Celebrate Sikh History!

Did you know that FlashFire Studios is a Sikh-owned and operated business running out of Alberta, Canada? I, H3X, author of FlashFire Magazine, converted to Sikhi when I was just 16 years old. A lot of my stories have spiritual undertones as a result. This April, celebrating Vaisakhi and Ridvan both as a Ridvani Sikh, I took a lot of time to spiritually center myself and ready myself for another summer.

Some of you may have noticed that we posted the stories contained within the pages of FlashFire Magazine for free on our blog — check it out. If you like what you see, consider picking up some of the other issues to get the full story. Or, if you’re a ttrpg fan, I’d highly recommend picking up the digital edition of issue #4, on sale in our shop. It’s only $1.50 and you get nearly 50 pages of content. Also, now it’s available in epub and pdf format, not just pdf.

Oh, and by the way. I finally updated the Flash RPG rulebook — version 1.2 is free to download. Namely, there were some much-needed formatting fixes which make not only the list of playable species but also the entire book more readable. So too were the ‘evil’ reputation titles added, alongside descriptions for the ‘Repair’ and ‘Research’ skills, as Investigation was replaced by Research.

Also, I added the size chart and a new race, the Ythwynaen which have shown up in many developer sessions. As to the size chart, I don’t know how I forgot that. I also updated the credits to include some of the playtesters.

And, for those interested in our Premium Blog, I have posted the full rough draft of “The King in Yellow”, Act I, planned for a June release yet available now for your reading pleasure.

Man. Sometimes I make myself sound pretty cool. If only I could use that to my advantage to make some sales, haha.

Also. I haven’t posted a changelog, but I have been doing some hotfixes, bugfixes, and new additions to Friday Force (Dwarfum Necumonum!!!), especially now that the S.H. Toinne Center map by EskimoCanadian4 has been successfully ported over from a certain other block game now. Namely, I have added transmitters, and applied some light bugfixes to make cracked glass not crash the game. We actually did a 4+ hour livestream available on YouTube and a video showing off EskimoCanadian4’s map, specifically some new customizations — search ‘Friday Force Luanti game’ on YouTube and it should come up.

Once again, Dwarfum Necumonum!

The Kobolds are Taking Over!

This blog post is partially lost. It used to be the March-April front page and may have read the same as our Instagram post:

THE KOBOLDS ARE TAKING OVER!
The kobolds would like to make a trade:
For $2.50 you get a digital copy of this action-packed issue which includes:
A BRAND NEW ADVENTURE MODULE, the very first of its kind for Flash RPG! Enter the UNDERKEEP OF KING HAJAN with your horde of kobolds if you will -- but will you return?

An extensive CREATURE CODEX entry on kobolds, including history, life cycle, character creation stats for Kobold and Crocfolk players, and enemy stat blocks for Kobold commoners, merchants, wizards, and tricksters, alongside Crocfolk pirates and hunters!

And for this vigilante-heavy issue, we included a few tips on creating your own superhero characters in Flash RPG. Make one memorable enough, and we'll feature it in the next issue!

But, all that's just extra. 'Cause we like you.

The main event of this magazine is 7 SHORT STORIES, the longest issue yet!

In EARL VAUSS: THE BOY WHO DIED by debuting author Jason McAlpine, a man is left for dead in the sands of New Mexico, only to be rescued by a mysterious stranger who offers him a new chance at life.

CRAYER IN THE NIGHT returns to the tales of Mark the Attuned, a clumsy pirate facing a skeletal crew at sea without any cannonballs at all!

Witness Fury and and the daring assassin known only as The Beast finally duke it out in an old-school nightclub after 2 long months of waiting in chapter 3 of FURY: SHADOWS OF THE BEAST!

What happens when a cynical radio host watches his best friend get gunned down by gangsters? Set in 1950s New Haven, be sure to see the origin of The Face in THE FACE OF DEATH!

AZAFAR: THE RED HAND is a high fantasy tale set long ago, when cults of evil gods and eldritch beings laid claim to the world . Summoning a demon to kill Baran, guardian of a lost fragment of the Mage Stone, things go horribly wrong when they fetch the wrong demon... And a man-eating Rakshasa appears instead.

Nita Van Sloan dons her superhero identity as LADY LUCK in a tale intertwined with the final story, NIGHT OF THE BLACK MOTH! Return to Richard Wentworth and Nita's exciting tale, tracking down the murderous Black Moth!

I also remember it said something about how I won’t keep teasing Friday Force until I had something new and worthwhile to share, and it may have ended like this:

With love;
-HEX

P.S.

Dwarfum Morirum :(

Night of the Black Moth, Chapter VI: Infiltration, Shadow and Honour

A Tale by Mark Craig, set in New York City, September 1954. 

Chapter VI: Infiltration, Shadow and Honour

The sight of the warehouse was long gone, the dockside left cold, purged of any trace of the earlier criminal operation save for splintered crates and broken bodies. The Black Moth had vanished deeper into the city’s underworld, but Richard Wentworth was never without his eyes.

And tonight, his eyes were none other than his faithful companion, Ram Singh.

Draped in a worn leather coat and battered cap, Ram Singh stood silently in the line of day labourers outside Clarke’s Freight & Salvage, a grimy shipping depot near the edge of the Hell Gate Industrial Corridor. The building squatted like a discarded tin can beside the rust-scarred steel of Hell Gate Power Station, itself a towering ruin of smokestacks and crackling substations. The site was semi-retired, but not completely, and power still flowed through it’s aging walls — and men still often went missing in its shadow.

Someone new had begun scooping up muscle — desperate men, half-crooks, ex-cons, and many wounded veterans. These were the whispers: “Work over at Hell Gate. Dangerous work. Shady. But it pays.”

Ram Singh had made himself appear weathered, obedient, and unsavoury enough to cause trouble when needed, yet friendly enough not to cause a problem. Following in the Spider’s footsteps, Ram thought it better to observe and see without being seen for who he truly was.

A broad-faced man with a crooked nose came down the line, eyeing the workers like meat on hooks. He stopped before Ram Singh eventually, eying him up before giving him a particular offer.

“You. What did you say your name was?”

“Ravi,” Ram Singh answered plainly, lowering his gaze.

“Ever haul copper?”

“Yes.”

“Ever shot a gun?”

Ram Singh hesitated, yet gave a nod. The man’s lip curled into a grin.

“Good. You can start tonight for a test. We’ve been looking for extra security that can handle themselves. Hope you ain’t squeamish.”

Soon enough, he was inside Hell Gate power plant, which  reeked of old soot and oil. The deeper they ventured, the more the station revealed its true self — a wheezing labyrinth of half-operational machinery, forgotten corridors and dusty rooms, dark and caked with neglect. Steel walkways loomed over vast turbine rooms where ancient generators still pulsed like sleeping giants. The sound was constant, a low mechanical throb that echoed in the bones. Ram Singh moved among the other laborers with studied precision. He hefted cable, hauled boxes, did what was required of him, and said little, keeping his head down. He learned quickly who gave instructions, and who passed them down. He watched the rhythm of their patterns — two-hour shifts, always armed guards near the south annex, and a man in a dark coat who inspected the outer wall at midnight like clockwork. Every man inside Hell Gate was either ignorant of what was truly going on, or were simply being paid enough not to care. Yet truly, it wasn’t the fear or apathy that haunted the corridors. It was the silence. Orders came in short grunts, and conversations ended when footsteps came closer. More than once, Ram Singh glimpsed a man disappearing down a hall which they would not take back..

He spent the first day surveying the layout. Next, he mapped the wiring patterns in his mind — what went where, which panels surged with power and which ones were dead, and which ones had been rewired by clumsy, unfamiliar hands. Someone had designed a failsafe to trigger a blackout, but it was not amateur work. Whoever planned it was an engineer, possibly military. Someone methodical — someone who expected interference.

He found signs of demolition cord in the wall vents. He found rubber gloves and lye hidden in a fusebox. He overheard a man speak of “The Lamp Room,” where the new boss broadcast his messages and watched over them from.

And always, there were the whispers of the Black Moth.

They never knew his real name. He merely watched, unseen, yet his presence always felt. There was a reverence borne of dread, with men telling stories of the enigmatic figure like wild campfire stories. One man, half-drunk on a flask he shouldn’t have, murmured that the Black Moth had once worked for the government, until he turned on his handlers and decided to judge the world himself. Ram Singh remained impassive, yet curious, watching and waiting to learn more.

One day, Ram was sent to unbox wiring reels in the north relay tunnel, where few dared linger. The air there was thick with dust and mold, and the tunnels trembled from the river above. The man sent with him, a wiry redhead with a nervous tick, refused to speak at first, but couldn’t keep his mouth shut long.

“They say he's planning something… big,” the man muttered. 

“Real big. Blackouts, riots, the whole grid dead for days. Cops won't know what hit 'em.”

Ram Singh nodded once, quietly committing the details to memory

“Where did you hear it?” Ram Singh asked curiously.

“Heard the Moth talking to a few guys around the spot we’re heading, actually. Keep a close eye out there, you never know what might jump out!”.

Despite the anticlimactic journey to the destitute part of the facility, when alone later on, Ram Singh doubled back through the tunnels and picked the lock of a fuse access panel he had noted. Inside was a schematic of the entire power district. Hell Gate was no isolated threat — if they tripped the right switch here, they could bring down four substations and half the East River grid. 

