Wooden spoons make very good friends, Perfect for soup and stew and porridge. They’ll help you make pudding and help you forage. They stir and ladle and and allow you to slurp– But a wooden spoon should never hurt, (even witches sing their worth!) But some may think a spoon should spank, Or they’ll treat it like a common plank, But rue they will that lonesome day– When all their spoons break and fade away. And leave them lonely, soulless and gray.
For wooden spoons, they hold a charm, A magic wrought from hand and arm, They’re carved with care from trees so wise, Whose roots dig deep, where secrets lie. Each grain, a story etched in time, A whispered spell in rhythmic rhyme.
But those who wield them with cruel intent, Shall find their warmth and spirit spent, For spoons are bound by unseen ties, To earth, the sky, and ancient eyes. They dance in pots with joyous glee, But turn away from tyranny.
One conjurer, they say, learned this truth too late– Her spoons all splintered, snapped by fate, No potion brewed, no cauldron stirred, Her magic waned, her chants unheard. She sought in vain for wood to mend, But found no spoon, nor faithful friend.
For spoons are keepers of the hearth. They stir the soul, they shape our heart, Of meals made with loving hands, They bind good folk to their land. And when they break, when wrongly used, The house itself will feel abused.
So treasure well your wooden friends, Their rounded curves, their sturdy ends. For they will serve with steadfast grace, In every dish, in every place. But if you treat them ill or cruel, Beware the fate of the foolish fool.
For when your spoons depart your hearth, They take with them the home’s warm heart, And leave behind a shadowed place, Where laughter fades without a trace. So honor those who stir the pot, And in their care, you’ll find your lot.
Splendid faeries dance splendid dances upon diamond dewy grass Moonlight shimmering against my mortal madness, But still I creep behind toadstools, mushroom cap listening to– Whispering promises, pixies laughing while goblins keep forgotten rhythms So the forest gathers, Raven settles– Moss parts its hanging beard and out twirls sprite after sprite after sprite. There is none more merry, none more radiant. These easy creatures blessing twig and leaf and berry, And as I watch, I am watched, for Fae are wise and wary.
Tom Allister rode up the winding trail that led to his father’s mountain ranch. The day had been long, and the sun was beginning its slow descent, slipping away into that unknowable world beyond the horizon. A sky heavy with the weight of coming rain hung overhead, pressing down like the ache of unspoken words.
The horse beneath him, a weathered bay with a white blaze down its face, moved slowly, matching her rider’s own weariness. Dust rose in small clouds with each hoof fall, settling on Tom’s worn boots and the frayed hem of his trousers. The ranch came into view, a scatter of short, squat buildings next to a rough collection of corrals perched on the edge of a crumbling mesa. It looked smaller than he remembered, like time had taken its toll. Time is only ever hard.
The house, once painted white, was now a peeling skeleton, its windows dark and hollow. The barn sagging like an old man too weak to carry the weight of his years. Tom dismounted slowly, his bones aching in protest. He patted his horse’s neck, murmuring softly to her and then led her to an empty corral. He wasn’t sure if anyone would greet him. No one did.
His father, Elias, had lived on this ranch long before Tom had learned to walk and had remained as long as Tom had been gone. There had been words.
Standing at the edge of the porch, Tom hesitated, staring at the peeling paint. It looked frail now, like everything else. There had been a time when this place had seemed invincible, just like his father. Tom once imagined he’d never set foot here again, that he’d die somewhere out there in the wild country or in some nameless town. But now, standing on the familiar wood, he wasn’t sure which he feared more—returning, or never returning.
Inside, the house was stale, the air tinged with the scent of decay and dust. The only light came from the last rays of the setting sun, slanting through grimy windows. Tom walked through the rooms, his boots loud and hollow on the wooden floors. He found his father in the bedroom, lying on a narrow cot, his breath coming in shallow pulls.
