JAMXR

Every album is a new destination. Progressive House • Melodic Techno • Cinematic Electronic Music • JAMXR

[JAMXR @JAMXR01]

https://t.co/IKTVtoopgS

Some projects begin with a plan.

JAMXR didn't.

It started with a single idea... then one track became three, three became an album, and somewhere along the way I realized I wasn't just making music anymore—I was building a sound that felt like home.

Every track on this album captures a different moment.

A late-night drive.

A sunrise after no sleep.

A crowded city that somehow feels empty.

A place that exists somewhere between memory and imagination.

If even one of these songs becomes part of your own journey, then every hour spent creating them was worth it.

🎧 The full JAMXR album is now available on all major streaming platforms.

Turn it up.

Close your eyes.

And let the music take you somewhere else.

What's your favorite track so far?

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, going home to Wyoming for three weeks was supposed to be a break.
I’m still here.
There’s roughly another week to go.
So naturally, instead of resting, I somehow ended up with a woman named Nora Hale, a family ranch, an old Chevrolet, a military career, a courtroom, several unresolved relationships, enough buried history to make everyone uncomfortable — and an entire novel.
Excellent use of leave, really.
Those of you who have been around here for a while may have noticed that I’ve occasionally mentioned a legal career. Senior positions. Leadership. And, every now and then, the vague suggestion that not every chapter of my life involved sitting behind a desk.
Which brings us to Nora.
Major Nora Hale.
Army officer. Lawyer. Former special operations. Wyoming-born. Professionally incapable of leaving a problem alone once she notices that something doesn’t fit.
Completely fictional, obviously.
Probably.
That is, at least, the version my lawyer would recommend.
Somewhere between Wyoming, airports, old roads, too much coffee, and whatever part of my brain was supposed to be taking time off, Nora appeared.
Then she brought people with her.
A family.
A town.
An Army career.
Old friends.
Old scars.
A man she once knew far too well.
A ranch carrying problems nobody bothered to tell her about.
And a local situation that has the deeply irritating habit of becoming less local the closer she looks at it.
At some point I stopped asking whether I was developing an idea.
I was writing a novel.
NO QUIET GROUND is the first Nora Hale story.
It moves through Wyoming ranch country, military installations, courtrooms, investigations, family dinners, old loyalties, violence, humor, attraction, loss — and the uncomfortable realization that sometimes the thing waiting for you at home is larger than the thing you thought you were leaving behind.
It is not simply a military thriller.
It is not simply a legal story.
It is not simply a crime novel.
And thankfully, Nora has shown very little interest in behaving politely enough to fit into one genre.
I sympathize.
Before anyone starts preparing a funeral for Therys: don’t.
The Shattered World is still very much alive, still growing, and still populated by people making questionable decisions with swords, fire, old grudges and consequences wildly disproportionate to their confidence.
Nora Hale is simply another door.
A very different one.
And now both finally have somewhere to live.
The new Norian Vayle author site is live:
https://t.co/YzRnZ1mwCs
You can step into Nora’s world, learn more about No Quiet Ground, and read the opening of the novel — beginning at 4:43 A.M. in Grafenwoehr, Germany.
Therys is there too, with a road back into the Shattered World.
And I still have about a week left in Wyoming.
Which, considering what happened during the first two, is probably more threatening than it sounds.
As for how much of any of this is fiction…
I write under a pen name for a reason.
— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

