Fables ✧ Lore Prompts - Oct 16-31

[elderling]

prompt: world - writing, unusual weather
entry:
458 words

Following the duskfall, the veil between Ilwydar and the stars became thin, creating the perfect environment for many strange phenomena to become a new constant. The scholars who remained bravely curious in this time of uncertain peril discovered and investigated these odd occurrences within the worldsphere.

Deathbell's Fog:
Winter had extended its grip upon parts of the world most devastated by the calamity, lingering its frosty touch for months longer than it should have. There is no rhythm to its presence, yet it is in this persisting winter that we discovered an odd humidity dome within the core of a snowstorm. Temperatures can reach 320f in a matter of minutes, a stark contrast to the dangerous -444f degree zone surrounding the dome. Our probe had entered the dome, yet as soon as we recorded its peak temperature, the dome seemingly collapsed upon itself, hot air smashing against the frozen atmosphere and creating a large expanse of fog in an instant.

The sound created from this implosion rings sonorous across the valley like a bell's toll; warning any stray passerby of its presence.

Coming into proximity with this fog is dangerous and should not be attempted under any circumstance. Inhalation will freeze the lungs, trapping any precipitation the cloud still carries beneath a thin sheen of ice.

The Seven's Wrath:
To the southeast isles, often seen in the transitional months, the sky will alight with a red fury, giant black clouds stretching their thin claws across the horizon. Many receive this event as an omen, claiming pure Woe writhes within the cloudcover to claim the last survivors of the duskfall, yet this superstition is not an unfounded claim. Numerous locals have reported fitful dreams within this weather event, their consciousnesses brushing against the whispering of something ancient speaking consistent sentences; the language is no longer identifiable.

Eira's Blessing:
There is something soft to still be found upon the forested outskirts of Parrierhelve, yet it cannot be found consistently. The conditions must be met; A day with no rain nor cloud, the moon uncovered by the malice that blocks its light. The temperature must reach 84 degrees in the height of the day, and become no lower than 52 in the night. Here, within the forest, is a peace made of moonlace and stardust.

The air is blue, and softly glitters upon the breeze, faintly glimmering within the eyes of one who is blessed to witness. The few who have encountered such an event report such a feeling of peace and serenity; one thought long lost following woe's claim of the earth. Oddly, this effect seems to last quite long, with the first individual who had experienced it still continues to retain these feelings of ease years after the event.

[alphanea]

prompt: character - dramatic lighting
fable: Polina
entry:

prompt: character - dramatic lighting
fable: Sparrow
entry:

[MoonRaeven]

prompt: world - What is a weather phenomenon that occurs in your world?
entry:

The Eternal Winds of Mornreach
The abandoned city of Mornreach, resting in the top corners of Veilpeak Mountain in the country of Freuca, surrounded eternally by savage, roaring winds. Before the tragedy, Mornreach was a bustling, cheery town, known for its tours of Veilpeak. This town was named after the way residents would see the morning before anyone else because of its height. Many fables from far and wide travelled to stay a few nights and relax in the lovely hotels, while on the ground, a sophisticated, magic-powered chairlift led tourists up to the city.

However, tragedy soon struck. At nine in the morning, a couple of patrolling pegasi that monitored wind speed alerted the lift staff that the wind today was too high to accept any visitors. By eleven, the winds had grown stronger than the previous record. By twelve in the morning, the city was under lockdown. The wind had exponentially increased in speed, whirling masses of branches and rocks destroying weaker houses. Escaping pegasi flew down while they could, but boulders threatened anyone that went too close to the mountainside. Guards attempted to steer panicking crowds into shelter, but another howling tornado crushed the building they just attempted to enter. It all seemed hopeless.

And it was.

The news spread across the lands. Mornreach, destroyed by heavy wind? It seemed impossible. They built the city with wind in mind, fortifying buildings in case of disaster. Yet the survivors told of the overwhelming wind that wrecked everything in its path.

When the rescue crew went to the city hours later, the storm still persisted. It had grown, grown, engulfing the entire city in a horrifying, impassable whirlwind. They had no choice but to give up. Immediately, theories spread about the cause. Some say it was some freak natural phenomena, some say it was a spell gone wrong, but most rumour that it was the god of the pegasi, growing jealous of those without wings that still lived above the clouds.

