask that you open the way to the titan for me. Betray your post as I have betrayed my hirelings.”

Fen stood in silence, waiting expectantly. She wasn’t disappointed.

A thin voice, like a gentle breeze with words, carried to her ears.

“Proceed, sorceress. Your betrayal was worthy, and shall be returned in kind.”

Fen grinned triumphantly. Reaching down, she picked up the unconscious mercenary and lifted the woman onto her shoulders. There was a tremendous rending sound ahead of her, slightly deeper within the marsh. The tomb had been unsealed. Without wasting a moment, Fen marched through the mud, away from the encampment of carnage, and towards her goal. The titan awaited her. She needed to get closer before she could perform her next task, and she had to do so before Proditione continued to show his nature.

The marsh began to change. The ground grew firmer until the squelching sludge was all but gone. The withered, shrub-like trees were replaced by a thick grove of oaks. Even the air was different. The stench of rot and the swarm of insects had all but abated. Fen took in her surroundings and stopped walking. This was close enough.

With quick motions, she laid her unconscious burden upon the ground and removed the charm she’d planted earlier. A deep breath brought the focus Fen needed to visualize the complexities of energy she was about to summon. The sorcerous released her breath. A gleaming dagger of gold flashed down in her right hand and slid across the sacrifice’s throat, channeling through its runic blade the spell that Fen had wrought. At the same time, Proditione struck.

Purple bolts of energy flew from the grove’s shadows, flying straight and silent for Fen’s back. As the blood of Fen’s sacrifice pulsed into the earth, and Proditione’s attack soared towards the sorcerous, the ground began to shake. The Titan was awakening.

Just as the purple bolts were about to strike, a thick slab of earth rushed upwards and absorbed the arcane blast. It also shielded Fen from Proditione’s view. He quickly circled around and readied another attack, but Fen was gone; leaving nothing but the body of her victim behind. The spirit cursed, enraged, but was quickly silenced by the shouting of the earth.

The trees shook, slowly uprooting themselves as the earth bulged farther and farther upwards. A massive body was emerging from beneath the ground and displacing all above it. Proditione struggled in horror to pour his power into what remained of the tomb’s seal. To stop the Titan from rising any further. When that failed, the spirit of betrayal turned his powers inward and vanished.

Floating far above the tree line, Fen watched the Titan rise. It was a wondrous sight, unlike anything she’d seen before. And she’d witnessed and performed feats of magic that few would even think possible. She couldn’t help but admire what Ragmor had accomplished with this construct, though she considered his death a good reason not to imitate the feat.

It took half an hour, but eventually, the Titan was free from the earth. Even from her distant perch in the sky, Fen could tell the massive creature was emaciated. After so long spent dead and buried, it was going to be hungry. With massive, lumbering steps, the Titan began plodding towards the nearest town. Its progress was halted and uncertain at first, but soon grew steady and sure. In less than an hour, the construct would be at the marsh village that Fen had left two days ago. It made her momentarily envious of the Titan’s long legs, but she quickly banished the distracting thought. The field was clear now, and she had a prize to retrieve.

Dropping like a fiery comet, Fen slammed downwards into the disturbed ground where the Titan had been sealed. It didn’t take her long to find the shriveled corpse of Ragmor, or the small chest his mummified arms were wrapped around.

Fen jerked the chest free of the cadaver, breaking its arms in the process. Holding her breath, feeling a sudden spike of anxiety, Fen carefully opened the box. Within lay a dusty bottle filled with a murky red liquid. She sighed in relief. After all she’d done in pursuit of it, she’d finally found the lost bottle of Ragmor’s infamous wine.

The ancient wizard had done more than create a titan, he’d also engineered wine that would kill those who didn’t have the strength and skill of magic to handle it. To those who could survive it, though, the wine offered insights and powers otherwise unattainable. In all her collected lore, and through all her own experiments, Fen had never encountered a more potent elixir of sorcery.