So. A little while ago, I said I was going home to Wyoming.
Apparently, I should have been more careful with that sentence.
Because somewhere between that post, an airport, and whatever part of my brain was supposed to be minding its own business, a woman named Nora Hale showed up.
For the record, I did not return from Wyoming as a U.S. Army Major with a JAG career, an old Chevrolet K20, two brothers, a family ranch, and enough unresolved history to fill several books.
Probably.
Nora did.
And then she refused to leave.
Before anyone asks: Therys is fine. 😄
The Shattered World is still growing, its stories are still moving forward, and there are people over there who would probably be very annoyed if I abandoned them now.
This is simply… something else.
Something I didn’t plan.
Nora started as a voice. Then a scene. Then Wyoming became more than a background. Her family appeared. Her Army career took shape. Daniel Mercer walked into the room. An old Chevrolet refused to stay dead.
And at some point I realized I wasn’t playing with an idea anymore.
I was writing a novel.
A very different one.
NO QUIET GROUND is a contemporary thriller and the beginning of the Nora Hale series.
No ancient kingdoms. No magic. No shattered world.
Just Wyoming. The U.S. Army. Courtrooms. Old friendships. Family. Things buried for too long. And a woman who has spent so many years being Major Hale that going home may require her to remember who Nora was first.
And since she has apparently taken over a fairly significant part of my writing life, I think it’s time you met her properly.
Here’s a small piece from the manuscript:
—
Mercer set the mug down.
“You’re going on leave, Nora. Not working from Wyoming with a different view out the window.”
“If something happens that genuinely requires you, I know how to find you. For seventy-five days, the work phone stays here.”
That door was closed too.
Nora stood there with the itinerary in one hand.
For the first time in years, tomorrow held nothing she was expected to solve.
No witness waiting.
No file open on her desk.
No problem that would become hers simply because she happened to notice it before someone else did.
The emptiness of it should have felt like relief.
Instead it felt like standing one step beyond solid ground.
Mercer watched her reach that realization and, for once, did not try to soften it.
“Go home,” he said. “Sleep. Get bored. Fight with your brothers. Let your mother feed you. Remember there was a Nora Hale before the Army needed something from her every morning.”
Nora looked down at the itinerary.
Then back at the man who had first met her in a hospital bed ten years earlier and had apparently decided he was not willing to meet that version of her twice.
She opened the door.
“Still a son of a bitch.”
Mercer’s laugh followed her into the hallway.
“Pack tonight.”
—
NO QUIET GROUND
A Nora Hale novel.
Some battles don’t end when you come home.
I’ll be sharing more soon — Nora, the people around her, Wyoming, pieces from the manuscript, and some of what happens behind the scenes while this world keeps getting bigger.
I’m also building a new home for all of this. A proper Norian Vayle author site is on the way — not just for Nora, and not just for Therys, but for the stories and worlds still to come.
Which, considering what happened the last time I casually mentioned Wyoming, may be a dangerous thing to say.
— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, Friday Had a Sequel

I had a feeling I was going to feel Friday’s little BJJ adventure the next day.
I underestimated just how enthusiastically my body intended to participate in the review.
Saturday morning, I woke up with the vague but determined idea that I was still going for a run. Because apparently I enjoy making questionable decisions before coffee.
I also have a weakness for doughnuts.
Unfortunately, doughnuts appear to have a weakness for settling around my waist.
So, naturally, running had seemed like a sensible compromise.
Then I got out of bed.
That was the first problem.
The second was looking down.
My legs looked as though I had lost a disagreement with a paint palette. Blue, green, purple. My side was not much better.
I have trained long enough to be used to soreness. Pain is not exactly unfamiliar territory, and as I mentioned before, I am not particularly fragile.
But there is a difference between “I trained hard yesterday�� and “I appear to have been professionally beaten with decorative intent.”
This was closer to the second.
So that was the end of the running plan.
Skirts have also been temporarily suspended from active duty.
At least anything above the knee.
I do still have standards.
I considered yoga instead.
My body considered this proposal for approximately six seconds and rejected it unanimously.
So I did what any reasonable adult does when exercise, fashion and dignity have all become temporarily inconvenient.
I went back to my imaginary people.
I started writing again on Saturday afternoon and, somehow, disappeared into Therys for hours. Which was actually exactly what I needed.
There is something oddly comforting about spending time with fictional characters whose problems are, objectively speaking, much worse than bruised thighs.
At around two in the morning, I realised three things.
I had barely eaten.
I should probably sleep.
And I had once again managed to lose most of a day inside a world that does not technically exist.
Productive.
Sunday was more or less the same, although by then I was moving slightly more like a normal human being.
Progress.
And now it is Monday.
Work is getting done. Decisions are being made. I remain outwardly functional.
But the closer I get to going home to Wyoming, the more difficult it becomes to pretend that a significant percentage of my brain is not already there.
I am still working.
I am simply working while mentally counting down.
Very professionally, of course.

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

I disappeared again for a few days.