That night, he slipped out through a side gate during the shift change. Down a storm drain, beneath a rusted valve marked for demolition, he unwrapped a wax-sealed paper he had hidden in his boot sole. On the reverse, he sketched the fuse network. Then he penned a single line, almost too light to read:

    “The spider must move now. The web is nearly set.”

To be continued…

Azafar: The Red Hand, Chapter 2: The Enemy of my Enemy

A Tale by Mark Craig, set in the First Age of Man. 

“SERVE ME NOW OR PERISH THUS!”

Shock rolled through the chamber. Torches guttered, stones groaned, and the reek of scorched flesh rose from the High Priest’s remains. One by one, robed figures crumpled to their knees until half the Court of Ardour prostrated themselves before the mighty rakshasa Azafar, their foreheads pressed to the blood‑slick floor. Only a lone acolyte found the courage to raise his head.

“W‑what will you have of us, Lord?” he whispered.

Azafar’s tail flicked, scattering cinders from a fallen torch. 

“First,” he said, his voice like a blade drawn across stone, “tell me about the one of which you serve. Who is he, and where does he hide his craven heart?”

A grey‑robed scribe answered, words quivering as they rolled off his tongue: “The evil wizard Morgoth broods far to the north — far, far to the north, within the halls of Arkhon — where the walls are black as iron, and white towers stand in cruel irony compared to the darkness in which they are seated in. Legend says that such a fortress is cursed with an endless variety of traps; 100 floors, each one shifting and changing so as to warp the minds of those foolish enough to enter. None have breached it and lived, be warned, our most vile and vicious Lord.”

Azafar tasted the name of the oppressor in the air, and he quickly began to formulate an evil plan to get revenge for the disturbance of his eternal slumber. Then, a smile crept across the man-eating rakshasa’s face, and he puffed up his chest as he addressed the crowd of silver-masked cultists before him. 

“WE WILL STORM THE GATES OF ARKHON! WE WILL DESTROY THE WIZARD MORGOTH, FOR I AM RAKSHASA! WERE THE PATHETIC CUR TO SLAY ME, I WOULD RETURN, AND ENACT MY VENGEANCE TENFOLD UPON HIM! BOW DOWN TO YOUR ONCE‑AND‑FUTURE KING!”

The cultists gasped at such blasphemy none had ever dared to voice — but terror made them hold their tongues, all save for a lone serpent-staff bearer, his knuckles turning white around the twisted rod in which he held.

“No!” The cultist shouted. Dark fire surged along the cultist’s staff, gathering at its end ready to burst forth at a moment’s notice.

“You beast! You are no priest of Ardour, you are no lord of flame! YOU ARE NOTHING!” Then, the jet of black fire erupted forth in Azafar’s direction. Azafar moved mere moments before the impact. The eldritch blast soared past him, striking a kneeling follower square in the chest and enveloping him in flame. The smell of burning flesh immediately engulfed the room, and the man collapsed in a smoking ruin. Horrified cultists turned toward the staff‑bearer, who now trembled at what his rage had wrought. He had killed his own, and the Court saw it. Azafar raised one clawed finger in silent decree.

“Behold! This is what defiance brings.”

His glare nailed the serpent‑staff cultist in place.

“He has slain one of own — his hands are stained with the blood of Ardour. His life is forfeit.”

A breathless pause filled the room. Then the first dagger flashed. Another followed, accompanied by a flood of steel, fists and roaring voices.

“TRAITOR!”

“FOR ARDOUR!”

“FOR THE KING!”

Soon, the traitorous staff‑bearer vanished beneath the frenzy. When the punishment was wrought, silence settled heavily over the room. One by one the cultists turned toward Azafar, kneeling in supplication, and bowed their heads.

“We are yours, oh Great One.”

Azafar surveyed his new dominion — sputtering torches, pillars spattered with gore, the crowd before him, and the golden mask lying at his feet. In a single encounter, the Court of Ardour had traded masters, and a demon from beyond the material realm now held its leash. And, beyond these vaults, in the frozen wastes of the north, lay the ominous fortress of Arkhon. 

An army waited to be forged. A fortress waited to be taken. The hunt for Baran still lay ahead. But first came conquest, and the world would soon learn what rose from blood and shadow in the halls beneath the earth.

Suddenly, Azafar’s voice boomed forth unprovoked:

“BRING FORTH YOUR FINEST TACTICIAN, OH GREAT COURT OF ARDOUR!”

Faces turned. From the circle of kneeling cultists a lone figure crept forward, an elderly elf with silver hair, braided down his back. He bowed with respect and amusement both.

“I am Nimrul, the Shadow, royal tactician of Ardour. I have studied the wars of both Elf and Man. I have seen cities crumble and empires rise, only to falter and later perish. And now…” His ember‑bright gaze lingered on the Rakshasa. 

“Now I serve a new king.”

Approval rippled through the kneeling circle. Azafar’s tail curled, satisfied. 

“Tell me how to slay the wretched beast that governs your pitiful order.”

Silence descended so heavy the torches seemed to dim. Nimrul’s lips twisted into a smile. “You wish to slay Morgoth?” The question echoed in the chamber, and cultists began to mutter amongst themselves.

“You do not dream as lesser men do. No — you are far more… Interesting.”

Nimrul stopped, eyes gleaming. “Morgoth, ‘King of Warlocks.’ You wish to unmake the unholy champion of the Razu? Then hear me, O Beastly King.”

Nimrul folded his hands. “To slay a magic user on the level of Morgoth, one must find a way to first divest him of his power.” 

He raised one finger as he spoke, attempting to appear cool before the hungry eyes of the Rakshasa. “First, Morgoth’s armies must be broken and his lieutenants scattered. Grind his war machines to dust; that is the first step.” Haunting tales and ominous names hissed through the hall; dread captains, flame‑wreathed fiends, hosts bred in the abyssal forges of Arkhon.

A second finger rose. “Second, his fortress must fall. The gates of Arkhon must be flung open and the fortress gutted like a rotting carcass with its secrets laid bare. It is a prison for those who dare oppose him; you must be the jailer who turns the key.”

A third finger sprang up. “Third, he must be made vulnerable through magic means. When that evil god of the sun Razu put forth his champion into this world, he poured his very essence into his bones. Morgoth bleeds; he suffers — but he is still beyond us all.”

Finally, a fourth finger rose. “Fourth… The balance of power must be restored, and his final refuges shattered. The fragments of the Mage Stone  — pure, glittering fragments of Faelrith’s essence — fight against him, yet he covets them so. If one were to wield such things against him…” 

Nimrul’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Perhaps even a god could die.”

The hall remained utterly still. Azafar’s eyes narrowed like molten gold against orange fur. 

“What action, then, do you recommend for your King?”

Nimrul tapped a talon against an ancient map unfurled by trembling scribes. “First, we sever his supply lines: Iron, grain, even souls flow south through the Vale of Kharug. Alternatively, one could slay a lieutenant — the Fell‑Lord Khargul keeps his court at Grimwyche Keep, and his fall would send a clear message to Morgoth. One might also consider inciting rebellion amongst the locals, so as to occupy them whilst you strike from another angle. So, too, might one wish to raid the dark lord’s hoard; within his vaults lie weapons of ruin even Razu dares not wield. Or, perhaps you might wish to claim a fortress of your own. A king, after all, must have a kingdom.”

Azafar rose from the corpse‑strewn dais, shadow stretching across the crimson floor. Every masked face waited on the demon‑king’s decree, hearts hammering at the edge of a war none had dared imagine. The entire court leaned forward with bated breath to hear which limb of the supreme warlock would be severed first. Nimrul, on edge, was the first to speak.

“Well? What is your decree, my king?”

Azafar’s roar rolled through the cavernous hall.

“THIS PLACE IS MINE!”

Upon hearing the decree, velvet‑hooded heads dropped, and silver masks kissed the basalt f;ppr. A few murmured half‑formed prayers, some to Razu, some to nameless, trembling deities — but none dared contradict the new lord who sat astride a throne streaked with the High Priest’s blood.

Nimrul alone kept his feet. A trace of amusement flickered across his sharp Elven face as he folded his hands behind his back and regarded the ruined scepter beside the dais.

“Well then,” he said, voice smooth as drawn silk, “I said a king must have a throne, and now you have one.”

At the centre of the hall, the serpent‑staff of the slain High Priest lay where it had shattered, half‑submerged in a pool of drying blood. Nearby, the golden throne, its back decorated with the orasine-hued emblem of Razu, awaited its new king.

Azafar’s gaze swept the ranks of cowled figures. They straightened, but none raised their eyes. Azafar ascended the steps and seated himself, with his taloned fingers drumming on the gilded armrests. The cultists bowed lower still, murmuring their fractured prayers. 

Nimrul’s smirk lingered. “And what will you do now, my King?”

The pads of Azafar’s feet became sticky with drying blood at the foot of the throne, seemingly giving the demon an idea. Bending down and putting his dominant paw into the pool of the former High Priest’s blood, Azafar left a bloody pawprint on the front of every gleaming silver mask the gathered cultists wore. Seeing his work completed, Azafar’s gaze swept the hall of kneeling masks — this was his court now. A single purpose burned behind his eyes.

“I will hunt down this ‘Baran’ of House Varkon next, for it is true what they say — ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

To be continued…

David Briars in Africa, Chapter 2: Resonance Above

For Sikh History Month.