Elias McAllister lay gaunt and still, his skin thin and cracked like paper too long in the sun, stretched tight over bones that seemed too brittle to hold him together. His eyes, once bright, now dimmed and cloudy, turned toward Tom. A flicker of recognition passed through them. He tried to smile but it twisted into a dry cough that rattled through him, leaving gasping silence in its wake.
“Tommy.”
“Pa.”
Tom moved to the bedside, standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do. The room seemed to press in around him, filled with the weight of all the things they hadn’t said. A wry smile played across the old man’s cracked lips.
“You come to see me off?”
“Reckon so.”
Tom looked around the room, tasting the familiar dust, ancient and unchanged. “You still sip’n tequila?”
The old man jerked his withered thumb over his shoulder. “Ever damn day I’m breath’n.”
“Alright then.”
Tom pulled a chair close and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the room filling with the heavy quiet of two men who had spent their lives saying little.
Elias broke the stillness first. “I’m not afraid to die, Tommy. But I reckon you are.”
Tom looked away, the truth of his father’s words cutting deeper than any knife. He had spent his life running from death, from the memories of war and loss that haunted his dreams. He’d buried friends, seen too many good men die in places that didn’t matter. Now, at the edge of his own years, the fear had grown into a shadow that followed him everywhere.
“Die’n ain’t the easy part,” Tom said quietly.
Elias nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We all got our burdens, son. We just carry ‘em different.”
The night settled around them, the house creaking and shifting as if remembering its own past. Tom brought water and what little food he had, coaxing his father to eat. It was a meager meal, but it filled the space between them.
In the hours that came, Tom started to talk, words spilling slow and rough, like a creek finding its way through stone. He spoke of the roads he’d taken, the horses and cattle, of the friends buried in far-off places, and all the wild country that had passed beneath him. Elias listened, his eyes steady, not saying a word, offering no judgment. Just the quiet comfort of knowing, and what little there was in that.
He remembered the fights, the day he rode off for good. Over something small, something that didn’t matter now but had torn them apart all the same. A wound they’d both carried, never spoken of, never healed.
In the early hours, Elias slipped into sleep, his breath thin and broken. Tom stayed there, watching, feeling the weight of all the years and what they’d left behind, regrets heavy on his shoulders. He’d never said goodbye before, never made peace with the man who had first shaped him.
The next day, Tom set to work around the ranch, tending to the few animals still there, fixing what was left to fix. The work settled him, the rhythm of it pulling him back to simpler times. He checked on Elias through the day and watched him slip further away with each passing hour.
On the third day, Elias woke in the early dawn, his eyes clear and bright for the first time since Tom had arrived. He reached out, his hand trembling, and Tom took it, holding it gently.
“Tommy,” Elias said, his voice stronger than it had been in days. He smiled, patted Tom’s hand. “I’m glad yer home, son.”
The words hit Tom like a blow, the emotion welling up inside him, choking him. He had waited a lifetime to hear them, and now, at the end, they were almost too much to bear.
“Rest easy, Pa,” he managed to say, his voice breaking.
Elias nodded, his grip tightening briefly before his hand fell away. He closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips, and took one last, shuddering breath. Tom watched as the life slipped from his father’s body, feeling the finality of it settle over him like a heavy blanket.
He sat there for a long time, holding his father’s hand, letting grief and relief and shame wash over him. When he finally stood, he felt a strange sense of calm, a quiet acceptance that he had not known before.
Tom buried his father on the hillside overlooking the ranch, under a solitary pine that stood like a sentinel against the sky. He marked the grave with a simple wooden cross, a tribute to a hard life lived with quiet dignity.
In the days that followed, Tom found himself lingering at the ranch, unable to leave. The old ghosts that had haunted him seemed to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose. He worked the land, repaired the buildings, and slowly, the ranch began to take on new life.
Neighbors, a sparse scattering of ranchers and farmers, came by to pay their respects. They brought food and what supplies they could spare, offering silent support. Tom accepted their kindness, finding solace in the small community. It felt good to be remembered and he laughed with them when they shared stories about Elias and thanked them each for their generosity.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Tom sat on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand. The sky blazed with colors, the beauty of the land filling him with a quiet peace. He thought of his father, of the hard lessons and the love that had been buried under years of silence. A faint memory of violence flickered in his mind—he heard the screams, smelled the smoke but then it was gone. Distant now, a specter fading into the past.