I know. Absolutely flawless social media strategy. 😄

First, for anyone who read my last rather… substantial post: the story involving the two ladies mentioned there has, from my side at least, reached its natural conclusion.
No sequel.
No spin-off.
No director’s cut.
We move on.
Other than that, I’ve mostly been trying to get everything sorted before I head home to Wyoming next week. Friday I trained my little group, work got done, life behaved itself.
And then this weekend arrived and, for reasons I still can’t entirely explain, I felt strangely out of place.
Nothing dramatic happened.
That was actually the problem.
Normally I’m very good at being alone.
Give me coffee, music, a laptop and several imaginary people whose emotional stability I am professionally responsible for destroying, and I can happily disappear for days.
But this weekend something felt missing.
Not romance, necessarily.
Just… connection.
A conversation with another human being that doesn’t eventually turn into a sales pitch, a publishing opportunity, a miraculous career plan, crypto, “investment advice,” or someone promising to make me internationally famous by next Tuesday.
Apparently I was feeling reckless.
So I registered on an international dating site.
Yes.
I am fully aware that I’ve spent the last few months saying I’m not ready for another relationship.
Apparently my personality now includes conducting live experiments against my own previous statements.
Maybe I’m ready.
Maybe I’m not.
After approximately thirty-six hours of online dating, the preliminary research suggests:
absolutely not. 😂
What an extraordinary little wildlife reserve this is.
There were some genuinely nice conversations.
There’s even someone I’m still speaking to. Lovely person. Easy conversation.
But that “something extra”?
No.
Then there was another conversation that was actually really good.
Smart.
Funny.
Natural.
No obvious warning sirens.
And then, from one perfectly normal message to the next—
gone.
Ghosted.
Just evaporated into the digital fog.
I genuinely stared at my phone thinking:
Was there an announcement I missed?
Is this considered communication now?
Did we collectively decide that saying “I don’t think this is going anywhere” was too emotionally advanced, so disappearing without explanation became the mature alternative?
Maybe I’m simply too old for modern dating.
Because I could have sworn there used to be several stages between “I really enjoy talking to you” and becoming a missing-person case.
And yes, before someone says it:
“But Norian, surely dating is easy for you.”

Getting attention?
Probably easier than for some people. I’m not going to perform false modesty for the internet.
Keeping that attention once an actual conversation starts?
Different subject entirely.
The moment some men discover what I do, how much I work, that I write, that I’m independent, that I have my own plans, or—God forbid—that I can hold an opinion for more than two paragraphs…
you can almost hear the reversing alarm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.
And off they go.
Which is slightly unfortunate because, despite available evidence, I still consider myself a relatively normal woman.
My fictional characters would probably object.
But they’ve suffered enough because of me, so their testimony is compromised.
The funny part is that everyone seems to complain about the same thing.
Women say there are no decent men.
Men say nobody gives them a chance.
Everyone says they want honesty.
Everyone says they want meaningful conversation.
Everyone says they’re tired of shallow connections.
And then another human being actually appears and people behave as though basic communication requires a security clearance.
I see women online constantly talking about loneliness and asking where all the good men went.
Meanwhile I have male friends who tell me they’ve politely messaged women saying exactly those things and been treated like they personally caused the collapse of Western civilization.
And men are hardly innocent.
Give some of them fifteen messages and you can practically predict the script.
Compliment.
Another compliment.
Question that is suddenly far too personal.
Tragic backstory.
Military deployment.
Crypto.Investment.Emergency. Money.
At this point, by message number three, my internal fraud department has already opened a case file.
I’m half expecting myself to ask:
“Before we continue, could you please provide two forms of identification and proof that you are not currently stationed on an oil rig?”
And maybe that’s the part that is actually a little sad.
Not for me personally.
I’ll survive my heroic thirty-six-hour dating career.
But for all of us.
Because we’ve become so trained by scams, ghosting, algorithms, disposable conversations and people constantly trying to extract something from one another that simple human connection now comes with a background check.
Everyone wants to meet someone genuine.
But everyone is terrified that the genuine person might secretly be selling Bitcoin.
I think that’s what I was missing this weekend.
Not necessarily a boyfriend.
Not some cinematic romance.
Not somebody to “complete me.”
I’m quite capable of completing my own paperwork, thank you.
Just someone you can talk to occasionally without wondering what the hidden transaction is.
Someone who asks how your day was because they actually want to know.
Someone who doesn’t disappear when you reveal that you have a brain, a career, baggage, opinions and a life that existed before they arrived.
Apparently this is now considered an unusually demanding specification.
Anyway. My return to online dating lasted approximately a day and a half.
A magnificent campaign.Several lessons were learned.
Numerous anthropological observations were recorded.
One or two perfectly nice humans were located.
No boyfriend was acquired.
Civilization remains unstable.
And honestly, I’m fine with that.
Next week I’m going home to Wyoming anyway.
I have work to finish, people to see, stories to write and fictional lives to complicate.
Those people are considerably easier to manage.
They can’t ghost me.
They can’t sell me crypto.
And if one of them suddenly disappears in the middle of a conversation…
at least I know who killed them. 😄