February 16, 1866.

I find myself writing from a quiet corner beneath the awning of the mid-deck, the steady roll of the sea beneath me and the mingled scents of wood and seastained air all around me. It has only been a day since I left Ipswich, yet already things feel unfamiliar in the most welcome of ways. The followers of Waaqeffannaa aboard have welcomed me with a warmth I did not expect, though perhaps I ought to have. Among the many passengers aboard, I am one of very few not clothed in the white garb of the Oromo. My attire, the bana handed down through my family, sets me apart: a long kurta, loose trousers, heirloom kara at my wrist, and a tightly wound turban — simple, firm, and unadorned.

They rise early. I have watched them each morning greet the day with quiet reverence beneath the open sky. One man, an elder named Abba Tufan, explained that they do not pray to Waaqa, but with Him — a distinction that struck a chord with me. We were sitting on a rope bench as we discussed matters of faith with one another. Initially, I had asked him whether their morning prayer was fixed in a specific direction, as I had read before joining that the Oromo people also had many devout Oromo Muslims among them, besides the followers of Waaqeffannaa.

“No,” he said, “Waaqa is not found either here or there — Waaqa is everywhere. Why should we choose only one way or another only for ourselves to give thanks?”

“That reminds me of a teaching from my people,” I said, “Our leader, the Guru Granth Sahib, immediately speaks the phrase ‘Ik Onkar.’ It means ‘There is only One God,’ in the sense that this world, and everything within it, are always within Him and his domain. In my tongue we call this God Waheguru. We are all as children in Waheguru’s lap, and so we chant the name of truth in praise to Him.”

Abba Tufan nodded slowly, a smile forming through his heavy and grey beard. “You speak of these things like ‘Ik Onkar’ and ‘Waheguru’ as the name of truth,” he said. “We say ‘Waaqa Tokkicha’ to mean the same, ‘One God.’ Waaqa Tokkicha and Ik Onkar — one and the same, are they not?”

“Perhaps we tread side by side along the same spiritual path, separated by distance it seems, but never by heart,” I replied with a smirk. Indeed, I talked with him much more on matters of faith and found myself continually astounded at the staggering amount of common spiritual ground that could be found between us. In the end, he laughed and clapped me on the back, calling me dhala obboleessa — ‘child of my brother’ A warm title, one he has used often since.

Abba Tufan spoke of Ayyaana, unseen forces that guide and dwell in people, animals, trees, and rivers. Neither he nor I pretend to know the fullness of the mystery of creation, but the fact that God is found to be pervasive is agreed upon between us. The Oromians’ generosity is remarkable. I had brought with me dried fruits and biscuits from England, and found them quickly exchanged and traded for warm, spiced flatbreads baked on a small stone griddle they had  brought aboard. A boy named Galchu gave me a carved gourd filled with cool, sweet water mixed with a herb I could not identify. Such a concoction cleared my head and settled my stomach in a way no tincture could. And I have rendered myself useful for their kindness in return, mending a torn prayer cloth for them with thread I keep in my satchel, sharpening a man’s knife with a small stone I once found in my youth and always kept in my pocket. Above all the things I have experienced thus far, I must say that I enjoy the laughter the most. The Oromo rarely talk over one another, nor seek to be first in a discussion. When one narrates, others listen with reverence, only nodding or humming low in agreement. When I offered to tell the tale of how I tricked a thief in Ipswich with his own handwriting, they listened with respect and good intent. In the quiet of evening, Abba Tufan gave me a few words in his tongue, and asked for some in mine. I told him Waheguru, and he repeated it, slowly, smiling. He offered back Waaqayyo, and we both sat, two believers with different words for the same silence. The sea still carries us onward, our journey having only just begun, and I feel less like a foreigner each hour. It is truly a wonderful thing.

To be continued…

Mishaps Along The Way

For Sikh History Month.

A Tale by Mark Craig set in Year 32 of the Questing Age.

“Do not lose this book, pirate. If you do, then by stars above I shall turn you, your blade, and your rifle all into ferns!” 

This was the message so eloquently bequeathed upon me by the ever-mysterious Lady Tel, who I’d like to believe thinks well of me, trusting me with such a treasure of hers. Inside this thick leatherbound tome were thick pages of bamboo paper containing various drawings, diagrams, and mystic scrawls in languages long since lost to time. It was a work of arland origin, and the diagrams contained many symbols of religious significance, along with diagrams of traps and hidden tombs across a host of islands. The arland text was quite readable to the all-knowing Lady Tel, but to a layman like myself, it was altogether indecipherable. Yet, by pictures alone, she had the confidence that a cunning freebooter like myself could get by. Indeed, she showed me the page, and marked it with a long, thin reed and sent me on my way. 

My way, however, would wind up being rather tedious and altogether dreadful! Every foul thing that could possibly happen to me appeared all at once to descend upon me, and I lived in such misery for the entirety of the journey to the fabled isle of Mount Scarab. And, as I gaze out upon Mount Scarab’s sandy shores spread out before me like rolling waves of beige, I find myself in a chipper enough mood to laugh about it now. 

Indeed, my mishaps on the way here were numerous and trifling — as the first thing I did upon leaving the tent was stumble on a rock and nearly fumble the book. With a pirate’s grace I dextrously caught the book, and thank God, for if Lady Tel saw me drop it mere moments after sending me on my way, my ferny fate would descend upon me all too soon! Yet, on my way I continued, hauling the hefty tome to the docks and setting a few rickety planks down for my re-entry with the book tucked snug under my arm. Yet, as I stared at the 3 planks ahead of me, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety.

Perhaps it was such anxiety that caused me to overthink, or perhaps I am simply an overthinker by nature. What can be said regardless of this fact, however, is that my solution to my worries was not at all a rational one, and I found myself anxiously tying a rope around my waist and throwing it like a lasso around the railing of The Wedge. It was a shot I landed, but as I turned to make my way across the planks, I found myself winded and being pulled backwards as the ship bobbed with a rogue wave thrusting it higher than it were just moments ago. Such a movement had yanked me from my position upon my low-budget ramp!  Clutching the book for dear life against my chest, I sighed as I stared down at the water below me a few feet down. Looking up at the rope above me, I positioned my feet against the hull of my vessel and, with one hand safeguarding the book whilst the other hoisted me up, I eventually met with the railing itself, seemingly impassable without the use of both hands. 

It was then that I looked to my left — no one at the end of the docks. I peered to my right, noting that Lady Tel was nowhere to be seen. Feeling the coast was clear, I threw the book into the air attempting to toss it onto the deck. The covers flew open, and for a brief moment I could see the pages causing the noontime sun behind the book to flicker as the spinning book eclipsed the sun above me. It was then, to my dismay, that I realized the book was going to land in the water! Leaping quite literally into action, I jumped from the rail as outwardly as I could, straining my neck as I craned to see the freefalling book, thankfully catching it as I crashed into the dock back to where I had once stood. However, there would be no respite for me, and before I had the chance to get up, I felt the natural bobbing of the ship begin to pull me back once more. Gently tossing the book to safety in front of me, I grabbed a wooden support beam before I could be dragged completely off the docks once again. This time, however, I pulled my cutlass from its sheath and hastily cut the rope, scrambling my way to safety and freedom. Dusting off the book, I casually walked across the 3-board ramp and put the book on top of a particularly nice desk I had found abandoned at another port, seeing fit to use the piece of carpentry as an elegant piece of furnishing aboard my ship. 

Picking up the 3 boards that composed my ramp, I began to throw them onto the dock for another pirate’s use before yet another tragedy struck — upon throwing the final board, I hit a passerby square in the temple. He fell on his side with a clatter and thud, sending the 2 previous boards diving off the dock and into the salty sea before attempting to pick himself up. Upon seeing this, I rushed to my anchor and began to push and turn with all my might, my back twinging in pain at the craning of my neck earlier. Luckily, I narrowly escaped a confrontation as I quickly set sail and was gone with the wind, leaving the sorry fool to shake his fist uselessly from the edge of the pier. In the end, I was safe and sound, and well on my way to the isle of Mount Scarab. I sailed until dusk, and saw not another soul upon the waves, though I did see a bounty of sharks in the waters in which I had sailed. And, this time, I only had to rescue myself from accidentally sailing into a random outcropping once, yo-ho! Yet, after hearing an unusual sploosh from the water behind my ship, I knew I was not alone yet.

Indeed, peering behind my ship with lantern in hand, I could make out the faint silhouette of a shark fin tailing my vessel through the open waters. Realizing the likely size of such a beast, panic seized me then, and I did everything in my power to keep my breathing steady as I felt the walls of my ship closing in around me. Staring out into the sea to get another look, it seemed the creature noticed me, as it’s fin flicked sharply to the left, then to the right, making its way around the side of my vessel marked only by the ripple of the shark’s fin cutting waves that shimmered in the moonlight. Quickly, I grabbed my rifle and headed to the nearest cannon, manning it in case the creature became further provoked. Suddenly, it’s fin disappeared beneath the rolling waves, and my entire ship was ferociously knocked to the right, threatening to spill over and altogether capsize in the middle of the night. Thankfully she stayed afloat, and I quickly ran to the lower deck so as to assess the damage. The damage appeared to be minimal, as there was not yet a chunk missing from my ship thankfully, and I quickly made my way back to open skies, honing my rifle on every wave that passed me by.

