Neo Chronicles of Adair: Valhalla

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who tread, and those who are trodden on. Given my size, you can probably guess which one I am.

No, not the tall blonde lady—I’ll get there in a minute. Down here!

Chronicles of Adair: Journey’s End

When the Fairelands disappear, where do they go? Surely, as is commonly said at the terminus of every Faire, they fade away into the very Mists that spawned them. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

But then, when the Fairelands fade, where do the Mists go? Do they too fade into a more elementary matter? Or do they pack their bags, take an all-expenses paid vacation to Hawaii, and sip Mai Tais by the beach?

As one recently missing Fairelander is about to discover, it’s neither—but also perhaps a bit of both.

The curtains rise on Relay Weekend. A familiar domed palace erupts from beside the track, and from the star portal between the palace’s two wings emerges a purple form.

Chronicles of Adair: The Search for Scheherazade

Now that I was in the right place, all I needed was for it to be the right time. Scheherazade’s face was literally plastered on the walls, after all, and translations of One Thousand and One Nights lay scattered across the tables in this little oasis. There was even a nice fire going.

But that was three hours ago. Now it’s well past midnight, and these scrolls are getting awfully heavy. Maybe I’ll set them down for a bit…

Chronicles of Adair: Don’t Shoot the Messenger

As the Faire enters its final days, celebrations have reached a feverish pitch. Lindens were jailed—and then bailed, wootberry juice was poured and consumed in quantities three times the daily value recommended by leading Dinkie medics, The Tale of the Three Apples was read aloud in lurid detail, and an epic battle between Chaos and Order erupted in a beam of light. Faire festivities are far from over, however. For one, a certain infamous penguin commits nightly vehicular homicide. It is on one such night that we spy a new—yet oddly familiar—face.

Oh dear. You seem to have caught me with my pants down, so to speak. Wait, they’re not actually down, are they? Good. You can never tell with these side-cut pants—or hakama, whatever they’re called. Sakka Flow told me that ninjas wear them, but I can’t imagine how someone could skulk around in the shadows when they’re one misstep away from mooning the world.