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

https://t.co/h4vlCowWjd

[JAMXR @JAMXR01]

@Norianvayle wow is wow🙂🙂🙃

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

https://t.co/bfo62FiYD3

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, there was a small misunderstanding about my Friday BJJ group. By “small misunderstanding,” I mean I thought my coach was asking me to take the group for a few Fridays. He apparently meant: Congratulations. They’re yours.
That became clear today. I’m not entirely sure which part of my face betrayed the fact that this was new information to me, but apparently something did, because he laughed and explained that yes, he actually wants me to take this group for the foreseeable future.
Oh.
Right.
Excellent.
Good to know. 😏
The strange thing is, I genuinely enjoyed teaching them last time. I wrote about that already. What I didn’t expect was for it to become my group. We started with seven people. Today there were thirteen.
So either word is spreading that I’m doing something right, or there has been a catastrophic administrative error and nobody has noticed yet. I’m currently allowing both possibilities equal consideration.
I’ve been doing BJJ for close to ten years. I know what I’m doing on the mat. I’m comfortable there. I know the techniques, I know my body, and I know what it feels like to get something spectacularly wrong and spend the following thirty seconds reconsidering several of my life choices.

But teaching is different. Very different.

Responsibility itself is not new to me. In my professional life I lead people, make decisions, carry responsibility for outcomes, and deal with situations where “well, that probably should have gone differently” is not always an especially charming post-event analysis. There are people who rely on my judgment, there are decisions that have consequences, and there are days when I spend more time solving other people’s problems than remembering whether I’ve actually eaten lunch.
So no, the concept of responsibility does not normally make me nervous. If anything, I’m probably a little too comfortable with it.
Which makes it especially entertaining that you can put thirteen people in gis in front of me and suddenly some deeply unhelpful part of my brain goes:
Wait. They’re looking at ME?
Wonderful. 😏
And I think that’s because this feels different. At work, responsibility is structured. There are rules, procedures, experience, expectations. You know the framework you’re operating inside, even when the day itself decides to set fire to the framework for entertainment.
But when someone is learning something you’ve loved for almost a decade, you’re not simply showing them where to put an arm, how to shift their weight, or why leaving that particular limb where it is may shortly become an educational experience.
You’re helping shape what BJJ becomes for them.
And I remember being a beginner. Very clearly.
I remember how much the right coach mattered. There’s an enormous difference between someone who knows BJJ and someone who makes you want to come back next week. Someone who pushes you without making you feel stupid for not knowing something yet. Someone who notices when you’re ready for a little more—and when you’re absolutely not.
That responsibility feels strangely more personal than some much bigger responsibilities I deal with elsewhere in my life.
Which is mildly inconvenient, because self-doubt has never exactly been one of my defining personality traits. 😏
And yet, there I was today, genuinely happy, ridiculously proud, slightly intimidated, and looking at thirteen people thinking:
Well. Apparently I have a BJJ group now.
The best part came when I reminded my coach that I’m going home to Wyoming in two weeks and I’ll be away for almost three.