Now, the ruins of the city stand deserted. No one can traverse the eternal wind to view its remains.
[346 words]
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prompt: character - How does your fable deal with being stressed or in a high stress situation?
fable: Iris
entry:
Iris’ wings fluttered stiffly. She winces, forcing them to stay still. She doesn’t enjoy thinking about her old wings. This day was bad enough; she didn’t need to make it worse herself. Trotting over to the river, she carefully dipped her hooves in the clear water, while lithe little fish darted around her legs. She slows her breathing, washing the mud and dirt off her fur, before shaking the water off, stepping into her home, eager to get a break from this nightmare.

Settled down on a soft cushion, her legs curled as her head rested on the pillow. She should get up. She should get up, lest she fall asleep and waste another day doing something useless. The thoughts torment her mind like a swarm of incessant flies, and so she gives in to the flies and rises to her feet. At her kitchen now, she pulls open a cupboard, taking out a delicate little jar with little bags inside. Tea bags of various sizes and colours filled the jar to its brim. She picks one out.

It was mostly browns and greens, as most tea leaves are, but it had a few dashes of pale pink- rose petals. The shelves creaked as she reached for her favourite mug. A lovely off-white piece with purple leaves carefully painted on the surface. Slipping into a familiar routine of making tea, she thinks about her day, mood souring once again as she recalls her encounter with those hunters. A group of unicorns trying to sneak into the forest she was patrolling, carrying leather bags already half full with struggling feathercats. Well, she was in the middle of giving them a stern-talking to, before one of them decided to kick her. And so she had to do the least favourite part of her job. She hated danger, she hated combat- she applied for this job because it was supposed to be easy and stress-free.

Iris brings herself back to the present, noticing her tea was just about done. She gave it a good stir and took a light sip, deciding she was pleased enough with the taste, though she decided to drop a sugar cube, anyway. Grabbing some biscuits before settling down with her cup, she gingerly rested on the edge of the cushion. It occurred to her there that tea and biscuits were a bit cliché, but she was far too tired to care. She tugged a blanket over herself, settling down and taking her time to enjoy her snacks.
[419 words]

[chupacabra!]

prompt: world - unusual weather
entry: [300 words]

Perched in its aerie along the western side of the Cordillera Dirae, it has never been uncommon to see La Ciudad Capilla blanketed in thick brume and upslope fog. It's often said that this can be attributed to the incense used in the chapels, cathedrals, and churches that lend the city its moniker: that there are so many churches and so much incense burned that it covers the whole mountainside.

Other tales tell of the same from the city's oldest and largest cathedrals, pointing to the tracery and oculi in their domes and clerestories, imagining they might have once been colossal censers themselves. While the stories are more likely fiction than fact, it's very common for artisans to use this in their work, and burners inspired by the domes, spires, and steeples of particular cathedrals are common to see on home altars and wayshrines devoted to their corresponding Divine. Travelers are especially fond of those modeled after the Basilica del Peregrino, the city's most recognized and oldest cathedral, which pays tribute to the entire pantheon.

After the plague swept through the city, some of those tales seemed truer. In an effort to dispel the vapors and miasma purportedly causing the disease, most homes, chapels, and other establishments took to burning incense at all waking hours. On days when the fog was especially strong, this resulted in a thick, heavily-perfumed smog which at times made the streets so obscured that the city was impossible to traverse without the use of the catacombs and tunnel systems. Once the smog cleared, acid rain would often follow, coating the entire city in a thin layer of ash.

It was as though the city were a candle that had been snuffed, smoke and all, which led to the nickname given to the murk: un soplo.

[hellevi]

prompt: world - unusual weather
entry: almost all extremes of weather can be found in gilverûn, for each district hosts its very own season. aren, the district of spring. ebbin, the district of summer. valin, the district of fall. and kovarlin, the district of winter. kovarlin has a constant harsh and frigid winter, with cold winds rattling one right to the bones. ebbin has the inevitable heat of the summer sun, beaming down on a cloudless day and feeling almost overwhelming. the fables living within each district have become accustomed to the weather that inhabits their home, and they often struggle adjusting when traveling from district to district.

in between the districts, though, lies something that can be considered the "no-mans land" of weather. there is not a drastic jump from warm to cold, from spring to winter. instead, an area of land must be crossed that is entirely unassuming. the temperature is completely average, not outstanding or uncomfortable in any way. those passing through often forget to brace themselves for the change in temperature that comes when finally reaching their destination, for the trip into the space between districts lulled them into a false sense of constant comfortability. in these areas, there is no breeze, no rain, no noticeable weather phenomenons. these areas are entirely neutral, as if acting as a buffer between the districts themselves. at the outskirts of these "dead-zones", some weather from neighboring district can be found leaking in: a storm cloud rolling in from aren, a snow drift being created from the intense winds of kovarlin. but these do not last long, and the further you travel into these areas, the more monotone they become.