For a moment, all seemed quiet. Had the vicious beast forgotten the Wedge so soon? In suspicious disbelief, I stared out into the open ocean for a while, finding myself beginning to set my rifle at ease. 

That’s when I saw it — from the east, the gargantuan, muckle-toothed maw of the beast that threatened to end my life and swallow me whole, hurtling towards my ship. I picked up my rifle and shot a fateful shot, causing the muckle-toothed shark to arc its body sharply in pain as I a slug connected directly with the animal’s eye, causing pulp and blood to spurt out into the water. Taken aback by the sudden shock of the ordeal, I fired another slug into the water, hearing little response. It was then that my ship was knocked yet again — however this time was different. I was blown off my feet from the impact and thrown into the waters from behind, my hands barely having time to reach out and grasp the dangling ladder before my ship carried on without me. Physically feeling the movement of the great beast in the waters, I clambored up the ladder with the last of my remaining strength and tumbled down the steps, rushing to the hull of the ship so as to patch the significant hole which the creature had imparted like a battle scar upon my vessel. Standing with water gushing in up to my shins, I patched hole after hole as the creature’s assault continued 2 or 3 times more, threatening to altogether crash through the wall and eat me alive if I was not careful. Indeed, such a position is potent and haunting material that will leave me anxious and fearful within the realm of my dreams. Yet, when the assault momentarily ceased, I took but a single bucket of water out with me and quickly began firing shots at the Muckletooth whenever I would see it. At some point, I had to steer out of the way of an incoming rock, something I barely managed to do although it set me a fair deal off course from the isle of Mount Scarab. That being said, I still wasn’t sure if I would be making it there in one piece, given my dire situation. 

Indeed, the creature did not veer from it’s destructive path, and planned to end my miserable existence as quickly as it could. Yet, blinded in one eye and with many rounds sunken into its skin, I prayed it’s downfall would come before mine. Alas, by the time I emptied both my rifles of munitions, I began to feel as though all hope was lost. Gripping a nearby cannon with both hands, I waited for a final make-or-break shot upon the beast. Soon enough, I saw her coming for me, it’s mouthful of teeth like an angry grin.

And so, I fired — directly into its open maw. Hitting the back of its soft palate with an explosive crash, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt alongside my victory as I watched the creature helplessly writhe and choke on a cannonball. Yet, it seemed to recover from even this, although this was something I expected, and found myself reloading the cannon before me at record pace. However, another crash rocked my vessel, and I could hear water spraying in the floor below as my ship was sinking further and further below the sealine. Grumbling as I had not yet finished reloading before the cannonball was lost to sea, I rushed downstairs with an empty barrel and, quickly tying a rope to it, I began to haul barrels of water from the deck below until it was only knee deep, before patching more holes both old and new as the shark continued it’s rampage. While I found myself running low on wood, I found myself able to patch holes much faster than the beast could make them, as its prominent nose meant it had to upturn its face in order to take a proper bite out of my ship. Bailing more water on the way up, I finally got back to reloading the cannon, anxiously watching the waters for any signs of life. 

Yet, once more, everything was still. The waves lapped against my vessel quietly, and the wind whistled quietly through the nooks and crannies of my ship as I listened for any signs of disturbance — a vital move indeed, as I heard the slapping of the Muckletooth’s fins against the water as it surged forward for another attack. Coming from the left, I sprinted across my sopping deck in waterlogged boots and manned the cannon — which was already loaded — ready to end the encounter. And, with a final shot and the blare of cannonfire, the beast was defeated — this time for good. With a roar that tapered off into a whimpering groan, the leviathan finally found its rest. Bailing the remaining water from my ship, I finally felt safe, like I was back at home.

A realization then dawned on me, which cut deep into my chest with anxiety. 

The book. Where was the book?! Had it fallen overboard during my war with the beast? Worse yet, did I perhaps ruin it, leaving it waterlogged and fallen on the floor? Searching frantically, I could not find it where I left it upon my desk, nor was it in my quarters which were now unusably soaked, nor was it found in the lower deck at all. Fearing the worst, and that my mission to the isle of Mount Scarab would not be a success, I sat upon the map table and stared in the direction of the black desk with a worried and tearful frown upon my face. 

It was then that I noticed the faint glint of something golden, wedged along the back of the desk near the legs — a corner of Lady Tel’s ancient book. Carefully rescuing it from behind the desk, I gave thanks to God and checked the pages for damages — clean. A playful smile crossed my face as I recalled a memory of Balpreet Singh, that mighty Sikh who taught me my way of life, and how he would pay such reverence and respect to Guru Granth Sahib, the holy scripture of our people. Were he to only see me now, running myself ragged to protect a book, perhaps he would be proud — or perhaps he would know exactly how much further I need to go in order to become the man I wish to be. 

Truly, as I now write this upon the shores of the isle of Mount Scarab, it must be said with a pure heart that I miss that man.

To be continued…

FLASHFIRE MAGAZINE HAS FINALLY LANDED!

Hello Flash Fans!

IT’S REAL!

It’s a landmark moment here at FlashFire Studios Inc. Things are finally in motion to REALLY be an ‘Inc.’ It may have even happened by now as you peruse this very site, oh most esteemed reader you. This website has a store now, in the top right! That means oru first paid product is rolling out: FlashFire Magazine, a (hopefully) monthly fiction magazine has officially entered the ring with the goal of becoming the single greatest magazine that Canada has to offer. Not only are we rocking an epic $2 sale today (January 21st) to tomorrow (January 22nd) for the digital copies, we’re thrilled to say we set up a small print studio of our very own and are hand-printing physical copies made to order for those within the land of Canada!

All the stories were written by me, H3X. Some of them I’ve had in my pocket since I was 17 years old, and I gotta say, I’m too proud to think of stories like that, drafted and honed time and time again until the pressure of 9 precious years transformed them into something more than the sum of their parts — It feels a bit like magic to me. I’ve never shipped a package before though — this ought to be fun.

What can I say?

If you’ve enjoyed all the free stuff so far, like Friday Force, like a totally free TTRPG system, or short stories like the very same ones inside FlashFire Magazine — Your support in this exciting new endeavour would mean more to me than anyone could imagine. And, even if you choose not to pick up FlashFire Magazine and have merely enjoyed the free content thus far, and are eager for more — Thank you, too. I’ve lost friends in trying to start this business, and struggled until I found myself at my lowest point, only to pick myself back up and continue for one reason: You, dear reader. I would be nothing without your continued support thus far.

Love;

-A humble butterfly (H3X)

P.S. Many new Friday Force updates coming soon. Official singleplayer compatibility a possibility in the near future.

Dwarfum Necumonum!

Friday Force Alpha Patch 0.14 is Here!

Greetings, Flash Fans!
We are proud to announce that patch 0.14 of Friday Force has since been released, with an increased focus on endgame sci-fi elements!
Some of the changes include:

Tubing for air ducts and machinery for spaceships have been added, including various refining options and storage methods present from the Technic mod, the likes of which H3X (me!) has started sculpting a customized Friday Force edition of with currently limited integration. Notedly, the Friday Force edition uses builtin uranium rather than Technic’s custom uranium.

4-6 downed spacecrafts may be found in any given world which utilize machines from the Technic mod.

Saplings are encouraged to spawn randomly over time.

Though the old waystone system was not removed, a new waystone system is being tested.

There are also API’s present that will be utilized at a future date, including various combat enhancements which should allow the Spear to have additional reach in the future. So too will knapping replace the flint tool system in place in the future.

Spiradilus has been removed on account of being a nuisance.

Emote animations, which have not worked in some time due to the ongoing player animation bug, have been removed.

The old ‘RC1’ server map has since been retired in favour of a brand new map so as to test the new world generation features! We hope you enjoy the official new Friday Force map, ‘A1’!

Dwarfum Necumonum!

2025: Year of the Monarch!

FlashFire Studios is proud to announce Monarch’s first official studio release, “Mi Amor, Mi Roca”. The song was produced by renowned producer Chxse Bank, with edits by the rapper. The beat is deep if not a little eerie, and reminiscent of instrumentals by bands such as the Gorillaz, which, when combined with positive and heartfelt lyrics, creates a unique and dynamic interplay between instrumental and vocalist.

Give the song a listen embedded above, or using the link below:

Listen Here!

Besides this, we have also published the rough draft of ‘The Joyous Night’, a Santa-themed holiday story set within the lands of Nune (Yes, that Nune, from Friday Force!), Hewendall, and the Endless Desert within the world known as Tulara. Check our blog page to read the story!

Rough Draft of ‘The Joyous Night’ from Tales of Tulara, Vol. 1

A Tale by Mark Craig, set in year 65 of the Questing Age.

Santa Claus is an interesting fellow. They say he dwelt in the land of Hewendall long before it was known as Hewen’s Dale at all, living in a truly joyful place known as the Laughing Valley. Tales from Nune bring tidings of his growing up amongst the elves, playing amongst the fairies, his time spent learning the languages and customs of others, and learning a craft of his own - Indeed, they say that Master Claus is an exceedingly elegant woodworker, both in terms of artificing and in terms of construction. He fancied himself a whittler, and indeed, his first toys were all hand carved from wood. Indeed, he was popular amongst the children, always giving them toys when they visited. When he got old, and the children saw him less, he sought to surprise them all during his seldom trips to town with huge sacks of presents.