“So I’ll miss three Fridays.”
He just shrugged.
“No problem. I’ll take them until you’re back.”
Until I’m back.
There was something suspiciously permanent about those words.
So let me get this straight. I have only just discovered that I apparently have my own group, and my first significant act as their instructor is to disappear across the Atlantic for nearly three weeks.
Excellent leadership, Norian.
Truly inspirational. 😂
Of course, they’ll be perfectly fine. My coach will take them while I’m away, and then apparently they’re handed straight back to me when I return.
And strangely enough, underneath all the jokes, I’m really happy about that.
The fact that some of them actually asked whether I could teach them again means more to me than I expected. My coach trusting me with the group means even more.
It also means I’ll have to prepare differently now. Not just turn up, train hard, go home and complain the following morning that somebody has apparently replaced all my muscles with concrete.
I’ll have to think ahead. What they need. What we worked on last time. Who struggled with what. Who needs pushing. Who needs slowing down. How one session connects to the next.
Apparently my Friday evening hobby has developed planning, personnel responsibility and continuity requirements.
Because evidently I didn’t have enough of those during the week. 😏
Still, thirteen people came today. They trained. They laughed. They worked hard.
And when it was over, I realised something rather inconvenient:
I’m already looking forward to teaching them again.
Even if I’m still getting used to saying my group without looking over my shoulder to see who everyone is actually talking about.
Now I just have to teach them for two more Fridays, abandon them for Wyoming, come back three weeks later and pretend this entire development hasn’t made me absurdly proud.
Should be easy.
I’m known for being emotionally restrained.

Obviously. 😏

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

I’m beginning to suspect that approving my trip home to Wyoming was a serious mistake for my productivity. Physically, I’m still in Europe. Mentally, I’m already somewhere in Wyoming, probably staring at mountains and behaving as though emails are a problem invented by other people. I’m trying to work. I really am. Unfortunately, my brain has apparently decided that “going home in two weeks” is now a full-time occupation. So naturally, during one of my extremely disciplined and professionally productive moments today, I opened TikTok. Mistake number two. 😏

I came across a video of someone responding to a rude comment. Nothing unusual there. The internet has trolls. I have them too. Anyone who puts opinions, work, books, art, their face, or apparently oxygen onto the internet will eventually meet someone who considers “you’re an idiot” a valuable contribution to public discourse. Fine. What fascinated me was what happened next. The creator spent almost five minutes explaining how completely unaffected she was by this comment. Five minutes. Very loudly. Very angrily. With vocabulary that suggested she had personally raided several dictionaries for additional ammunition.

And I sat there thinking: Ma’am… I don’t think this person is living rent-free in your head anymore. I think you gave them the master bedroom. 😏

And this isn’t really about her. I see versions of this constantly. Someone says something rude. Then comes the screenshot, the response video, the response to the response, three Instagram stories, a twenty-post thread, possibly a podcast by Thursday—all to demonstrate that we absolutely, categorically, unquestionably do not care. I’m starting to think we may have slightly misunderstood what “not caring” looks like.

Maybe I’m getting old. Actually, statistically speaking, that theory is becoming increasingly difficult to challenge. But the older I get, the less interested I am in giving strangers that much control over my mood. If someone criticises something I’ve written intelligently, fine. I might even learn something. If someone disagrees with me, wonderful. Adults are allowed to do that. Rumour has it civilisation has survived several disagreements already. If someone is simply being an asshole, there is an astonishingly sophisticated technique I’ve developed over the years: I keep scrolling. Revolutionary, I know.

Sometimes I’ll answer if there’s something genuinely funny to say. Sarcasm is one of the few unhealthy habits I have absolutely no intention of giving up. But spending half my evening furious because someone with an anime profile picture and seventeen followers called me stupid? No. They don’t get that much of my life.
And perhaps that’s the part social media has made strangely difficult. We’ve started treating every opinion directed at us as though it requires a response. It doesn’t. Not every accusation requires a defence. Not every insult deserves retaliation. Not every stranger deserves access to your emotions simply because they found the comment button. There’s a difference between standing up for yourself and allowing someone else to decide what you’ll be thinking about for the next six hours.
I deal with enough conflict and complicated personalities professionally. Maybe that’s partly why I have less appetite for volunteering for additional shifts on the internet. Or maybe I’m simply becoming that woman who looks at the world over her glasses and mutters, “For God’s sake, people…” Honestly, both explanations are plausible. 😏
Anyway, that was today’s completely unnecessary philosophical detour brought to you by my inability to work properly because someone signed a piece of paper allowing me to go home. Two weeks in Wyoming. I can almost smell the air already. Now I’m going to close TikTok, behave like a responsible adult and get some work done—immediately after checking how many days are left until my flight. Obviously.