[274 words]

[knickknacks]

prompt: world - unusual weather
entry:

The boundaries of the Lumengrove are well known, but as a region it is one of the more poorly mapped ones within the bounds of Faerendell. The tall fungal growths grow wild and thick beneath the tallest trees in the world, sprawling across the passage between Aerilion and Feyllune, standing as strange silhouettes on the horizon for any who grow close.

The strangest thing by far to come out of the Lumengrove are the fogs. When it rains over the grove, the tall fungal trees drop shimmering spores. Magic within the Lumengrove behaves oddly at the best of times- part of the reason it is so insufficiently understood- but when the weather conditions are right, heavy rains can produce spore-infused fogs that travel far across the land, dampening visibility and interfering with the magic of all those who get enveloped in them. Few fables leave their homes or dare to traverse the Lumengrove during such weather events, fearing what might befall them if they became lost and unable to use their magic at all.

Depending on the direction of the winds, the sporefogs may only move out over the sea, rolling into the western idyllwild before dissipating. It becomes of concern to fablekind, however, when they move eastward- a sporefog reaching the heart of Feyllune and dampening all the various magics therein would put a stop to academy activites for days. Those dwelling in North Baywick eye the western shore of Lake Empyrea with suspicion, fearing what such magical fog would do to their crops, and what might take root unbidden. But most fearful of all are the fables of Stormire, who fear desperately what might become of their sacred Wellspring if the sporefogs ever reached northward.

[287 words]

prompt: character - stressed out
fable: kyrios
entry:

Kyrios is, at most times, a relatively quiet soul. He keeps to himself the majority of the time, picking quietly away at his studies without nerves or arrogance. He is quietly confident in his talents, aware of his skills and not suffering from buried nerves about his performance. No- school in Feyllune is the very thing that he is best at, and he takes to it with a carefully disciplined eagerness.

If not academic, then, it is interpersonal spheres where Kyrios most easily becomes stressed. From a young age he had it impressed upon him by his mother that socializing was not something done for fun or simple pleasure but for gain, and though Kyrios has been distancing himself from his mother's warped perspectives on many things he still struggles to shake this. Books and scrolls will not, after all, get upset with you for reading them wrong, but other fables most certainly will. He struggles to speak to his classmates, with his speech often being too formal or perceived as "uppity," a holdover from the manners impressed upon him.

It is in social situations where Kyrios becomes most easily stressed and frustrated, and also where he falls back on old patterns. When unsure of what to say he becomes the most like his mother, throwing up an icy exterior in self defense. He is self-assured in his studies, but does not want others to know he doesn't know what he's doing socially. He despises how out of place he feels among his peers, despises the temper he inherited from his mother, but has not yet learned how to stop it from flaring when he becomes uncertain.

[277 words]

[Reiemye]

prompt: world - unusual weather
entry:

When the Plains Sing

Far to the south, where the Plains turn to open tundra, there are winters so long the world seems to stop moving, every breath rising like smoke from a dying fire. In these frozen months, the land sometimes hums with hidden voices, in the tongues of ice and frost.

It cannot be predicted. It comes without warning: under a waning moon, or beneath clouds so heavy with grey it scares the stars away. Everything stills, the birds vanish, the insects quiet down, and even the auroras dim, as though the sky itself bends to listen.

Then, it happens. A trembling hum blooms from the permafrost, deep and resonant, spreading across the tundra in lapping waves.

It's never quite the same, one time a staccato of crystalline notes, the next a strange, layered harmony of moaning voices. It's never loud, but it fills everything: the soil, the air, the cells of every organism fortunate enough to witness the choir. In the keratin of a hoof pressed against the frozen ground.

We insist this singing frost is natural, only the groan of ice sheets settling around pockets of air, expanding and contracting with minute changes in temperature. But it unsettles them, the logic failing to quiet their unease. Too many have heard what sounds like speech, mournful words, or faint laughter that fades the moment you listen too closely.

When this phenomenon lasts longer than half a day, it leaves its mark. The tundra glitters with fine, curled ridges, delicate patterns glinting like silver dust, etched through the top layer of ice by the vibrations. They call them songlines, and say they are memories of the earth's melody.

