The skies may be beautiful but they’re never boring. Welcome to the Wind Rider world, where chaos is part of the forecast.
Let’s talk about my favorite little monster: worldbuilding.
It’s ambitious. It’s all consuming. It’s the reason I currently have lore docs bigger than most small town phone books. And it’s exactly why Wind Rider Wednesday is shifting gears.
As of now, Wind Rider Wednesday will be a twice-a-month feature instead of weekly… because if I keep building the skies at this rate, I’ll have a 300-page encyclopedia and no actual book to show for it.
Don’t worry, the chaos isn’t going anywhere. The skies are still brimming with floating islands, found family vibes, sky beasts, and emotional damage. You’ll just be getting all that goodness in slightly slower, biweekly doses so I can focus more on actually telling the story, not just mapping every Drift down to its laundry lines.
Thanks for following along with me! Whether you’re here for lore, character breakdowns, or random skyfruit facts, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Wind Riders ride.
Next post is already in the works… see you in the skies!
Konnor and Telvan at the edge of memory… where grief, sky, and purpose meet.
🪁 Wind Rider Wednesday
“Peace Garden Drift Wasn’t Much. But It Was Ours.”
Konnor Chapman has always hated speeches. So when the Drift elders asked him to speak at the Remembrance Ceremony during the last Eddy, he froze. The request brought it all rushing back… the Scourwind, the screams, the silence that followed. Even after all these years, the wound hadn’t fully closed. But later that night, while sitting on the edge of the sky mooring rails with Telvan’s tail draped over his boots, he said something better.
Something true.
“Peace Garden Drift wasn’t much. But it was ours. You ask me what was worth fighting for? It wasn’t banners or sky medals. It was hearing our neighbor’s forge fire spark up at dawn. It was that sour plum tree by the orchard fence. It was the kid who built a glider out of garden shears and nearly crashed it into the grain tower twice. That’s what mattered. That’s why I ride.”
Drifts may look like scattered islands on a map, but to their people, they’re home. Floating gardens. Broken foundations made whole again. And no two are the same.
Peace Garden Drift isn’t Konnor’s home anymore, but it lives in his memory like sunlight through orchard leaves. After the Scourwind tore through it, taking nearly all of the thousand souls who once lived there, its absence became a presence in his life. No matter how much sky passes beneath his boots, that Drift still shapes his steps.
It was a midsize farming Drift that hugged the northern Mistral’s calmer bends. Its mooring lines would creak in the wind. The orchard was always half wild. There was a tiny stone clinic that doubled as a schoolhouse. The older kids painted murals on the walls every time the Eddy came around.
The Riders stationed there were long-serving. They knew every face, every roof tile, every knot in the bridge planks. They weren’t just defenders. They were family.
And for all his jokes, Konnor became a Wind Rider so no other Drift kid would have to go through what he did.
🔹 Curious about the skybound world Konnor came from? Next week’s lore deep-dive will explore what Drifts are, how they float, and why they matter. Don’t miss it!
Worldbuilding starts innocently enough. You name a kingdom. Maybe draw a map. Maybe throw in a couple of gods, a weird storm, a family tree with just enough trauma to be narratively satisfying.
Nyx, in her natural habitat: guarding the map she will never let you finish. Somewhere under that paw is a vital plot point. We’ll never know. Image created by Midjourney.
Then one day you blink and realize you’ve written a 3,000 word document on sky island crop rotation. You can’t remember your own birthday, but you know which fictional provinces export fermented windfruit and why their trade alliance fell apart in Cycle 617.
This post? It’s a love letter. And a warning.
People think you have to know everything before you start, but if you did, we’d all be frozen in “research” mode until the sun exploded. It doesn’t need to be logical either, it just needs to feel true to your world. And no, it’s not just for fantasy authors. If you made up a cozy town with suspiciously nosy neighbors and a bakery that mysteriously never runs out of raspberry scones… congratulations, you’re one of us.
Worldbuilding is part chaos magic, part archaeology. You’re not building a world, you’re excavating one you barely understand, with a pen instead of a shovel and caffeine instead of common sense.
It’s balancing six cultural systems, a magic rule you regret inventing, and a civil war you vaguely alluded to in chapter two that now demands three pages of backstory and a hand drawn battle map.
It’s naming things like a drunk linguist. It’s opening your notebook and realizing you’ve contradicted your own timeline in three different places and somehow invented a holiday that happens every thirteen days. It’s divine, maddening, and wildly inefficient.
And sometimes… it’s dangerous.
Finnegan, master of stretching, spilling tea, and rewriting your language system with one well-timed flop. Chaos is his comfort zone. Image created by Midjourney.
Because once the worldbuilding black hole opens up, it sucks you in. Suddenly it’s 2 a.m., your eyes are dry, your tea is cold, and the story you meant to write has been sitting untouched like a gentleman caller you stood up on the porch, in the rain, with flowers. And bless it, the poor thing’s still waiting for you.
But despite all that, there’s this moment, if you’re lucky, when you zoom out and realize it all fits together. Like the world was waiting for you to stumble onto it. When a reader points out a connection between two pieces of lore and you’re like, Yes, I did that on purpose absolutely I am a genius.
Or when a character walks into a room and you know what’s on the walls, what year it was built, who buried a secret in the floorboards, and why the ceiling still leaks. I may not use everything I know in that moment, but in the future, who knows?
It’s tea-stained madness with a side of purpose.
Maybe it’s punishment. Maybe it’s passion.
Probably both.
Because let’s be honest, I don’t worldbuild because I have to. I worldbuild because I can’t not. I’m already asking “what if” a hundred times a day. I might as well write it down and charge my protagonists emotional interest.
Carmen, as she exists in spirit and judgment. Image created with Midjourney.
Also? It’s fun. Fungi-powered cities? Sentient storms? An economy based on literal hot air? I’m not just building a world, I’m raising it like a feral child I fully intend to unleash on readers.
What’s the weirdest rabbit hole you’ve fallen into while worldbuilding? Calendar math? Magical sewage systems? A military hierarchy based on fish?
Tell me in the comments. Validate me. Share the pain. Maybe bring snacks.
And stay tuned, I’ll be opening the doors to some of my multiversal chaos soon in a section called My Worlds, where you can marvel (or panic) at the sheer number of universes I’m juggling like a gremlin with a tea addiction.
Because why write one world… when you can write twelve?
The Worlds of RG Newhouse 