It’s not an easy choice to join a cult. That’s especially true if that cult is all about ending the world through magical mind-control and deadly maleficence.
However, when Oaklin Nettlewood joined as a teen there was no talk of gory death and destruction. They simply welcomed young Nettlewood with smiles, pats on the back and promises of freedom from familial demands and worldly limitations.
Oh, and there was the assurance of magical powers! Don’t want to forget that. Of course, the powers were supposed to be the sparkling, life-changing sort, not the mind-twisting and tormenting stuff that the evil Enchantrix doled out.
(Maybe the name “Evil Enchantrix” should have been a clue.)
Anyway, after the resulting horrible war ended, Oaklin somehow survived cult life with little but a Swiss-cheese memory and a very heavy load of emotional trauma. When Oaklin limped away, starting over seemed like a good idea.
Miraculously, there was a small, crumbling farmhouse outside a town called Mossley’s Rest, a house with acres of seemingly fertile land. No one else wanted it. And it fit Oaklin’s meager budget perfectly.
In fact, Mossley’s Rest seemed like the perfect place altogether. It was quiet and green and friendly and … restful. Nervous as Oaklin was about being found out as a former cultist, the local townsfolk were as welcoming as one could possibly hope.
Some in town, such as the local librarian—a comely female paladin with muscular shoulders and arms—suggested that Oaklin might just find more than friends there. Ahem.
In any case, getting the farmhouse patched up and figuring out how to make a living off the land are Oaklin’s first objectives. And they’ll gobble up plenty of this quiet newcomer’s time.
Just keep your head down. Stay calm. Don’t look out of place. Figure out how things work, Oaklin mutters while nailing, digging and patching. And it all starts to feel a bit like a sort of mental and physical therapy. It feels good to be normal.
But Oaklin can’t escape magic.
I mean, lots of folks in these small towns use magic in their work. The village bread mage in Mossley’s Rest, for instance, makes a magic-infused muffin that’s to die for. His baked goods even bolster your mood and wellbeing thanks to their magical glaze.
But Oaklin can’t lean upon any latent magical powers, no matter how much of the stuff seems to emanate from the very land about the farm. Magic is off limits. Magic is dangerous. And Oaklin is quite happy to put in whatever it takes to scratch out a life without any of it.
That non-magic campaign seems to be working just great for a while. But then the ghost of the farmhouse’s former owner shows up. And this ghostly, grumpy granny drags Oaklin out of bed with a list of demands—farming demands, magic demands.
Looks like farming in Mossley’s Rest may not be as restful as Oaklin had hoped.