They dare not step on them. They walk wide around, even when the cold stabs and the day drags on. Their elders tell that if you disturb the songlines, the ice beneath will answer back; a single, drawn out note, sharp enough to sting, following you for days, lodged impossibly deep in your ear. They tell disturbing tales of those driven mad by it, shamelessly relishing the details.

By spring, the songlines melt away. But sometimes, when the ice breaks, you can hear it sigh one last, final note.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

prompt: character - stressed out
entry:

Frayed Edges

When stress finds Lirit, it doesn't arrive like thunder. It comes in fragments, the world fraying at the edges, sounds thinning until every noise, every breath is a needle pricking her heart. She does not pace or wail; she unravels slowly, like mist caught in sunlight.

It begins with forgetting. A name, a reason, a direction; small things slip quietly out of reach. Her thoughts scatter like startled birds, and in trying to follow one, she loses the rest. A weight settles in her chest, humming. The air feels too close, too still, and her heartbeat becomes a metronome, the pendulum marking a time she can't quite remember.

She doesn't see company when this pressure builds. She vanishes instead, instinctively drawn to wide, open spaces: the edges of a stream in the middle of a clearing, the low roofs of abandoned huts in a nearby destroyed village, the hollows between dunes where wind howls freely. She moves until the noise in her head starts to match the rhythm of the earth again.

Once alone, she fixates on movement; not her own, but the world's. She follows dust specks twirling in beams of light, traces the flight of a wasp, or watches water distort her reflection until it no longer resembles her. These observations become a kind of release, her attention uncoiling, spreading thin, dissolving into the light, the wasp, the water. The pressure does not fade, not exactly, but it shifts outward, towards the indifferent quiet of the land.

Sometimes she picks a small object (a dried seed, a bent nail, a shard of bone) and rolls it between her hooves, grounding herself in its imperfection. She studies how the shadows roll and slide across its texture, how it resists, or yields, to her touch. Each tiny observation becomes a thread to hold onto, something more stable than her own thoughts.

If the feeling grows too large to bear, she closes her eyes. Not to hide, but to see less. The world offers too much at once. Too many layers pressing in, too many half-formed visions demanding attention. With her eyes shut, she can pare it down to simple rhythm: her breath, the wind through leaves, the pulse in her throat. After some time, when her lids flutter open, the light seems to have rearranged itself, gentler now, softer, like the world has decided to wait for her.

By the time she returns home, she feels whole again. It's not gone, but rather settled, absorbed into her scattered calm. Soon enough, she will have forgotten why she left or what weighed on her in the first place, trivial obstacles washing away. What remains is a faint residue of stillness, the feeling of having watched the world until it stopped watching back.

[LokisTrick]

prompt: world - writing
entry:
The vast freshwater sea of Terra Firma is home to some of the most unique flora and fauna found on the world. One such phenomenon is something called a rain tree. Both a plant and a weather maker, rain trees grow so tall their branches blend seamlessly in the clouds, and their trunks can easily reach a circumference of a walled city. They are what create the freshwater sea, filtering the cumulating sodium from the water through their roots, colleting other nutrients and necessary fluids and "raining" down the excess water from pores near the base of the leaves. The freshwater sea is in the tropics, leading to rain trees never fully shedding their leaves, but there is a cycle for how much rain falls. Safe passage in the sea can be found during fall, winter, and early spring. Late spring and summer months are dangerous not only for the increase rainfall from the trees themselves, but for the unique weather that collects around them. Lingerings are the left-over thunderheads from a passing storm that seem to "catch" on the branches of the rain trees. They are believed to be magical in nature, some alchemy between the trees and storm occurs that we have yet to fully understands. Lingerings rage violently above the tree, building in strength, causing lightening, waterspouts, and powerful gales. Eventually they build up enough strength to escape the tree and plow a course of destruction through the water until they hit land or another tree. Some experts postulate that the Lingerings are somehow tied to the tree's process of pollination and reproduction, though definitive proof of this has yet to be found.
[276]