It is not known what mage’s school he attended, but one thing is for certain: He is one of the most powerful mages in this world, and easily could lay claim to the throne of Hewendall if he so chose. Instead, he runs his workshop in Laughing Valley, accompanied by his family of elves who aid in his gifts for the children. Indeed, they say the man is immortal, Nune and Hewendall both have always been blessed with gifts from the jolly man in red, and even as far west as the Fabled Sea! Such a high demand for his gifts yielded a necessity for his family of elves to aid him. For, their family had no fame, although they did have respect as humble whittlers. Indeed, he brought their house to glory, and House Claus became among the most beloved elven clans in the region. When Santa Claus discovered the Laughing Valley, he saw the makings of a paradise for his family. He envisioned decorated trees, carefully trimmed and nurtured; log cabins with fairy lights, cheerful colours abound, and elven hymns to warm the cold night. When he told his family about his finding, the decision was tough, but the whole clan upended themselves out of Nune and into the land of Hewendall, known then as the land of Rohit, where they built the most lovely little village in all the land. They spent a lot of time searching for the perfect spot in the area, but the bulk of the village came to center around a particularly gargantuan pine tree, the likes of which was decorated in all manner of fairy lights and personal knick knacks from the elves present.

Eventually, they constructed a grand castle out of limestone, marble, and polished quartz, with a beautiful white central spire, shingled with royal purple scales trimmed with gold. At the top of the spire is where Santa Claus spent much time, eyes closed as he sit rapt in meditation, or fiddled with alchemy, or experimented with spells and potioncraft. Indeed, the jolly man was wiser in magic than most, and they say he had found a way to build a magical machine that diffused positivity into the very air of Laughing Valley, causing them all to laugh — the very reason it is named so. Soon, the workshop was in business full time, and on dogsled the old man ventured to deliver his presents. However, in his old age, the journey became very taxing as the volume of presents caused him to essentially always be on the move. It was days like this he was grateful to have met his wife, Hilda Claus, who was truly the secret Santa behind the real Santa. 

As they say, behind every great man is a woman, and even for powerful wizards like Santa Claus, this is no exception. They say a lovely and mature blonde woman, some 30 years of age, became lost in a snowstorm, and separated from her tribe. In the blizzarding snow, she spotted glimmering lights, and headed towards them for safety. As it turned out, she saw the fairy lights that dotted Laughing Valley, and she began to marvel at the whitish castle on the hill in front of her when she arrived. As if drawn by instinct, she ascended the flagstone steps that winded first upward, and then easterly, bending around the wall into an entrance with a drawbridge going over a vast icy waterfall. Short elves dressed in yellows, greens, and reds gave her happy welcomes. She couldn’t help but smile.

“This place is magical — Is this Heaven?”

“Ho ho ho-no, my dear!” A sweet voice bellowed from down the gold-bricked court.

“Welcome to the humble home of my family and I — Laughing Valley! Make yourself at home, stay as long as you like — We rarely have visitors with beauty such as yours!” The hefty, red-nosed man rhythmically bounced with every step as he came to greet the woman, bowing low as he shook her hand and gave it a quick kiss. Such a well mannered man took Hilda by surprise, but her blush quickly turned to a smirk. 

“And who might you be, the Red Rogue of the North?”

He fought back with a smirk of his own. “Some would say. But, I’m a family man, please, call me Claus. Care for some hot chocolate? I have the finest cocoa imported from central Nune, and dates from Myretide, if you would like. Chocolate covered.” He said with a wink.

And so, the two indulged in warm conversation, paired with hot drinks and pleasant sweets. She spoke of her time as a tracker for her tribe, being one who knew the lands like the palm of her hand. Indeed, she claimed to know all the fastest routes in and out of Rohit. However, she found herself undervalued, and felt the hunters always got the glory despite her being the one who found their hunts and planned their routes with care. This sparked an idea in Santa Claus.

“How would you like to work for me? At least for this winter. I don’t want to keep you from your own family, I have all I need here. But, a lot of children are expecting me across the land. My family and I whittle and craft all day, and all night on dogsled I ride to deliver gifts to children who miss me and write to me from afar. I’ve made a happy life for myself, but the demands are getting high, and I’m getting old. Perhaps if you’d take a look at my map, you, er, could help me plan my routes a little better.” The old man was sheepish, but laid down his map on the table, the woman adjusting her glasses to view it.

“Oh heavens! You really travel like this? It feels like I’m staring at a plate of spaghetti! This just won’t do! Fetch me some scrolls and a quill, will you?” And so he did just that. He sat and watched her sketch out all new routes, cleaner, more efficient and less tangled for the aging man and his two dogs. Indeed, she shaved off a third of his total travel time per year after spending a month drafting and revising a special map for him. When it was perfected, so as never to lose it, Santa Claus sought to render it immortal with magic. He brought HIlda up the white spire, to the very top with its blue crystal windows. Hilda, in all her time in Laughing Valley, never had the privilege of entering Santa’s inner sanctum, and she was taken aback by the meticulous care and love put into every nook and cranny. Red tapestries colored the blue walls with joy, many nick nacks were on full display on the walls, crafts lay on a painted wooden table, cabinets filled with potions and vials of shimmering liquids, blades of alchemical metal displayed on the walls, and drawers upon drawers of alchemical ingredients, with a lovely red carpet on the mahogany floor that rounded the central altar. He had a royal red-canopied bed on the northern side of the room with a painting of his home in Nune hanging above it.

“This place — it’s magic!”

“Heheh, you’re quite right, my dear!” 

The happy fellow placed the new map on the altar, and gave Hilda clear instructions for the ritual at hand, filling her hands with various herbs and ingredients she provided at the right times as he worked his magic. Soon enough, a blue flame enveloped the map, and the lines on it began to flash and glow, much to the amazement of Hilda. She stepped closer, and inspected the pulsing map, as if they were veins on a creature the two of them had brought to life together; However, with a wave of his hand, Santa redirected her sight out the crystalline window, speaking in fairy tongues as soon the very trails on the map began to shimmer and glow with a beautiful white aurora. Hilda grabbed the magic man’s hand in instinctual excitement, and went quiet for a long time, her eyes sparkling as she watched the glow race throughout the land.

“Wow…”

“The people have you to thank, Hilda. You did what I couldn’t, you made me faster, you gave the children hope that ol’ Santa Claus can still pay those kids a visit. And I’m sure my huskies Vanagander and Fenrir will be most pleased as well! Those magic pups have might, but even they tire out too you know! Now I can take the map with me, and always see where I’m going.”

As the trails began to fade, and the true aurora began to show, Hilda leaned into Santa’s chest. “Will you ever tire out, Santa?”

His usual jolly grin flashed solemnly for only a moment before returning to his face. “I fear the day is coming sooner than I would like. I’m 55, no young 39 like you are. But, I’m just a man. My family will live on without me long after I’ve grown old. I’m a flash in the pan to them, even though I’ve built a legacy for them all in such a short time. When I’m gone, my family will carry on our traditions, and much better than one old human and his two humble dogs, heheh…”

Hilda’s expression soured, and tears began to well in her eyes. “No, that can’t be true, that just won’t do… Surely there’s something we can do so your family won’t have to lose you!”

Her fingers tightened around his. “So I don’t lose you…”

The old man laughed, and the two shared a kiss as the snow began to fall in big, delicate flakes. “We’re only human, dear. Life is short for us, so we ought to make it count.”

Hilda reached a point of near frustration, her heart aching thinking of the beautiful soul before her one day leaving this world. “I’ll find something! I’ll go through your books, I’ll ask around the tribes, I’ll find someone or some way to keep you around forever, I promise!”

The old man wrapped his arms around her, chuckling to himself. “Well, if I’m to live that long, you ought to make my animals live that long too!” 

And so the two spent the night together, and Hilda became a fervent student of the magic arts, spending all her nights in study as her beloved dashed around on dogsled. The Claus family gave her as much help as they could provide, teaching her all sorts of Nunish and Elven incantations, and in time, she became quite a powerful mage herself. She specialized in complex ritual, while Santa preferred the arts of alchemy, almost akin to his whittling for himself. She met with her old tribe, and the shamans therefrom, but they knew not the secret of immortality. Not the humans, not even the elves who possessed it in their blood. However, in recent years a man with a penchant for magic became their southern neighbour, a feared yet respected man known to her as Lord Highwind. Legend had it that he had a storehouse of magic artifacts, and studied them carefully, being quite wise although not exactly a mage himself. One night, as Santa was on his travels, Mrs. Claus sought to travel out to visit Lord Highwind and question him on how life might be extended, but she found herself without transportation. 

Upon looking around the castle, she found a wandering reindeer in the court eating holly. She cautiously took a mint sweet she made, swirled white and red, and enticed the reindeer to her side with such sweets. Initially, he tried to take the treat and make a run for it out of the courtyard, but it ended up slipping on ice, to which Mrs. Claus helped it onto it’s feet and began to pet it.

“That was quite a fall, wasn’t it big guy? I ought to call you Slepnir - Slippy!”  She hugged the reindeer close, and began to whisper to it in a magic tongue. The animal cocked its head and nodded, as if it understood the mission it had been given. Hilda mounted the beautiful creature, and she began to ride, further and further south until she found the frosty hills in which lay Highwind Hold. The men there wore dark iron platemail, and were tough and grizzled. The men questioned her upon getting to the gate, their halberds sharp and at the ready, putting the muscular Slepnir on edge.