As the stars began to appear, Tom leaned back in his chair, the cool night air washing over him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the night. The land was still here. He was still here. For the first time, the gathering darkness felt like peace.
And in the quiet of the desert night, the old cowboy cried.
The sisters walked through their small town, the sun climbing its familiar path, casting first rays on the fresh earth that covered their father’s grave. It was a day too bright for mourning, the kind that made sorrow feel out of place. The morning grass was still slick with dew and the birds filled the living air with bright morning songs, chirp, chirp, chirping their howdy do’s and halloos.
Celeste led the way, her hand firm around Emily’s, as if she could anchor them both against the tide of everything that had changed. Thirteen and already she’d been handed too much too soon. She walked with her back straight, her eyes steady, as if posture alone would keep her world from tumbling to peaces. Her little sister, Emily, a mighty eight years old, gripped her fishing rod in her left hand with the intensity of someone too young to put a name to her pain but old enough to be swallowed by it. She held on to her big sister’s hand like it was the one thing keeping her from floating away, her small fingers gripping tight with the kind of determination that refused to let the tears have their way.
They made for the river and it greeted them with its familiar murmur, a comforting sound that seeped into the spaces between their thoughts. The river knew, Emily thought, of course it did. The water flowed on, unhurried, as if it might carry their grief along its course, smoothing the edges but never really letting it go. They found a spot beyond the stand of conifers where the river bent wide and slow, settling on the gravel bank with lines cast. The world moved on, indifferent to their weight and the silence closing in around them.
“Do you think Daddy’s happy now?” Emily’s voice barely a whisper above the river’s running waters.
Celeste sighed, searching for words that could make sense of something she didn’t fully understand. “I don’t know. I guess he’s at peace,” she said, her own voice soft and far away. “He’s not hurting anymore, I think— Maybe he’s watching us.” She added, “Smiling ‘cause we’re here, doing what he loved.”
Emily thought about that, her little brow furrowed like she was trying to wrangle something too big for her small hands. “So…he’s like a fish that got away?”
Celeste smiled a sad kind of smile. “Maybe. Sure. Like a big, shiny fish that slipped back into the water. We can’t see him but he’s out there. Swimming and jumping like he’s supposed to.”
Emily thought that felt right and they sat in silence for awhile, the sun dipping low, painting the world in colors that couldn’t match their mood, but that’s just how it was. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes the fish don’t bite but you stay and you keep fishing because there’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to be.
Clouds drifted overhead for a long while and the girls sat next to one another quietly jigging their lines in the river. Then suddenly, Emily’s rod jerked and bent hard, arcing into the water. It happened so fast she almost lost her grip and nearly pitched head long into the river. She yelped, excitement and fear lighting up her face. “Celeste! I got one! I got one! It’s a big sucker!”
Celeste was up in an instant, moving before she had time to think. “Whoa Emmy! Remember, work it slow! Slow and easy—don’t jerk to hard! Go real slow!”
The water roiled, the line taut as Emily fought against something that felt too big, too strong. It was almost as if the river itself was alive, almost like it was resisting, like it had a mind of its own, refusing to give up whatever Emily had snagged.
“Help me Celeste! I don’t think I can do it!”
“Hold on! It’s okay. We’ll do it together.”
They pulled together, their small hands clenched tight around the rod, Celeste wrapped herself around Emily, hugging her tight and they worked the pole together, straining with everything they had. Slowly, one turn of the reel at a time, the line crept closer.
Emily could barely contain herself, “Oh wow! It is a big one! How big is it?”
Celeste laughed, “I don’t know but if you don’t hang on we’re gonna lose it!”
And then, as they pulled the big one from the gray murky water, the river and clouds and birds and sky all faded away. The world seemed to stop, leaving just Emily and Celeste straining against the weight of Emily’s bent fishing rod, staring agape in disbelief at the miracle dangling at the end of her line.