In her research, Fen had uncovered much about the wine’s creation. She knew what family of grapes Ragmor had used, and that he watered them only with the blood of unicorns. She also knew that a compound made of ground dragon’s teeth had been added during the fermentation process. What she didn’t know, what there’d been no record of, were the spells that Ragmor had added to the process to bring out the elixir’s potential.

Looking at the bottle with a triumphant smile, Fen wove the sorceries that would show her what spells this wine’s birth had required. Once she had the answer, she carefully placed the bottle back within its box. Then, she tore a hole in the air. The jagged gateway led to her home far away.

With prize in hand, Fen Telum walked through the portal, leaving the ravenous fury of an unleashed Titan behind her.

 

The End

Fen Telum, Earning a Name (#3)

Magic Tome

Warmth from the hearth tickled Fen’s face. She sat, lounging in a luxurious armchair placed near the fire. An acidic scent wafted from the wineglass clasped in her scarred, right hand. Her eyes held a distant look, unseeing of the extravagant trappings around her. The room was expensively built from stained oak, with the moldings and door frame made from a vibrant chestnut.  

Gentle firelight bathed the room, reflecting sharply off the varnished wood. Bookcases lined one wall, holding priceless tomes of dangerous knowledge: an exhaustive collection of various treatise on sorcery, an array of historical compendiums, and the not-insignificant works of Fen herself. An array of alchemical equipment lined the wall opposite her library, comprised of elegant silver work-tables, engraved with thick runes of gold. Upon the tables’ surface sat small cauldrons, burning spirit-lamps, mortars full of exotic substances, and various other implements of the practiced alchemist.

Fen’s eyes saw none of this, being fixed on sights far away and long ago, lost to tattered memories of times past. She was recalling the duel that had earned her the honorific name of ‘Telum’. It was a duel that had rung the earth like a bell, shattering cities and armies alike. It had been the least destructive option at the time. The war had gathered enough magical talent to plunge the world into a darkness that it might never recover from. When commanders of both sides finally acknowledged this reality, it was decided that each would pick a champion, and the ten-year war would finally be ended. Decided by the outcome of a duel.

Fen had never learned the name of the man she’d killed in that fateful battle. Thousands had died from that duel, soldiers and civilians alike caught in the wrath of indiscriminate powers. Both sides of the ten-years’ war had been decimated by Fen’s clash with the enemy’s champion. She’d figured then, and it hadn’t changed since, that if she wasn’t going to learn the names of all those dead bystanders, then she had no cause to learn the name of her dead opponent. An opponent that had wielded arcane artifacts, close in power, though subtler by nature, to Fen’s own Blade of Vi Scelerata. The sword whose birth had required the death of a small continent. The clash of forces had been a beauty to behold, and it would forever be a marvel that only Fen had both witnessed and survived. She, the sole survivor of the final clash in the duel that was to end a war. The war had ended, but the cost had been greater than any imagined. Everything within five miles had been obliterated, and destructive havoc had rained upon everything beyond that for another ten. The main forces of both armies had been positioned on either side of the epicenter, where Fen and her opponent had battled. Even if the enemy had no intention of honoring the duel, the outcome had decisively taken that choice away from them.

The cost of that battle, of channeling the full force of her sword, had taken her to a level of pain and corporeal disorganization beyond anything she’d ever experienced, before or since. Very little could kill her, in the strictest sense. She’d long since woven sorceries into her body that inverted its relationship to her soul; making the soul the carrier for the body, and thereby making her body a topology of her soul in truth—one that could be mended and rebuilt. It was one of the ancient secrets of immortality. One of many perilous methods to achieve that greatest of prizes. The soul, by nature, was untouchable to all but its owner by anything but the most skilled and powerful of magics. Anchoring the body within the soul gave the material body an immaterial foundation to reform upon even in the wake of complete material destruction.

