Daemonheim Asunder:

'When my memories were taken from me, my mind was left with naught but a few stories on a dusty bookshelf. Over the years, other stories became attracted to me, but I always considered those first stories to be my favourites and like the memories I had lost. Now that I have been freed from my icy prison, I can share this one with you, about a hobgoblin called Gra'magor who became someone of note within Daemonheim.'

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The Mermaids & The Dragon

'When the summer currents came, the monkfish and baron sharks came with it. The weeds and fronds were busy with shrimp and the anemones blushed with colour.
For the five mermaids of the Blue Spiral, the currents brought the hunting season. Tridents were sharpened, teeth were filed to points, and music thrummed in the practice halls. Here, the mermaids danced in circles to clear the grogginess of hibernation. They traded partners in the spinning dance, talking about the coming hunt.?"
"Remora is twenty. Should we bring her this season?"
"She has no magic. We'd have to watch her constantly."
"Still no magic? When'd you get yours, Urchin?"
"Fif'een."
" Honestly, there's no helping Remora. She's only good for cleaning and cooking."
"Stop talking about me as if I were elsewhere!"
"Agreed. We leave her."
The first day of the hunt arrived. Four of the five mermaids woke and locked the door of the house behind them. Several pots - baked in with seaweed - cluttered the kitchen, a washing brush balanced deliberately on top of them.
The older mermaids hunted in the ocean basin, wrapping their catches in kelp. They snacked on guppies and chased morays from hidey holes, stealing their homes for an overnight stay. When morning came, they would tally catches and use their water magic to send food parcels home.
On the thirtieth day, the summer currents shifted. The migrating shoals continued their journey southward, and the mermaids begrudgingly turned tail. They shared stories on the way back and marvelled at the season's haul.
On coming to the Blue Spiral, their home, they saw that the door was open. It swayed in the currents, buckled at its middle. The blade of a swordfish was discarded nearby.
"The little siren has run away."
"Who'll cook the catches?"
"Not me."
"We need to get her back."
"Agreed. We find her."

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