It wasn’t a fish, no sir, not by a long shot. What Emily had snagged on her line was something straight out of a fairy-tale fever dream. The kind you might have when you stay up too late eating watermelon on a hot summer day. There dangled a sphere, big as a beach ball, all alive and kicking with colors that had no business being in this world—deep blues like the ocean at midnight, reds burning hotter than a sun spot, and purples and greens swirling together like they were trying to sing secrets about the universe itself, all mottled and wrapped in whites and grays and blacks upon blacks upon deep deep blacks.
“Oh wow.” Emily said softly, much impressed.
The girls stared, wide-eyed, as the orb, dripping with water, began to float just above the river, casting light that washed the world away. As the orb rose up, suspended in mid-air, the weight on Emily’s fishing pole suddenly released and the girls stumbled backward. If Celeste hadn’t caught them they would’ve ended up on their backsides for sure.
“What is it?” Emily whispered, her voice trembling, caught in that nervous exciting place between fear and awe.
“I don’t know,” Celeste breathed, her own voice lost in the wonder of it all. “But it’s beautiful…”
The sphere pulsed and a gentle hum resonated deep in their chests. They could feel it, as if the orb was was alive and understood them. It was happy then sad then scared then it loved them then it hurt, hurt like they did, deep down, so far inside it felt like the hurt would never leave.
“Celeste I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
Slowly the orb began to rotate and spin. Shifting again, this time revealing within it a beautiful world of mountains, forests, oceans, and cities that glittered like bedtime story book dreams.
“It’s beautiful…” Emily’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Can we go there?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Let’s do it,” Emily said, her voice steady, full of the determination that had been building inside her heart since the day they’d lost their father. “We can go together. Let’s do it.”
Celeste looked down into her little sister’s bright watery eyes and said the only thing she could.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
The sphere pulsed with a light that swelled up like it had a mind of its own, pulling them in closer, whispering secrets they couldn’t resist. They reached out, their fingers just grazing its surface, and in that instant, their world and ours came apart at the seams, exploding in a burst of blinding brilliance that left nothing the same as it was before.
A thunder clap later and the riverbank fell silent, just the soft murmur of water lapping at the river bank and the wind threading through nearby trees. A raven took flight heading towards the sleepy sun. And two fishing rods lay forgotten in the grass, the only trace anyone had ever been there.
But elsewhere, beyond the grasp of sorrow and grief and greed, Celeste and Emily stood side by side, hand in hand, gazing out at a spectacular horizon that promised more than they’d ever dared to dream.
I had heard tales of the First Giants, myths whispered in smokey fire-lit halls and murmured beneath breath on long winter nights. But no tale, no song nor legend could have prepared me for the moment I first laid eyes upon one. It was somewhere in the Western Ranges, a fortnight south of Fistfire, where the jagged peaks stand like broken teeth against an endless gray sky. I was scouting an overland route to the high plains of the Northern Drift, mapping the treacherous passes where no roads dared carve their way.
Understand now, that the high mountains are a forgotten place. Untamed and wild, they rise like the bones of the world itself, towering against the sky where few dare to tread. A vast cathedral of snow-locked peaks and shadowed valleys, a place where time moves slow, and the wind carries secrets older than men. No king seeks to rule here, for the land is sovereign unto itself, bound by laws not written by mortals but whispered in the howling storms and shifting snowdrifts. Even the Old Emperor, in his fickle wisdom, turns a blind eye to that place, for his banners and armies would find no purchase on those craggy heights, where frost grips rock and talus like a jealous lover.
It is an alpine wilderness of thin air and tempestuous weather, where the skies boil with dark clouds, and the breath of the gods stirs the mountain’s wrath. Here, no man makes his home, for the land is a mercurial host, offering no solace to weary travelers. The winds scream through jagged passes, twisting and swirling ripe with ancient spirits lost in the storms, and the snow falls in thick, heavy curtains obscuring all but the nearest step.