“Hail! What business does an outsider have with the Hold?”

“Hail! I come from Laughing Valley, a humble village a long journey north of here, and I’ve ridden all throughout the night seeking aid from Lord Highwind. If it’s quite alright, even if I don’t see him tonight, I’d really like a warm place to stay for the night.” Hilda looked at the guards shyly, unable to tell their emotion through the holes in their iron masks. The two guards exchanged disguised glances, and broke into a chuckle.

“And what business do you have with “Lord Highwind”?” The two could not help but snicker more.

“The man I love is in danger, I fear Father Time is coming for him sooner than later, and I thought Lord Highwind might be able to help me save him. I’m a mage myself, you see, and Santa could really use his help…”

The two men’s chuckles went quiet. “The man in red?”

Hilda cheerfully nodded. “That’s the one! I’m his — well, I admire him, very much. But, I worry. He’s only human, you know.”

“Aren’t we all.” The posture of the two men relaxed.

“Do us all a favour, call him Lord Hewen. We’ll get you an audience with him if we can. You’ll want to head to Ginger’s inn on the west side of the main road, at the base of the hill the Hold rests on. What’s your name?”

“Hilda!” She rang cheerfully.

“Well, Hilda, we’ll come for you when we get a verdict on that hearing with Lord Hewen. But really, don’t call him Lord Highwind. He hates that. Heheh.” 

And so, Hilda followed the guard’s words and made her way to Ginger’s Inn, meeting Ginger herself, a burly brunette woman (ironically) in pink striped clothes with a white apron with a big, proud nametag, serving drinks at the counter and baked goods. 

“What can I get for ya hun? Rum?” Ginger asked half-heartedly.

Hilda chuckled. “Far from it. What’s that lovely smell?”

“Oh, that? I just baked some of my house cookies - I grow a lotta ginger, so I make these-uh, “ginger-bread” cookies. I make ‘em shaped like soldiers and let the kids ice them up sometimes. Gives ‘em something to do other than wreck my shutters. 1 gold for 3. Want one?”

The blonde-haired HIlda nodded with a delighted smile, handing her over the gold. “May I see the icing?” She said, smile beaming still. This seemed to amuse the hostess quite a bit.

She gave a tray of piping tubes, and let her take her pick. With reds, blacks, and whites, she made a mimic of the man on her mind, complete with his bushy beard and a little smile. Ginger seemed to recognize the sight in an instant.

“Heh. Looks like Santa.”

“It is Santa! He’s my, uh, well, mine. He’s why I’m here, to help him actually.” She took a bite of the cookie, and reeled back in wonder and amazement. 

“You make these yourself, you say?! By the gods, this is divine!” Hilda couldn’t help but devour the cookie in amazement, much to the amusement of Ginger.

“If I could perchance buy the recipe from you, I just know everybody back in Laughing Valley would adore these cookies, even Santa himself! I don’t mean to be so blunt, but my own sweets don’t compare to this “ginger-bread” of yours! I’m simply amazed!”

Hearing such high praise, and the clattering of coin on countertop, Ginger grew a wide smirk. “Alright, put on an apron and get back here, I’ll show you how it’s done. But you better make sure the name I gave them sticks! It’s how I got my nickname. Santa better know those’re Ginger’s Bread Cookies!”

And so, Ginger and Hilda made batch after batch of Gingerbread cookies, so much so that she forgot to rest before seeing Lord Hewen. The smell of freshly baked goods blasted the two gentlemen in the face when they walked into the inn, and they heard playful laughter from the kitchen, seeing the dough-spattered duo emerging joyfully, only to freeze in surprise.

“Don’t worry Ginger. Taxes aren’t going up. Lady Hilda’s got an audience with Lord Hewen now. Did you sleep well?” Without addressing the pair, Hilda and Ginger giggled in harmony before giving the guards some freshly baked cookies.

It was then that Hilda had the idea to bring a sizable amount of what was baked to Lord Hewen directly, a sort of goodwill bribery. And she did just this, requesting each guard to carry a tray with Ginger as well. The smell wafted into the courtroom, and Lord Hewen in his usually morose state roused himself into something more presentable for such an audience. 

“What is this? A gift, for me?” The Lord spoke in confusion.

“It is! I’ve come from afar, and although I was tired, I felt you would appreciate something warm, as the matters I have come to discuss are kept warm in my heart. These cookies are for you, courtesy of Ginger and I!”  Hilda’s usual beaming smile came through, and the gesture alone seemed to soften the heart of the Lord, although he dare not remove his helmet so so much as try them, preferring to have them set on the long table before them. 

“Tell me, child of Rohit, what matters have you come to discuss with me? My men gave word that you are an associate of Clan Claus, here on behalf of Santa. Is it true? Is the Man in Red in danger?” Lord Hewen gripped his throne in an almost icy concern.

“Well, I’m not exactly from Clan Claus, although I hope to be, but I believe Santa needs your help. You’re known for your collection of magic relics, are you not, oh esteemed Lord?” 

“I have only a few relics I hold close to my chest, child of Rohit. But, I’m not unwise to the arcane arts. What is it that you seek?” The Lord seemed to be almost suspicious of her.

“Well… Santa is getting old. Call me foolish, but I couldn’t dream of a world without him. I want to find a way to prolong his life, forever, perhaps. Do you think it’s possible?” Hilda became shy and quiet after this, feeling as though the Lord was staring right into her soul, despite not being able to see his eyes beneath his mask at all.

“For such grand gestures, you would need to call upon a god… How well versed are you in rituals of the arcane?” The tone of Lord Hewen was very serious, there was no doubt that he was set to help, even if he himself did not know the answer she sought directly. 

The two conversed for some time, and it became clear that truly, Hilda knew more of ritual and rite than Lord Hewen himself, who agreed to give her a very important scroll regarding communing with a deity of one’s choosing on the condition that his young son be given a most beautiful and mysterious gift for his child. Hilda knew Santa could make it happen, and after a rest she headed back to Laughing Valley.

In the meantime, Santa was worried sick about her, as nobody was certain where she had left off to. He checked every inch of the castle, and was prepared to go out on dogsled to check the nearby towns when she returned. Without a word, he hugged her tight, and the two exchanged tales of journeys throughout the night, of foreign guests and misadventures. The two laughed over hot chocolate, and Santa remarked at her ingenuity, recruiting a reindeer to take her where she needed to go. Indeed, it got Santa thinking that he could deliver presents even faster with a team of racing reindeer like Slepnir. 

So, one frosty morning in Laughing Valley, the pair enticed another reindeer whom was faster than all the rest, and the hungriest too — Dasher. At first, Santa thought two reindeer to replace two huskies was a fair trade, and after a final sleigh ride, he unhitched Fenrir and Vanagandir for the final time. The huskies loved to roam with Santa, but without his constant presence, he knew they would miss him. So, he made a bulbous and jolly snowman, and with a magic spell he brought the construct to life, placing a magic scarf around its neck. This snowman loved to play with the dogs, who would fetch his sticks and return them to him, or pull him along on their old dogsled. He was Fenrir and Vanagandir’s best friend from that point on, and a happy addition to the land of Laughing Valley. 

Slepnir and Dasher were gifted something akin to the magic collars of Fenrir and Vanagandir, indeed, their reigns gave them the power of magic flight, something the pair had to get used to. The glow of the magic map was not always easy to follow, and they had to be vigilant. Too, a more expansive and luxurious sleigh was designed by the elves, and Santa covered much more of Nune and Hewendall in his trips because of this. And, just as promised, Lord Hewen’s child Piteraq received a cube of wood with many holes, almost like a sponge, the likes of which had been embedded with glowing and shimmering gems of various colours which changed when tapped, emotting a little lightning arc within each individual crystal. If all the colors were unified, it would hum a pleasant tune. Such a fascinating piece of woodworking would forever leave it’s mark on the young boy, who took a love for crafting things himself. And so, Hilda received the scroll she primed for her ritual, and in excitement, decided to contact the Spirit of Joy. 

One joyous night, as Santa laid sleepy in his canopied bed, Hilda performed the rite, using Santa’s storehouse of arcane materials to aid in the ritual. As smoke swirled and began to sway and move into facial features and shapes, a lizard-like visage with bulbous eyes began to appear.

“Ehhwot, what’s going on, what’s this? Hello?? What’s happening?” The large reptillian face spoke in a somewhat down-to-earth voice.

“Oh great Spirit of Joy, I have been up all night preparing this ritual to gain your acquaintance, for I have a favour to ask of you, if you might make a trade with me.”

“Okay I am NOT the “Spirit of Joy!” Lady, you got the wrong number — Wait. Oh no. OH god. Oh god no. NO no no. I know what’s going on here. THIS is the moment. THIS is the moment it happens. Shit! I guess I AM the Spirit of Joy, okay fine. What do you want?” The unusual replies of the lizard seemed to confuse Hilda, but she continued.

“Oh marvellously wise Spirit, if it ever so pleases you, I would pledge myself to you for eternity if you would grant me but one wish; that my love, dear Santa Claus, might live forever.” Santa bolted up from bed.

“Hilda!”

“Shh. What do you say, oh great Spirit?”

“”Oh GrEaT sPiRiT” STOP IT GODDDDDDD look listen this guy right here is kind of important okay? You feel me? I’ll put this one on the house. C’mere Big Red. Come get a hug from papa. Get right in the big smoky thing. Yup. Do it.”