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, there are two very effective ways to make me disappear from the internet.

Give me responsibility I wasn’t expecting…
or leave me alone with my manuscript for five minutes.
This weekend, I managed both. 😏
Friday meant BJJ, of course. I’ve mentioned before that Friday training is almost sacred to me. It’s one of those rare places where I walk through the door and, for a couple of hours, I don’t have to be responsible for much beyond breathing, thinking and preferably not allowing someone to choke me unconscious.
A beautifully simple arrangement.
Before training, though, my coach pulled me aside.
Remember the group I ended up helping with last time?
Apparently one of the younger guys had asked whether I could take them again.
And my coach, being the wonderfully considerate human being he is, had apparently taken this innocent question and developed plans.
“Would you take the Friday group?”
I think I stared at him for a few seconds longer than socially necessary.
Not because I hated the idea.
Quite the opposite, actually.I just wasn’t expecting how much I liked hearing it.
The strange thing is, I spend enough of my professional life in a leadership position already. BJJ has always been one of the places where I rather enjoy not being the person who has to organise, decide, supervise or know what happens next.
I come there to train.
To switch that part of my brain off.
Apparently that part of my brain did not receive the memo.
My coach must have seen the hesitation on my face because he immediately said, “You don’t have to. I’m asking because I think you can do it.”
Which, unfortunately, is exactly the kind of sentence that works on me.
So I said yes.
I made notes beforehand. Thought through what I wanted to cover. Then the group arrived and I took them through the session.
And somewhere between explaining a technique for the second time, correcting details, watching someone finally understand what I was trying to show them, and answering questions…
I realised I was enjoying the hell out of it.
Afterwards my coach and I talked for a while. He said he’d been watching my progress, not only technically, but in how I communicate and handle people on the mats.
He knows what I do professionally, although we rarely talk about work.
Then he smiled and said something along the lines of:
“You spend all week leading people and come here to escape it. Maybe you should consider the possibility that the problem is that you’re actually good at it.”
I hate when people make reasonable observations about me.
Very inconsiderate. 😏
So that was Friday.
Then came Saturday.
I had absolutely no intention of spending the day writing.
None.
I was only going to look through a few notes.
Every writer already knows where this is going.
I opened the manuscript.
Fixed one thing. Read another passage.Changed a sentence.That reminded me of something. So I wrote a little scene.
The little scene informed me that it was not, in fact, little.
Then one of my characters apparently discovered that I had plans for them and immediately filed an objection.
Another character agreed.
A third one turned up uninvited.
At that point I was no longer writing.
I was mediating a workplace dispute in a world that doesn’t exist.
Business as usual.
At some point around one in the afternoon I realised I was hungry.
Then I looked outside.
It was dark.
This seemed unnecessarily dramatic.
I checked the time.
Apparently six hours had passed.Six.
I genuinely hadn’t noticed.
By then I had no interest in cooking, shopping or demonstrating any of the other qualities normally associated with a functioning adult.
So I ordered pizza.Healthy?No.Delicious?Yes.
Did I regret it?
I’m an author, not a liar.
And that basically became my weekend.
Write.Edit.Rewrite.Decide it’s better. Read it again.Decide I’ve ruined everything.
Fix it. Love it.
Change three more sentences for absolutely no defensible reason.
Repeat until Sunday mysteriously disappears.
And I loved every minute of it.
There’s a point sometimes when my brain seems to switch completely into writing mode and the outside world becomes strangely quiet.
No scrolling. bNo checking what everyone else is doing. No feeling that I should be somewhere else.Just the story.
This weekend I wrote two or three scenes that were particularly heavy emotionally.
And there’s something slightly ridiculous about sitting alone in front of a laptop, writing something that YOU invented, fully knowing what is going to happen because YOU are literally the person making it happen…
and then having to stop because your own eyes are filling with tears.
Ma’am.
You wrote this.
You can change it.
Apparently that information is irrelevant. 😂
But I think that’s also how I know when a scene is where I wanted it to be.
If I can still feel it after living with these characters for this long, hopefully someone meeting them on the page will feel something too.
And actually, there was one more reason I was in an unusually good mood today.
A certain piece of paperwork I’ve been waiting for finally came back signed.
I’ll leave the details exactly where they belong: buried safely inside the kind of administrative machinery that seems to require three signatures, several mysterious desks and at least one person whose entire purpose is apparently to say, “Not my department.” 😏
The important part is this:
Two and a half weeks. Approved.
Which means I’m finally going home to Wyoming for a while.
And I honestly can’t explain how much I’ve missed it.
Not travelling somewhere new.
Not another little escape.
Home.
The familiar roads. The ridiculous amount of open space. The mountains. The air. The places where I don’t need GPS because some part of me still remembers every turn.
I love Europe, and there are very good reasons I’m here.
But sometimes you don’t realise how badly you need home until someone finally signs the piece of paper that allows you to go back to it.
So yes…
That definitely improved my Monday. Considerably. 😊
Now I only have one problem left:
trying not to mentally pack my suitcase two and a half weeks before I actually need to.
I make no promises.
So yes, I’ve been a little quiet here.
Not because I disappeared.
Friday, I somehow acquired a BJJ group.
Saturday and Sunday, my fictional people acquired custody of me.
And today, apparently, I acquired permission to go home.
That feels like a fairly productive few days for someone who technically wasn’t doing very much online.
Now I’m trying very hard to behave like a normal member of society again while part of my brain is already whispering:
“…we could just open the manuscript for five minutes.”
Absolutely not.
I know how this scam works now.