Even the eagles, those lords of the sky, shun these peaks, their sharp eyes turned elsewhere, for there is little life to sustain them. The game is scarce, and the creatures that do live here are strange and elusive, pale things that move like shadows across the ice, their tracks vanishing and secret. It is a place where silence reigns, save for the groaning of glaciers and the crack of ice splitting ‘neath unseen weight. The air itself is thin and it bites at your lungs, making each breath a struggle, as if the very mountains themselves resent the presence of intruders.
And yet, there is a majesty in that forgotten place, a terrible beauty that can only be known by those who venture beyond the realms of the known world. The peaks stand eternal, draped in their icy cloaks, watching over the earth with a cold, indifferent gaze. They are timeless, these mountains, unbowed by the passage of years or the rise and fall of empires. Here, where even the stars seem distant and faint, one can feel the weight of eternity pressing down, the sense that these high places ignore the world of men and will remain long after we and our cousins have perished.
The high mountains are a place of ghosts and legends, where ancient spirits are said to dwell, trapped in the frost, waiting for the day when the world grows cold enough to free them. Travelers speak of hearing strange whispers on the wind, voices carried down from the peaks, but no one knows who—or what—calls from those frozen heights. Perhaps it is the mountains themselves, old and restless, whispering their secrets to those foolish enough to listen. Or perhaps it is simply the wind, mocking those who believe they can conquer a place that belongs to none.
A torn fragment from an old map of the Northern Continent.
I had heard these tales before, yarns spun with pipe and pint in hand. But standing now in the shadow of the Western Ranges, I found the truth far colder and more unforgiving than any watchman’s midnight tale. It had been snowing for three days, relentless and unyielding. The snow fell in heavy, suffocating drifts, each flake a cold whisper, piling upon itself until the world was nothing but a white, silent tomb. My companions, sensible folk of the lowlands, had turned back long before, their spirits worn thin by the relentless cold. I alone pressed forward, stubborn as the mountains themselves, my breath a fog before me, my body wrapped in furs that did little to ward off the gnawing bite of the wind.
The storm had swallowed the world whole—sky and earth melded into a single seamless void. Yet as I trudged forward, sinking into the snow to my knees with every step, a strange stillness fell over the land. The wind ceased its howling torment, and in its absence, the silence pressed down upon me like a chapel’s weight. It was then that I saw him.
Through the veil of snow and shadow, a figure began to take form—towering, tremendous, ancient. At first, I thought it a trick of the light, the snow playing cruel games with my weary eyes. But no, the shape grew clearer, solid and imposing against the swirling storm. He stood at the edge of a frozen ridge, a sentinel of the old world, his immense form carved from the very ice itself. His shoulders rose like the cliffs that guard the Northern Drift, his limbs thick as ancient pines, and his skin—if one could call it that—was pale, almost translucent, as though the cold itself had sculpted him from glacier and frost.
His breath came in slow, thunderous clouds, rolling from his mouth like smoke from the volcanic fires above Pyretown, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—twin shards of sapphire, glinting with a cold, hard distant light. They gazed out over the vast, frozen expanse, as though seeing far beyond our world, into realms where winter forever reigned. There was a stillness to him, a heaviness in the air around him, as if the very mountain held its breath in his presence.
For a moment, I stood frozen, not by the cold, but the sheer awe of the sight before me. A First Giant, a being from a time long forgotten, before the first men had crossed the Sola Sea to wage their conquests. A massive creature of legend, Eriaheim’s most beloved child, whose very existence defied the warmth of my life and light. And I tell you now, I could feel the ancient power radiating from him, his cold sinking deeper into my bones as though the air itself had turned stone.
I dared not move, dared not breathe, for fear any motion might shatter the fragile silence that bound us. The storm seemed to pause in reverence, and the world became still, as though time itself had stopped to bear witness.
Then, without warning, his great head turned. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze fell upon me, and I felt the weight of centuries in those eyes. They were not unkind, but neither were they forgiving. Eyes of winter—cold, indifferent, eternal. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a hammer blow against the quiet. The air between us seemed to thin, and in that moment, I felt so very small, insignificant, a fleeting breath of warmth in a world of endless cold.