A little confused, Santa entered the smoke, and as told my the spirit, he inhaled the smoke deeply, and laid back down in bed. The smoke fluttered to the roof of the canopy, and his body began to feel light as air.

“Alright listen. I don’t want your soul or something creepy like that lady. Actually, you go breathe some of this in too. And get a bunch of uh, like, I don’t know rocks or something? And draw this symbol on them all. YOu should probably do a lot, like uh, 20… 24 of them. 

“Why 24?” Hilda queried.

“And what of my dogs?” Santa added.

“GODDDDD DO YOU PEOPLE EVER STOP? SHEESH THEY ARE FOR YOUR ANIMALS MY DUDE. I AM THE LITERAL SPIRIT OF JOY AND YOU’RE OUT HERE ASKING ME WHY I ASKED YOU TO DO SOMETHING LIKE I OWE YOU SOME KIND OF EXPLANATION? Like don’t you owe me some kind of 24 rocks with this symbol on them or something lady?? Chop chop please and thank you hey thanks yah yep I’ll be waiting.”

Soon enough, the ritual was complete, and the rocks began to glow with the Sign of Joy. Fenrir, the snowman, and Vanagandir all received a stone, which seemed to put them to sleep. The same can be said of Slepnir and Dasher. Soon, Hilda breathed in the smoke, and laid next to her love. As the visage of the Spirit of Joy began to fade, he gave rhetorical “Any last words?”

— The likes of which a tired Hilda threw an arm around the sleeping Santa. “Can I marry this guy?”

“Oh, snap, uh, yeah, actually, I’mma need you to wake him up and ask him that, it’s a pretty important thing here in uh, the afterlife, that you do that, please, thank you.”

And so, Hilda nervously awoke her love from his slumber, and with a youthful smile, he gave his reply, and the Spirit of Joy himself married them then and there in Laughing Valley. The elves celebrated all night long as the newly crowned Mrs. Claus, and, upon hearing the news that she and Santa would live forever, as would their blessed helpers the snowman, Fenrir, Vanagandir, Slepnir, and Dasher, and perhaps more to come, the elven clan decided to make Santa and Hilda the King and Queen of Laughing Valley and the Claus Clan.

The years went by, and the legend of the ageless wizard Santa Claus spread throughout the lands. He acquired many many reindeer over time, the likes of which he divided into a few teams. For short trips, Slepnir alone was enough. For a usual journey, he found himself pulled by the reindeer Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, and Blitzen. For journeys requiring more speed, he had an alternate team made up of the reindeer Flossie and Glossie, Racer and Pacer, Reckless and Speckless, Fearless and Peerless, and the frontrunners, Ready and Steady. Long after the time of their friend Lord Hewen’s coming and going, through the reign of Lord Piteraq, and to this very day, Santa rode, his eternal love waiting for him at home, his magic reindeer flying through the sky becoming a yearly treat for the people of Hewendall and Nune. Indeed, the Joyous Night became a most beloved tradition, formerly many nights,  but with such magic speed, Santa consolidated his gift-giving to a single night a year, in which he cleanly delivered to every man, woman and child he could. People still wrote to him, and though he had not the time to reply to each and every one, he read them all, and when he made his list of gifts and toys, he made sure each got what they wanted. Very rarely, people would write not to Santa but to Mrs. Claus, not quite complaints, but notes, kids who received someone else’s toy, or were bereft of what they really wanted. So, on those rare nights, Mrs. Claus set out into the sky herself with her beloved Slepnir, and delivered the proper gifts to those who wrote to her. And so, decades and centuries passed as the duo spread joy and merriment throughout the land. Not even the young Jack Frost could stop the pair when he impeded their work with the harshest of snowstorms.

 However, after many centuries, the jolly one himself caught wind of another land, one further south than he had ever travelled, a land where it never snows, where palm trees grow, and sand envelops all the land from coast to coast: The Endless Desert, home to the nation of Oasis, a land which claimed peace but truly had none. The people struggled to survive, although they found joy in each other’s company. They protected themselves from outsiders, bandits, thieves, and the harsh desert itself. The thought that he could bring people even in exceedingly far off lands such as these a hint of lasting happiness compelled him to devise a plan with Mrs. Claus to ride further south than he had ever rode before — The Oasians would soon know the Joyous Night. He studied their folk, and thought to make peace with their leaders. He heard of noble figures like Will Goodman, and myself Athalos, and of Lord Alakshai as well. Too, he heard word of figures bitter and bleak, like the one in Devil’s Junction, the Man in Black, gritting his teeth.

His two dogs on his lap, and his snowman friend smoked a pipe with him as they discussed what toys to give the foreigners alongside a cadre of elves — All the while Mrs. Claus came up with a clever route matching the wind patterns, her face looming over the yellow papyrus she drew on, nearly knocking her pitcher of hot chocolate over in fervor. When the route was planned, the elves put together a hefty sack and loaded it onto the sleigh, and the plan was set to begin. Santa would start in Oasis, and then cover the isles of the Fabled Sea, and the vast lands of Nune, before returning home to deliver presents in his home of Hewendall, once Rohit.

He hitched his sleigh with not one team but two — The leftmost row containing Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, Donner and Blitzen. At the front of the row, the eldest of them all, the hefty Slepnir, alongside Jinglehorse, always rounding up the pack. The right row had reindeer Flossie and Glossie, Racer and Pacer, Reckless and Speckless, Fearless and Peerless, with Ready and Steady at the front to keep them steady as his name. And, his guiding light, his Red Wayfarer, the youngest reindeer of all, led his sleigh. With a speed greater than Mrs. Claus nor any elf in Laughing Valley had seen, Santa sped off into the night, faster than a speeding bullet — Off, to the land of Oasis!

Little did he know, however, us Oasians would prove reckless, though not as reckless as the shadowy Grune who lived in the mountain overlooking Laughing Valley. For I, fair Athalos, study the stars with my telescope, and on the Joyous Night some years ago, I saw a flash, a zip pass by the highway.

I swiveled and I focused, my telescope clacked and it clicked, and when it came to focus, you wouldn’t believe what I saw through that slat. A man on a sleigh, with animals 21, speeding fast on the road, laughing along his way. Into our homes and our houses he lobbed bombs and threw traps, or so I had thought, he sought our collapse!

In shock and in terror, I rushed to the courtoom to tell Lord Alakshai of our intruder’s error. Alas, afraid and afright, the Lord was nowhere to be found, for it was late in the night! I sought to take care of things myself, indeed, I found it quite alright, and grabbed my staff before heading into the night. Following the trail of ringing bells to the jolly man himself, we came face to face. He was placing presents on the porch of a house by the bay when we locked eyes. He stood quiet in surprise, as if I was not meant to see him, but I saw the intruder and fired my shot. At the time I knew not his reputation, I knew not what he had got.

With a zap of heat and energy, I sought to overheat the sweatered man and take him to the dungeon for questioning. Alas, the fat man can hustle, as he adeptly dodged my bolt, being absorbed by the sandstone wall of the home he found himself delivering to. 

“Ho-ho!” he shouted in shock, jumping onto his sleigh. This time, I sought to freeze him in place with a ray of ice, but I was kicked in the face by fair Slepnir the moment I tried to cast my ray. With a flick of his reins, he was off — and the race was on. 

He raced east, raining tools of destruction (or so I thought) down on every doorstep he passed by. He was much faster than I, there was no hope for me! He swerved left toward the Palace, but I continued straight and pounded on the door of the Lord’s estate with urgency.

“ALAKSHAI! ALAKSHAI!!! WAKE UP, COME QUICKLY!” With no time to wait for a reply, I ascended the sandstone frame surrounding the front door, and clambored onto the fenced off roof, the likes of which Alakshai’s bedroom was on.  As soon as the door to the bedroom was within arm’s reach, I began to pound once more.

“ALAKSHAI! OASIS IS UNDER ATTACK! WE N—” The door swung open, and the half-dressed Lord of Lords himself, wearing a blanket to cover himself and his skull headdress alone, answered. 

“Athalos! Collect yourself, come inside, and explain this to me.” 

Without hesitation, I grabbed Alakshai by the wrist and pulled him out into the open air, losing his blanket to the ground. “There’s no time to spare! He’s headed for the palace!”

“Athalos! Let me get pants on at least!”

“I.. I’ll meet you there!” Frantically, I half-jumped, half-stumbled off the rooftop and into the Lord’s pumpkin patch. With orange-stained robes and pumpkin seeds stuck in my hair, I sprinted with all my stamina to the palace at full speed. I could see the figure dashing around town  going street to street, and as such I beat him to the palace, rushing into my archive and flipping through my most powerful tomes looking for defenses. While I was busy searching for appropriate nonlethal responses for the yet known red threat that raced through our streets, Alakshai thought to approach him head on. 

