Skip Scherer - Author
@skipscherer
Indie author, martial arts school owner (27+ years), T1D. DM's should be meaningful, or you risk being blocked. I aim to entertain. My books:
Tire picked up a nail yesterday, so I’m spending this morning getting a replacement.
Delve #? You might be trapped, but today you get a breather. 🖤 Delve is taking a brief pause while I recharge, but you can grab the Collected Edition for 100% FREE over on my website right now. Go explore before the next descent begins... Link in comments 👇 — 💙📚 #reading #amreading #books #fantasy
Delve is taking a short hiatus for a few weeks—maybe about a month—while I recharge and wrap up a few other projects. Here’s the good news! I’m finishing the Delve Collected Edition, and I’m aiming to have the entire epic available today or tomorrow. Stay tuned! 💙📚 💙 🪐📚
A little bit of writing under a watchful eye. Dog day Sunday. 💙📚 💙 🪐📚
It's either a fossil record, or theirs a dog sleeping somewhere on this rug. 😁
A single speck, turning to a snowflake, freezing to ice. Thickened into bricks, the bricks into walls. No detail was missed. He wouldn't tolerate it. Kru, last Sovran Thaumaturgist and master of his world — built his cage. No—his Jur Portal. His home. Now, with magic in his veins, he ripped it open.
Kru’s arms flailed like a mad tiger, ripping and shredding at the cloak as his teeth tore into its fibers. The cloak revulsed, thrashing to pull away, to escape. Kru held fast. He tied it off, slicing his own flesh. If this was his magic, he would dominate it—he would create his own damned reality.
Out for a nice Feiday night dinner. Red House in Renton, Wa.
The cloak swirled, wrapping an arm, a leg—devouring Kru’s flesh, crushing bones. His screams rose until they passed beyond what the ear could register. His body contorted, warping to the unnatural assault. “Accept your fate.” twin voices echoed. “No! I am the master here!” He bellowed in defiance.
His arms flailed, his face contorted to scream at the heavens, “No! My magic is life—my knowledge rivals Jur’s!” From the shadows of his mind and the cold biting his ears, the voices fused in a cruel echo: “Those are not yours. You stole the magic from Ana, the knowledge from him. You are a fraud.”
Kru growled as the frost tore at his throat. “I beg for nothing!” The crushing weight of the ice piled over him, burying him alive. He lurched upward, shattering his frozen tomb in an explosion of crystals. The cloak whipped wildly around him, its fabric finding its own voice: “I am your magic.”
The shadows hissed in his ear. "I told you he was angry, Kru. Yet you never listen. Look at you—so fierce in your arrogance, so pathetic in your resolve." "Who is this?" Kru spat through chattering teeth, his breath freezing in the air. "What did I do?" "Not what — but everything you begged for."
20th anniversary was on Thursday, but we're getting to the celebration now. Here's to 20 more wonderful years.
“What— who—are you?” Kru forced the words out. The cold swirled at his feet, rising, encompassing him—a whirlwind attacking his flesh with icy needles. Kru smacked his body, knocking off sheets of ice again and again. He fell to his knees, curling up tight, desperate to keep his remaining heat.
A bitter chill seized Kru; his teeth chattered. He peered into the hollow of the cowl, searching for a face, a shape, any scrap of corporal reality—and found only nothingness. From the shadows of the hood, tendrils of smoke coiled outward, exhaled in ragged gasps that sounded entirely too human.
The wind whipped through the chamber, howling, stinging his eyes. Kru convulsed, vast tremors racking his body as ice splintered from his skin. He screamed—a desperate war against the icy assault. Yet the shadow advanced, floating weightless on waves of cold, a shroud and cowl drifting ever closer.
The cold rippled down his back. He hugged himself tighter, scanning the room. The lights were all snuffed, gone in puffs of winter freeze, and a dim blue haze replaced the now-lost warmth of the candlelight. Amidst the stillness, between the tables, a silhouette formed and glided down the aisle.
An icy wind crawled across Kru’s skin. He locked his arms, his breath turning to silver smoke. A sharp crackle shattered the silence. Frost condensed, devouring the tables and chairs as it raced across the floor like a carpet of glass. As far as the eye could see, winter had claimed the ballroom.
“Kru, stop.” The shadow whispered. “Come no closer. He is angry.” “You torture me, then claim to help? I go where I please, Ana. Once you would have admired that.” “Not here. Not like this.” Her voice dimmed like the last vestige of sunlight into the night. “You tread to far. You are not ready…"
Stripped of the filth and rags, he turned his back on the pile. He cleared a nearby table, gripping the cloth. Lacking a blade, he used his teeth—biting and tearing the fabric to size. He bound it tight, knotting a strip around his waist. Cleaned. Fed. Clothed. Once more, he was ready for power.
He walked the lines of tables, eating as he went—grapes, cheeses, breads, prime meats, and fine wine. His belly full, he dropped onto a bench and seized up a napkin, stripping off his rags. He wiped his face, arms, and legs. As a cloth turned black with grime, he tossed it aside and grabbed another.
Ceilings scaled the heavens, casting stained-glass light over rows of tables bowed under a cornucopia of meats, cheeses, and fine wine. The grand hall held bounty enough to feed a kingdom, its splendor suffocating. Torches blazing. Yet amid the roaring warmth of the feast, Kru stood utterly alone.
The hallway ended. As sudden as a lightning strike, a single step placed Kru before a vast, expanding room. A glance back showed the passage stretching behind him. Before him, though, was something he hadn’t seen coming. No distant speck, no glimmer of what lay ahead. It was simply here, waiting.
A few hiccups getting herr — trouble at dinner, which I'll talk about later. But we have our seats and are ready to go. Phantom of the Opera! #Seattle #SeattleOpera #Opera
Tonight, I get to knock one off the list! Phantom of the Opera! Dinner and then the show, what a great Sunday. #Seattle #SeattleOpera #Opera
The loose crowd began to close in, tightening around him until he was walking down a gauntlet of onlookers. Kru ignored them all. Yet, with each step, the shadows whispered—louder, until even he could not ignore it. “Do not continue this way, Kru. You are provoking him.” “Who? Jur? Let him come.”
With each step, Kru advanced down the endless walk. He had no concern for the miles, or the hunger that raked at his soul. He simply walked. Another person appeared, yet they did not block his path; they stood aside. Another and another. With every person, a recognition; for he had ended them all.