prompt: character - writing
fable: Rigel
entry:
Rigel paced thoughtlessly in his chamber, careful that his feet made no sound and he relentlessly strode to and fro. Lord Oberyn had once made mention that the sound of his hooves click clack clicking on the white marble floors made the other lords and ladies uneasy, given as he was to prophesy, so now he made sure to pace in human form with no shoes. Silently. His dreams had been keeping him up lately, a bright burning sun setting over the eastern horizon, unnatural and wrong. The end of beginning his heart whispered to him. But Lord Oberyn assured him that while he indeed could see portents of the future, he was not truly capable of deciphering them himself. This was said with a fond smile and a unbothered wave of his hand, as though the motion alone would dispel Rigel's worries. Rigel wished it would have dispelled his incessant anxiety. His dreams were haunting, strange images that left him waking with his heart pounding and cold sweat on his brow. The sunset in the East meant something. Rigel was certain. Lord Oberyn was like the sun. Once, he cherished the sight of the distant star. Now, He avoided looking out his stained-glass window for fear that he might see its rays. The sun wasn't safe anymore. Its warmth left him breathless, it felt false. Lord Oberyn was wrong So he paced in his picturesque chambers, curtains drawn. Waiting, waiting, waiting. His footsteps made no sounds. His arms were wrapped to grab his shoulders. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
[258]

[Nellas]

prompt: character - writing
fable: Calidris
entry: words: 1446

The gull made no sound in the gilded late afternoon light, even as it struggled and flopped uselessly against the fine line entangling its body and wings. Its dark bill gaped as it rested for a moment, panting.

Calidris’ body chilled with horror at the sight as she took mental notes on the situation. An entangled bird - on her own home beach. How had this happened - what had she missed? Guilt stabbed at her.

But - there would be time for wondering later. Right now, this bird needed her, and time was of the essence.

Keeping her distance for the moment, she crouched and flipped open her satchel. Made of worn, sun-faded canvas and spattered thoroughly with both paint and mud, she’d had it her entire life, and it carried nearly everything she truly needed within. Things were… only about half-organized in there. There were hand-sewn pockets lining the sides that each contained their own designated item, but the rest was a bit of a jumble. Nonetheless, Calidris quickly grabbed a pair of scissors, a couple clothespins, a packet of starch, and a few lengths of cloth.

The gull was sitting on the beach next to a few larger rocks. It could see her, so she made sure to approach slowly, with no sudden movements, in effort not to frighten it and cause it to struggle again, which could deepen any wounds it had or strain muscles.
It watched her keenly, its dark eye framed by white in an entirely black head, which contrasted with its paler white and grey body. It was smaller than the usual gull species she saw in the area. She’d never seen this species before.

“I’m here to help,” she whispered, as she dropped one of the cloths over the birds’ head, and secured it loosely by pinning the edges of the cloth together with a clothespin - it would keep the cloth in place, allowing her to use both of her hands for other purposes. The bird tensed, but lay still. From there, Calidris put one hand on the bird’s back, fingers gently securing the wings from flapping; and assessed the line. It appeared wrapped mostly around one wing, and some of the body. Thankfully, there was none around the neck and head. The line trailed over to a hooked lure that had been wedged somehow between the two rocks, trapping the bird there.

If the tide had come in while the bird was trapped… No. She needed to focus.

Keeping the bird secure and head covered, she used her other hand to trim some of the line away, and, unwedging the lure once it was no longer connected to the bird, tucked it into a different satchel pocket. She trimmed the line from the top of the one wing, and gently wiggled the rest down off the flight feathers, some of which were damaged. Blowing on the coverts to make sure she had gotten everything, she saw the line had scraped the front of the wing a bit, and there was an indentation in the skin where the line had tightened as the bird struggled, but luckily the line had not yet cut the bird.

Sensing it was freer than it had been, the bird moved slightly, as if to escape, but Calidris kept her gentle but firm hold on it. The line was still around the body, and she spent another few minutes cutting it free and examining the bird to make sure none was left and there were no injuries.

The gull was free now, but that didn’t mean that it was ready to be released. Taking a cotton bag from her satchel, Calidris gently placed the gull within, withdrawing the cloth covering its head as she closed the bag, securing the gull for transport.

“Let’s go home.”

The flight up to her cliffside home was only a few minutes, but the relief she felt at seeing her familiar cottage door was immense. Almost there. Hopping down onto the landing, she strode briskly through her gardens and into the cottage.

In one corner, there was a small enclosure she had prepared for such purposes, created from a structure of thin boards, and lined with a very fine mesh that was soft and allowed visibility and light, but the holes of which were too small for anything to escape through or become tangled in. This was not the first time Calidris had brought an injured creature of some sort into her care. The bottom of the enclosure was lined with layers of cotton, onto which she placed the gull down and withdrew, securing the enclosure once more.