Probably.

— Norian Vayle

[outframe @OUTFRAME1]

I don’t post here three times a day.

Apparently, in 2026, that can occasionally create the impression that if a brand isn’t constantly shouting, it must not be doing anything.

We are. We’re just usually busy making things instead. 😏

I get a lot of messages saying you love the designs. I get some saying you absolutely don’t.
Good.
Honestly, I’d be slightly worried if everyone liked OUTFRAME.
Because this brand was never supposed to be beige wallpaper for the internet.
Behind the scenes, I’m constantly sketching, testing ideas, throwing bad ones away, changing graphics, questioning perfectly good designs at ridiculous hours, and trying to create pieces I would actually want to see someone wearing.
Not another logo on a shirt.
Not another design manufactured to offend absolutely nobody.
Something with a personality.
Because one thing I keep noticing is how careful people have become about showing what they really think.
We edit ourselves.
We soften everything.
We choose the safe sentence, the safe opinion, the safe version of ourselves.
OUTFRAME was built for pretty much the opposite reason.
Some thoughts are funny.
Some are uncomfortable.
Some are sarcastic.
Some will make one person laugh and another person roll their eyes.
That’s fine.
You don’t have to agree with every design.
You don’t even have to like every collection.
But if something makes you stop for a second and think, “Yeah. I’ve thought that too…”
then it probably belongs here.
So no, I haven’t disappeared.
I’m just somewhere behind the screen creating the next thing you’ll either want on a shirt…
or want to argue with.
Frankly, both mean I did my job.

OUTFRAME
Don’t wear the safe version of yourself.

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, I’ve been a little quieter here again.

I could blame work. I could blame the third book, which is currently sitting on my desk looking increasingly offended that I haven’t finished preparing it for publication yet.