Fen Telum drank her wine by the firelight and remembered. Beside her, leaning against the chair, hilt within reach, was a sword. The scabbard was unadorned, except for thick, iron clasps that secured over the guard, locking the sword within its sheath. A hungry light danced within the obsidian runes emblazoned upon the weapon’s hilt. Faint whispers of singing—music that bespoke of evils enough to shame the damned—danced around Fen’s silent form as she sat alone, contemplating the past.

Fen Telum, Urban Dispute (#2)

Intense woman holding magic sword.

Arrows shattered against the low, road-side wall that sheltered Fen Telum. Arcane chanting rolled towards her from across the urban street, carrying with it a powerful wave of magical pressure. Fen cursed. She couldn't deal with the mages while the archers were shooting at her, and she couldn't eliminate the archers while her powers were busy deflecting that of the mages. What should have been a simple morning job had become a pointedly irritating afternoon.

Fen quickly scanned through her options, considering her adversaries, her surroundings, and her own abilities. With a scowl, she realized she was going to have to use the sword. She’d have maybe ten minutes before it rendered her unconscious. In that time, she would have to neutralize two dozen archers and five mages. Fen grinned. Even though the decision she’d just made guaranteed her a week of painful recovery, Fen couldn’t help but feel a vicious joy at how much worse it was going to be for her foes.

The magical pressure battered against her shield of spells, seeking to do little more than keeping her powers occupied and on the defensive. Arrows rained down at shifting angles as the archers slowly circled, splitting into two groups so as to round the wall on both ends and catch Fen between them. The mages began a cautious walk forward as the archers neared the wall’s openings.

Fen felt the fingers of her right hand clench the sword’s hilt with such force that hairline fractures crawled through her knuckles. She grimaced at the pain yet to come and drew the fabled Blade of Vi Scelerata. Agony swept through her body, muscles spasming until it felt as if her bones would shatter. A sound that only denizens of the deepest depths of hell would call music filled her head as the blade battled her for control; demanding, with the arrogance of the inanimate, that she become an extension of its will.

Both groups of archers rounded the wall at the same time and immediately loosed a barrage of arrows at the seemingly immobilized sorcerous. As the arrows flew, the mages dropped their barrage of magic and switched to independently cast, more specific, sorceries of destruction. Energy, in all its forms, tore through the air between the five mages and the small section of wall that hid Fen from them.

Past the thunder of the blade’s song, Fen saw the arrows and sensed the spells. She drew power from the blade, just a trickle. It wasn’t enough to cede her self-control, but that was ultimately inconsequential to the sword. Even more than a living vessel, the weapon sought to be used. It had only one purpose: to destroy with overwhelming force. Lore held that it had been crafted in a time when magical skill and might far surpassed what even the greatest were capable of now and that the final requirement for the sword’s creation had been its consecration in the lifeblood of an entire continent. The Island of Desolation fit the location and description provided in the old scrolls, though it had apparently been called Paradisum at the time.

All this flashed through Fen’s head, along with the rest of the blade’s ruinous history, as the tiniest trickle of its vast power entered her veins. Small fractures spread throughout her bones, even as the same force destroying her kept the injuries from slowing her. Her mind and throat screamed with the agony of it, and, as always, the pain brought on a fury within her that was a match for anything, even the fabled Blade of Vi Scelerata.

The sword cut forward, slamming into the brick wall with monstrous force. Debris flew outward from the massive cloud of dust that arose, even as both arrow and spell closed on their target and disappeared within the cloud. The mages cast quick protective spells, or dove for cover, to avoid the onslaught of flying wreckage. The archers, clear of the blast, had redrawn their bows and stood ready to fire the instant they saw form or movement.

Fen darted from the cloud, sword held before her as she charged towards the mages. Two were cut down before the rest realized the futility of their defenses. Magic was no barrier to the Blade of Vi Scelerata, not any that could be cast by those of modern times, at least. Three violent spells lashed out towards Fen as the second mage died. She spun, letting the instincts of the blade take charge, opening that trickle of power just a little bit more, and feeling indescribable agony as her body tried to tear itself apart, but couldn’t.