Alakshai lept with lightning speed, spinning his staff in a wild attack as Santa’s sleigh passed him by. Indeed, he got onto the speeding carriage, but even sitting down, the old man scooched out of the way of the staff’s wicked blow. He dodged not one or two, but three or four swings from the enigmatic Lord before shaking him off with a sharp turn, leaving him in the dust with a hearty laugh. Then I saw him speeding toward Mayor Goodman’s fort, Thanesholme, west of the palace. Spellbook in hand, I ran out into the desert sand after him, meeting up with Alskhai who was sprinting up the bridge to the higher road. Without hesitation, Alakshai used the charms on his bracelet to cast all sorts of shamanic spells, summoning countless spirits to hinder and slow the red giant, all to no avail. Even Will Goodman’s home was ensnared with the Red Menace’s box traps. It’s then I settled on a powerful “suction” spell, an inversion of the whirlwind spell that would pull the sleigh towards us with supernatural force. The suction was so extreme that Alakshai was blown off his feat and sent tumbling back, and I watched amusingly as Santa’s sleigh slowed to a crawl, and the jolly man began to panic, only to crack his reins once more and, as if I he were never trapped at all, he easily sped off faster than before, taking off straight into the skies, a move that left me stunned in the middle of the midnight streets. I helped Alakshai to his feet and handed him my spellbook before running back to the palace.

I don’t know what spells Alakshai chose to cast, but I saw a lot of flashing lights from behind me and heard several explosions and a near-constant rumbling until I reached my sanctum and grabbed my broomstick. I took to the air myself, and I chanted and sped, straight past me went the moon over my head! 

That Jolly man Santa reared his neck to check where I went, and he saw in the end I was following him to my best! I shot as I sped, again and again, so too did Lord Alakshai, from the ground his bolts went, but that man Santa was agile, fast and had tricks. He dipped and he dodged, went right and went left, in the end all was lost, and with a crack of his reins once more  he had sped. Like a blaze in the night, like a bullet that sped, he soared past the full moon, but he dropped us two gifts overhead. Seeing the man in red speed off so fast, I thought I’d never see him again, and to the ground I had lept. 

Alakshai and I took note of the gifts, addressed each to him and to I, upon further inspection they were not traps no, but boxes wrapped with fine papers and dyes. We unwrapped each box and to both our surprise, Alakshai was given an enchanted blue crystal from Lord Hewen’s old stores, a shard of the stormstone chiseled to fit the Rod of Rulership by his fair child Piteraq, alongside a note addressed to us both. The note talked of Santa’s long journey and home, the life that he lived, and what gave him his hope. The gift that he gave me was simple and special, the quill of an angel, and a neverending inkwell, which has long since served me well — For this very tale it served to tell! 

We could see him for just a moment through the night’s sky, and we wished him a hearty goodbye. He had given us magic, the time of our lives, what a ball! For the villainous Man in Black who lived in Devils Junction, however, he left no presents at all.

Thus ends, or rather begins, the legend of Santa Claus.

A New Era of Tabletop Roleplaying!

FlashFire Studios is proud to announce Flash RPG, a brand new generic tabletop roleplaying system, capable of everything from traditional fantasy, to science fiction, superheroes, westerns, and horror genres!

Better still, download the Quick ‘n’ Dirty Rulebook completely free! Coming in 2025 will be a full boxed set including an expanded rulebook, poker chips, playing cards, and a full set of dice, including a zocchihedron d100!

Flash RPG touts itself as a flexible, easy to play yet highly detailed narrative-heavy system. Spend less time focusing on math and more time narrating. Freeform spellcraft, limitless attacks, and a unique Fate & Destiny system make the Flash RPG experience unlike any other. Download the Quick ‘n’ Dirty Rulebook from the link below:
DOWNLOAD HERE!

Moreover, here are some (Untested!) printer-friendly character sheets with no textured background:
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ktc82sf2g2y1ybva2lhh8/TOTTRPG-Character-Sheet.pdf?rlkey=e3x44f3tak8cyz8cdsevsm4z2&st=oww0xp9c&dl=0

Note: Interested in authoring your own sourcebook for Flash RPG? Feel free to Contact Us!

Aaand We’re Back!

You may have noticed that our servers for Friday Force were temporarily offline — We’re back! We are proud to announce that our company has restructured! Unfortunately, due to the nature of such a restructure, we here at FlashFire have had to accordingly restructure our release schedule. As a result, things have been pushed back — but fear not! Tales of Tulara, Friday Force and FlashFire Monthly Magazine are all still slated for release!

In other, equally exciting news, we are pleased to share the opening of James’ Workshop in 2025. Behold: Airdrie now has a local propmaster and costume designer for your costume needs.

We are also proud to announce the beginning of development for FlashEng, a custom voxel engine that will be freely released, as a stylishly modified fork of the Luanti engine, specializing in launching singular Lua-based games instead of hosting an array of games like the Luanti launcher. When FlashEng is completed, development on the sequel to Friday Force, known as Colony Ship Down, will then begin.

Colony Ship Down is a new, voxel-based social game that combines elements from Club Penguin, WEBFISHING, and Among Us alongside Minecraft style graphics that will allow all sorts of wacky adventures. The basic premise is based on the Alien franchise — A colony ship sent from the planet Valis (Yes, that planet Valis from our Doom inspired pre-written adventure series, Chronolens) is undertaking a thousand year journey to its destination. The players play as colonists who are tasked with maintaining the ship and keeping themselves fit and entertained for the thousand year journey. Financial backing for Colony Ship Down is currently being sought. We’re also going big, and we’re also going bold — It is our hopes that both FlashEng and Colony Ship Down will be available on Steam when they are ready.

Check back on December 21st for the free release of the ‘Quick & Dirty’ version of the Flash Tabletop Roleplaying Game — It’s going to be completely free! This is a thank-you to all the fans who stayed during the restructuring. Your support is the reason why I (H3X) do this. I’ve been into tabletop games my whole life — the chance to make my own is one I never thought I’d have. The system solves nearly all previous complications and absorbs house rules from various TTRPG’s across the ‘net, wrapped up in a need little FlashFire-themed bow — It’s got a moves system so that non-mages feel like they have just as many options as magic users. Magic itself now feels like the players are truly interacting with forces beyond their control, wielding a mighty d100 influenced by their faith, power and destiny. There is a sanity system, allowing for psychological play and even outright horror scenarios. Skills are dice-based rather than mathematical: You simply need to know which dice you’re rolling, and then you roll them — little to no math required. There are feats and flaws to keep the gameplay interesting, and a unique Fate & Destiny system which brings unique Natures (Alignments) outside the norm and a fully functioning Karma system to reward players for taking dramatic actions of both the good and evil varieties.

In 2025, we will be releasing the following pre-written adventures for Flash RPG: The Curse of Azerbad Durgh (free for premium blog subscribers), The Ancient Keys of Acererak (Completely free!), Pulp Adventures Vol. I: Young Zorro & The Calico Ghost, and the ongoing Chronolens series.

We are actively seeking authors for the development of new sourcebooks for the Flash RPG system. Do you have an interest in TTRPGs? Have you ever wanted to write your own official sourcebook? Contact us today! We will review your concepts, ideas, or works in various states of completion and see what we can do to help make your dream a reality.

Friday Force Open Alpha Launch Patch v0.04 Has Landed

Quickly following of the release of Friday Force, we have released a new patch correcting a few issues:

Werewolf hitboxes are now corrected.

Giant spiders no longer crash the game from incorrect climbing logic*

New lighting system brought to you by Cozy Lights, the minetest engine mod, now fully integrated into Friday Force with a custom patch.

New challenge has arrived! To combat the brighter lights, darkness is now REALLY DARK!

The latest update of Friday Force is already available on our dedicated community server, and the repository will be updated shortly.

Thanks for playing! Dwarfum Necumonum!

P.S., you will see we now have account availability added to our website — exclusive blog content for those signed up coming soon!

*I always say this and it always happens again, don’t count on it -H3X

Friday Force: Open Alpha is Here!

After a long year of closed development and private testing, Friday Force has finally launched in Open Alpha! Play the game with your friends! Check out an introduction by the creator on YouTube!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eI5QlqE52I&t=961s

FlashFire Studios Incorporated would like to formally thank all it’s Closed Development testers and supporters, including:

Mark Craig (Thorn) (H3X) (M.C. Monarch) (Creator of Friday Force) (FlashFire Studios Inc Co-Founder)

Liam Collyer (Jimothy) (FlashFire Studios Inc Co-Founder) (Friday Force Game Dev)

Jason McAlpine (Jewls_Westroad) (Investor)

Tristan Craig (Quarryman) (TTRPG Contributor)

Vincent Smalley (Sir2Quik) (Vincentizer) (Rapper) (Influencer)

Tom Williams (Tokwa) (Safari Snap Game Dev)

Shawn Whalen (Kitty) (FlashFire Studios Inc Co-Founder) (Conceptual Consultant)

Toosty (Pigmen Artist)

Livelier_Vovalium (Zombie Artist)

We’re Live!

September 21st, 2024 - Friday Force Classic Editon official release —1 year anniversary of Friday Force!

October 21st, 2024 - PDHL Boxed Set official release — The Professional Dice Hockey League Boxed Set is a board game that will allow you to bring hockey to the table: Your league, your rules!

November 21st, 2024 - The Spider Strikes — In Colour! Experience the classic 1933 pulp novel with colorized images never seen before!

December 21st, 2024 - Tales of Tulara, Vol. 1, the official novel by Mark Craig, for sale just in time to arrive for the new year.

December 31st, 2024 - Sneak peak at 5 tracks from Calgary rapper Monarch’s upcoming collaboration album, titled TBA.

January 21st, 2025 - Official launch of FlashFire Monthly Magazine — Don’t miss out on an action-packed issue #1!