EK's Star Log

The Trade Caravan Quaraun sat cross-legged on a thick silk rug, needle and thread in hand, his mechanical fingers clinking faintly as he embroidered. The jellyfish tendrils of his hair curled around him protectively, occasionally snapping in irritation. The soft pink silk stretched taut across the embroidery hoop bore a pattern of silver lilies, each stitch precise and flawless. His muttering broke the quiet, punctuated by the clink of BoomFuzzy’s cooking tools on the other side of the tent. "I despise Humans," Quaraun growled, tugging the thread tight. "Burning my lighthouse. Calling me a villain. A big boss!" His voice rose with each word. "I am a silk merchant! A mage! Not some—some dungeon monster!" Across the tent, BoomFuzzy stirred a cauldron of clam chowder, the savory scent wafting through the air. Loaves of freshly baked bread cooled on a nearby counter.  "Ya’re nae wrong, Love," BoomFuzzy said, his Scots accent lilting. "But gripin...

Pickling Perfection The air inside the BioDome was crisp and fragrant, carrying the tangy aroma of dill mingled with the fresh, watery scent of cucumbers. Rows upon rows of leafy green plants stretched out, their soft shadows dancing under the glowing artificial sun.  Quaraun reclined on a pink velvet lounge, surrounded by frilly pink silk cushions, his usual pink parasol poised in one hand while he sipped black tea from a porcelain cup painted with pink roses. “Glinta, you’re bruising them!” he snapped, watching GhoulSpawn fumble with a particularly large cucumber. “I’m not bruising them!” GhoulSpawn retorted, his tone exasperated as he carefully placed the cucumber in the wicker basket by his side. His green velvet coat was rolled up to his elbows, and a smudge of dirt marred his glasses. “You’re the one who insists I do this by hand. We could use a harvesting machine, you know.” “And deprive you of learning proper care for the plants?” Quaraun huffed. “You are my apprentice, not...

I started my blog in 1996. It was BlogSpot back then, Google not only didn't own it yet, Google had not yet been invented. So my Blogger blog is actually older then Google by almost 5 years. And it still has it's original template. You are right about the templates looking from the 1990s. That's because they ARE from the 1990s. My blog is 29 years old, will be 30 years old next year, and I don't remember Blogger adding a single new template in that entire time.  The thing about Blogger is this: people go there to read personal daily diary type blogs, fiction blogs, crafting blogs, fanfiction blogs, and mommy blogs... and that's it. If you try to do any sort of SEO or affiliate marketing or spammy advice type blog, and you'll sink like a rock. Blogger has its own algorithm and search features and people who go to Blogger to read blog posts, they are looking for old school 1990s daily personal life updates type of blogs. Aka, if your blog ain't something that ...

The Bandits and the Pink Necromancer The wind howled through the endless expanse of snow, carrying icy tendrils that snuck into every crack of the pink silk tent.  Quaraun sat cross-legged on a pink velvet cushion, his long, silver jellyfish tentacle hair draped in neat coils around him,  slithering protectively. His gold mechanical hands, glinting softly in the faint candlelight, meticulously embroidered a rose onto a scrap of pink silk.  The scent of gingerbread and clove wafted from the corner where BoomFuzzy stirred a pot of strange gingerbread stew. No one knew why gingerbread was in his stew, but he claimed it was the secret ingredient and Quaraun and GhoulSpawn had decided not to question the old Faerie’s logic. "Ye’re too quiet, Love," BoomFuzzy said, his grizzled voice cutting through the eerie stillness.  Quaraun grunted in reply.  BoomFuzzy turned, his steampunk goggles fogged from the heat of the fire. Being legally blind he could not see...

Beneath a crimson sky, the silk weaver wove pink silk. Beneath a crimson sky, the silk weaver sat hunched over his loom, fingers moving with hypnotic precision. The pink silk shimmered like liquid light under his touch, catching the last rays of the dying sun that bled across the heavens.  Quaraun's silver jellyfish tentacle hair, braided and looped around his waist, gleamed in the same eerie glow, like strands of moonlight tethering him to the earth.   The air was cold, brittle with the frost of an eternal winter, yet his tent was warm, perfumed by the faint, sweet scent of spun silk and the soft crackle of enchanted braziers. Outside, the howling wind sang mournful tunes, but here, within the protective pink striped silk walls of his traveling tent, the world was quiet, intimate, and timeless.   Each thread he wove told a story.  A story of survival, of endless wandering through a land forsaken by warmth and light.  A story of love and loss, stitched...