The blade darted forward, slashing in a diagonal cut that intersected with the spells as they neared Fen. When spell met sword, there was an explosive impact. A brilliant, multihued cone of energy erupted from the collision, staggering Fen backward and obliterating everything in front of her for a good fifty feet. Behind her, the archers had taken cover on the other side of the wall where they could fire from relative safety.

Arrows flew towards Fen’s staggering form. The bones in her right arm shattered as the blade whipped around to slash the air between her and the incoming projectiles. A wedge of visible force launched from the sword’s cut, destroying the arrows and smashing into the wall. Shattered arrows, fragments of brick; all tore into the archers, slaughtering them in an instant. The entire wall was destroyed, and the structures behind it showed considerable damage.

Fen fought through the haze of pain that was her body and forced the fingers of her right hand to slowly loosen their grip on the sword, unclenching the broken digits one by one. As her last finger relaxed, the sword dropped to the street and Fen let out a gasp as the force that had been sustaining her fled; leaving her huddled in a broken heap, struggling desperately to remain conscious through waves of overwhelming agony.

With a supreme effort, born of pain-induced fury and indomitable will, Fen formed a sequence of runes with her left hand, and gasped out the trigger word to accompany them. A gentle haze of light descended upon her, blanketing her broken body until she faded from sight and nothing remained of her presence there except for the shattered bodies of her enemies and the ruined structures around them.

Fen Telum, Sorceress for Hire (#1)

CRASH! The iron gate slammed shut before Fen Telum, sealing away the throne room and its precious contents. A slow grin lit the scarred woman's face. A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. After all she'd shown them, what did the fools expect this to accomplish?

Fen lifted her right hand negligently, her fingers flashing through a series of contortions. A rushing sound filled the hall as air flowed towards her palm, condensing into a visible sphere. She made a flicking gesture and the sphere shot towards the door with a clap of thunder, denting the center and tearing the whole thing from its hinges. There were curses and screams from within the throne room.

Iron clanged underfoot as Fen strolled over the fallen barrier. She looked around the room, appraising the remaining guards and locating the huddled form of the terrified King whose castle this was. She didn't care about the guards, though she expected the need to kill them. The king was the one who mattered, just the way his kind liked it.

Some of the more experienced guardsmen collected themselves enough to launch an attack. Arrows flew towards Fen from five bows even as six men charged her with sword and shield. In that moment of commitment, Fen's eyes finished their sweep of the room and confirmed that there truly were no mages with the king. No magic of any kind, in fact. Her informant had just earned themselves a fat bonus.

The arrows slowed to a halt as if sliding through thick gel instead of air. Fen stomped her right foot, hard, and screamed one of the minor names for Earth and Stone. The floor erupted upward with jagged shards that ripped through the charging soldiers, lifting them from their feet as they were impaled.

Panic and terror reigned over the rest of the room as Fen casually walked past the small grove of gory stalagmites towards the king and the few soldiers he had left. There was no resistance when she reached them. No fight left in those that remained. Fen made sure of the king's face, nodded once, and snapped her fingers.

The surviving guards squealed like pigs as their sovereign's head slid from his shoulders in a dense spray of blood. They waited their turn, petrified by fear. Fen was gone before they even noticed she was leaving.

Fen looked back at the castle as she rode through the deserted town that surrounded it. One more piece to the job and the contract would be fulfilled. She focused upon the fragment of rock held between her fingers; a bit of worked stone from the castle’s foundation. Her eyes burned with a fey light and she shouted arcane words in an inhuman voice.

There was a deafening roar as the proud structure, home and seat of power to ten generations of kings, collapsed inwards upon itself; pulled downward with such force that stone fused together, leaving red veins of molten rock burning dimly across the mountainous pile of rubble.

Fen whistled sharply, leaped atop the unnatural creature that appeared in response, and was gone. In her wake, the fresh corpse of a kingdom crumbled.