Freed into the enclosure, the gull flared its wings out and flapped them, jumping forwards and bouncing off one of the mesh sides. It stood, then, looking at her through the mesh with its head titled slightly. She had seen that no bones were broken, but she saw now too that it held its previously-tangled wing a bit lower than the other one. Bruises and strains were likely with this kind of thing; she’d have to keep an eye on that.

After a few moments of organization, she added a water dish to the enclosure, and lit a fire in her hearth to ensure the cottage’s warmth. There was a chimney, of course, for the smoke, but, conscious of the bird’s sensitive lungs, she coaxed out a whisper of her weather magic to ensure the smoke stayed where it should.

With the sun’s last rays retreating from the cottage’s windows even as she thought of it, she knew the bird would sleep soon. She’d have to procure food for it in the early morning, but for now… the bird was safe, and free, and warm. She could rest.

Calidris washed up, and cut and ate an apple, her brow creased still and expression distant, her movements still overly efficient as the adrenaline of the rescue took its sweet time to fade.

She spent a moment then looking at the gull, who had tucked its head into its scapulars and appeared to be sleeping. She hadn’t realized how dark it had already gotten until that moment.

Calidris climbed into her own bed in the next room, closing the curtain so her lights and movement wouldn’t disturb the creature. There, she pulled out her current journal and pen, and recorded the day’s events. It was important to keep a record of these things. Tomorrow she would transfer the information about the gull rescue to the journal she kept specifically for such purposes, but tonight, she kept writing.

Or, she intended to. She got so far as to write the sentence “I can’t believe the gull was tangled so close to home. I try so hard to keep this area free of -” before the page blurred and streaked as tears welled in her eyes.

The feelings that she had held back in the heat of the moment flooded her.

Fear, for the bird’s well-being, horror at what could have happened. Grief for all of the creatures she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to find and rescue, or the ones she had been, and would be, too late to save. Anger and frustration that others’ trash, especially such hazardous trash as this, could litter her beloved shores that she spent her life in the service of.

And she felt the pressure of being the sole caretaker now, of this bird. She’d spend hours each day procuring food for it; fish and invertebrates and such, and observing it to make sure everything was going well. But there was only so much she could do - would those damaged flight feathers be able to straighten on their own? Or would they have to be molted? Would the strained wing heal properly with enough rest?

Ten thousand other worries swarmed and clung to her. Calidris let herself tremble and cry, her journal discarded by her side.

Eventually, the flood of feelings ebbed away, leaving in their wake a soul-deep weariness.

Not for the first time, she wished for the gentle touch and company of another, someone who would witness the stories of her life, and understand them - someone who would share them.

But for tonight, all she had was herself.

She snuck back out into the first room, hoping the kettle she’d left by the fire was warm enough for a cup of tea, and unreasonably grateful that it was.

Bringing the tea back to her room, Calidris blew out the light and climbed into bed, spending a few minutes sipping the tea, letting the warmth and fragrance soothe her. Then, she slept.

[Chasing Dreams]

prompt: world - Unusual Weather
entry:
In the world of Chelion, there is a rare but inspiring natural event that occurs, known as Carting. It is the abrupt creation of new mountain ranges and geographical landmarks. The Fables dubbed it carting as when this occurred they would have to painstakingly create new maps of the world, a vital task for the inhabitants. Many Fables that inhabit Chelion believe the planet is its own living entity, alive with fiery core. When it overheats, they take it as a sign that the planet is stressed.

Carting is a rare occurrence only happening roughly every 50-100 years. It occurs when there is a sudden heating of the planet causing loose plates to break free from their mold and violently erupt from the ground. These new mountains ranges can be miles tall and wide, often terraforming into island sized landmarks. During this process there is an excess of sinkholes, landslides and crumbling terrain. Many Fables have lost their entire homeland to a Carting occurrence.

However there is a positive to Carting. Carting brings new life and habitats for creatures of Chelion. With the land being turned inside out there is fresh new soil exposed brimming with nutrients from the underground. It is said that the soil from a Carting is the most rich and produces the highest yield of crops. While some Fable live paranoid that Carting may take their home, others seek it. Word spreads fast when a new Carting mountain range is formed. Fables from all over will make the trek to attempt to claim the land. Many bring wagons to fill with soil and take back home. Rare flora and fauna grow on these fresh mountains, bringing diversity to the planet.

While Carting is technically seen as a natural "disaster" amongst the Fables, the wise know it is a necessity to keep Chelion alive and healthy. They know it will continue to happen and ensures many years of fruitful harvests and security for future generations of Fables. [330 words]

prompt: character - Mood lighting
fable: link
entry: