The lord waved the folio away. A servant stepped up and took it. “I’ve no desire to read that, and spoil the surprise. This is my entertainment, not just something I put on for everyone else. Give me the essence without revealing everything.” He lifted an arm to the room. “This will be your stage. […]

I broke the world. I admit it. Me, Mischief the Trickster, I tore the Skin of the World, the thin veneer that separates reality from chaos, allowing magic and monsters, all humanity’s wild myths and imaginings, to roar into life. Why? Maybe because I was bored? At least, that was the accusation; I’m a trickster,

At least, so it seemed. Being a warren of hungry monsters and deadly plants, bubbling with chaos magic, gave it a certain feeling.