As he spoke, his voice was like glaciers grinding against rock, the deep rumble of ancient ice shifting beneath groaning earth. “Lo!—a wind doth blow…” His words rolled out like the storm itself, carried on the wind that had moments before howled through the crags and peaks. They were not meant for me, I knew that much. I am no fool. No mortal ear was meant to hear the thoughts of such a being. And yet, they echoed in the emptiness between us.
His words twisted through the air, woven with the very essence of winter’s breath. I could not move, could not tear my eyes from him, as the Giant spoke of winds that raged from west to east, of icy fingers that tendered frozen branches and of a life long wearied by relentless cold. His lament was carried not in sorrow, but in resignation—an acceptance of a fate bound to mountain and wind, where even Brother Sun’s warmth could not reach.
As he continued, I felt the earth beneath me tremble, as though it, too, listened to his ancient song. The roots of the mountain groaned, crumbling sugared snow whispered across the frozen drifts, and the cold seemed to press tighter around me, as if urging me to listen, to understand.
“And still I feel a frozen stone… having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind… always chasing.” The words chilled me to my core, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth they carried. Here was a being trapped in an endless cycle, a creature who had watched the world thaw and freeze time and time again, and yet he alone remains, long after familiar life has expired and all else has moved on.
I did not speak, I dared not, for what words could I offer? What warmth could I provide to one who had known time’s embrace as he?
So I listened, cautious but curious, the very air shivering, as he continued. This tremendous creature, more monolith than man, seemed to me, to carry the weight of ages upon his broad shoulders.
“West now east… icy fingers tender frozen branches.” He gestured with a hand the size of a tree trunk, his fingers splayed wide as if to show me the very winds that heeded his call. His words hung in the air, the cold wind wrapping itself around each syllable, whispering them back to me in a voice not unlike his own.
“Tendered brightly flame and fire,” he sang, and I watched as his massive hand traced the empty sky. “Their blaze unannounced thaws—This crucial heat makes hot our blood, defrost my weary life’s cold syrup.”
He paused then, and for a moment I saw something strange in those frozen eyes. A longing, perhaps, for warmth, for the life and fire he could never fully grasp. His words, though powerful, trembled more fiercely, a crack forming in glacial ice.
“And still,” he rumbled, “I feel a frozen stone—having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind, whose frosts forever follow.” He bowed his great head, his breath misting in front of him, and I could see the cold that had taken root in his soul, a frost that no flame nor ember could hope to melt.
The wind stirred again, high above, whipping clouds into dark shapes that swirled and twisted like mages working some secret spell. He lifted his gaze, his voice growing sharp with bitterness. “And what a peculiar wind up-high still blowing, west then east, makes secret the clouds these cruel occult apprentices. Part! Let sing your golden priest!”
His voice rose, commanding, yet it was tinged with resignation, as though he knew the sun’s light would never answer him. The sun had fled this land long ago, leaving aching cold in its wake.
“But I resign… bitter and tepid,” he whispered, his voice softening. “And would repent my careless conception, had I the heat.”
There it was—the very heart of his sorrow, laid bare before me, and I am not ashamed to admit my heart ached for this Great Giant, immense and ancient, bound to the cold bones of the world, shouldering the weight of his creation like a yoke no age could lift. A being tied to a time long gone, a relic of frost and stone who yearned for a warmth he could never know. His words, though mighty, drifted into the wind like scattered flurries, lost to the sky, fading with the faint sigh of a dying flame.
I stood there, silent witness to his sorrow, watching as the storm renewed swallowing him whole, and then he disappeared back into the snows from which he’d appeared—
I am Kofi Trachamon, a free ranger and scout by trade, and at times, a sword for those whose coin too often out weighs my honor. I hail from the Northern Continent, where the winds still whisper forgotten things, where man must survive by wit and mettle. And this—this is my tale, as I have lived it.