Orb Bestiary: the Blood Cardinal

The Damphel is also known as the Blood Cardinal. It is a small bird, weighing only 165 grams. Its plumage is the color of dried blood, but other areas of the bird, such its beak and feet, are a deep, fleshy pink.

The most interesting feature of the Damphel are the bony projections that extrude from its head, in the approximate location where a normal cardinal would have a feathered crown. These projections are a veiny pink, which appear to be tied to the cardinal’s nervous system and brain. This strange adaptation has been employed by those with knowledge of the beast for centuries.

If one can obtain a blood cardinal, and prick their finger upon the bone crown, an interesting reaction occurs. The cardinal will sit quietly for approximately 30 seconds, then take flight, leading the owner of the blood it bears to the thing they most desire.

Why this occurs is unknown. It is theorized that the blood is somehow absorbed by the cardinal’s bone crown and signals are sent to its avian brain. However, it has been noted the bone crown must pierce the skin; blood that has been exposed to open air will not activate its seeking mechanism.

Because of this power the Damphel is used by investigators, treasure hunters, and thieves. It is also used by those whose loved ones have disappeared or been kidnapped. Young romantics often use the blood cardinal to attempt to find love, but beware: if your motives are impure, and you seek carnal desire, it will simply take you to the most likely candidate.

A lord with a Damphel as a totem will be seen as a seeker of things, and person of great desire and passion. They will also be seen as a possessive person, with many wants and needs. They may be thought of as quick to change their hearts, or uncertain, as the Damphel is needed to guide them. Of course, if the holder of the totem engages in a life of service, this perception changes, as they often help others seek what they want most.

The Damphel was the totem of Saint Raphael Christholm, Valadin and head of King Thane I’s Quests and Crusades division. Christholm was a famed seeker of lost artifacts, and secured many treasures for his King, most famously recovering the King’s amulet after it was stolen by “Lord” Herne in AA 4137.

Inventing Checkers

One upon a time, two giants were playing chess. They were rather aggravated by the game. None of the pieces moved the same way and some of them made no sense. Surely, a knight could topple a castle, and a pawn may slay a queen (most queen-slayers have been pawns, actually). And anyone could kill a king - it's generally how one became a king. It was the bishops that drove them crazy. They hadn't known many bishops, but how in Urd's gizzard were they able to kill a knight?

Perhaps it was some sort of political statement. Giants are not fond of political statements.

(I won't even get into the issue of the chess board. Everyone knows giants only see one color, that color being red, so it just looked like a big square to them.)

Finally, in their anger, they pounded their huge hands down onto the board and flattened all the pieces. When they looked down, they were all the same. They all had the same potential. They moved the same and killed the same, and any one of them could become a king.

And no, that is not a political statement.

Inventing Lightning

...there was a boy that wanted to be real. He believed that almost everything was real. He believed in magic and ghosts and monsters and mysteries.

But he didn't believe in himself.

The people around told him that he was real, but for years and years he wasn't able to find proof what they were saying was true. He waited for a sign. Something would happen and prove he was real.

Perhaps lightning would strike him and he'd come to life.

He'd look out the window, waiting for sky to darken. But day after day and year after year the skies were maddingly clear.

He grew up and became an adult and did adult things. But still he believed in almost everything, including vampires and werewolves and aliens and goodness. Every day, he looked out the window and waited and waited. Blue, blue skies. Hard to complain about that. And he realized that he was a little afraid of the lightning. What if it hit him and he found out he wasn't real after all?

Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to know. If the lightning wasn't going to come, he'd build a lightning machine and make some of his own. He had no idea how to build one, but that wasn't about to stop him. He tied a key to a kite, then dug up some potatoes and pounded nails into them.

Out in his backyard, crucified potatoes in the pockets of his fleece robe, he sent the kite into the clear sky. He held the key tight and rubbed his slippered feet together and thought: There's no place like Orb.

The skies turned his favorite shade of gray and thunder rumbled, but no lightning came.

Every day he did this for hours and while a storm threatened, it never broke.

Until it did. Until one day the sky went black and the thunder rumbled to a pause. The lighting ripped the sky in two and it came for him. He caught it like a fish on his kite string and it baked the potatoes in his pockets in a flash. It surged through him, sending shocks from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. He felt the goosebumps all over and he knew he was real. He was as real as winged horses and mermaids and a competent president.

And he learned something. He had learned that lightning doesn't just come out of the blue. You have to build a lightning machine and you have to make it yourself.

And that, kids, is how I wrote my first book.