Both would be true.
But there was also… someone.
And before anyone gets unnecessarily excited: no, this is not the beginning of a romantic novel. Apparently I’m considerably better at writing those situations than living them. 😏
I’ve said more than once that I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I’m rebuilding parts of my life, enjoying my independence, working too much, writing far too much, and generally trying to keep my imaginary people under control.
Then, completely by accident, I met someone.
We started talking.
And then we kept talking.
And somewhere along the way, it stopped being “a nice conversation” and became that slightly dangerous moment when you notice you’re actually waiting for their message.
Which was mildly inconvenient.
Because apparently my carefully constructed “I’m perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much” system had developed a small technical fault.
And then I caught myself thinking…
Maybe.Not “forever.”Not wedding bells.
Not matching towels and a shared Netflix account.
Just… maybe there could be something worth exploring here.
Apparently that thought travelled through the universe faster than Wi-Fi, because almost the exact moment I allowed myself to consider it, the person disappeared.
Completely. No explanation. No goodbye.Blocked everywhere.Impressive efficiency, honestly.
And I’ll admit, I stared at my phone for a while with the deeply sophisticated expression of a woman thinking:
What the hell just happened?
I’m not arrogant enough to believe everyone should want me. Attraction doesn’t work that way, and neither do people.
But I do know my own value.
So when someone spends days building a connection with you, seems genuinely interested, makes you feel comfortable enough to lower the drawbridge by approximately three centimetres…
…and then apparently decides the appropriate next step is to burn the bridge, fill the moat and relocate to another kingdom without leaving a note…
I struggle to understand the logic.
Maybe there isn’t any.
Maybe something scared them.
Maybe I misread everything.
Maybe Mercury was in retrograde, three pigeons flew east and someone somewhere opened an umbrella indoors.
At this point, all theories are equally useful. 😄
Fortunately, this wasn’t months of my life. Nobody was planning a future. Nothing had grown deep enough to break anything important.
It was simply… disappointing.
Mostly because I still believe grown adults should be capable of saying:
“Hey, this isn’t for me.”
Seven words.
No legal department required.
And yes, before anyone asks, the irony of me being the person asking for straightforward communication is not lost on me.
So that’s partly where I’ve been.Talking.Thinking.
Being briefly confused by another human being.
And, consequently, allowing X and Book Three to look at me from the corner like neglected houseplants.
I’m fine.
Slightly bemused, perhaps.But fine.
And now I suppose I should return to the fictional people.
They may ruin my plans regularly, but at least they usually have the decency to explain why.

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Those of you who’ve been following me for a while probably know that I’ve been doing Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu for close to ten years. And Friday training has become something of a personal rule. I very rarely skip it.

Apparently “a human being has temporarily confused me” is not considered a legitimate reason to miss training, so off I went.
I arrived a little early, warmed up, did some drilling, and eventually we started rolling. One of my first rounds was with a blue belt. A guy. Younger than me, strong, quick, and actually pretty good.
At first, though, he was being suspiciously careful.
You know that particular kind of politeness when a man is rolling with a woman and you can almost see the thought forming behind his eyes:
Easy. Don’t hurt her.
Which was very considerate.
Also slightly unfortunate.
The first submission corrected the misunderstanding.
My coach, watching from nearby, developed the kind of smile coaches get when they know something entertaining is about to happen but have absolutely no intention of preventing it.
The second round was different.
My partner had apparently completed the necessary software update.
Suddenly he was faster, more assertive, much less charitable—and honestly, good. Very good.
He made me work.
Which is when I noticed something slightly embarrassing.
I wasn’t really there.
Physically? Absolutely. Brown belt around my waist, sweating on the mats, fighting for grips, passing, defending, looking for position.
Mentally?
Somewhere far outside the building, still conducting an entirely unnecessary forensic investigation into yesterday’s human behaviour.
And if there is one terrible thing about a good coach, it’s that they notice.
Mine has only known me for roughly the last two years, since I moved across the ocean and ended up training here in Europe.Apparently that was more than enough time for him to learn my face.After the round he looked at me.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”He just stared.
There are moments when you realise that a lie has failed so badly it doesn’t even deserve a second attempt.
Then came the reminder.Not angry. Not dramatic. Just very coach-like.
“When you walk through that door, whatever is outside stays outside. You know that. If you’re on my mats, be on my mats. Your partner deserves your attention. And so do you.”
Right.Point taken.
Nothing quite like paying someone to teach you Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and occasionally receiving unsolicited emotional maintenance as part of the membership. 😏
So I reset.
A few more rounds. Positional sparring. Drilling. Movement.
Slowly, my brain finally returned to the same postcode as the rest of my body.
Afterwards my coach came over again.
“Back?”
I nodded.
“Good. Because I need you.”
That sentence should have worried me more than it did.
The person who was supposed to work with the beginners hadn’t arrived, and there were eight or ten white belts waiting.
My coach wanted me to get them started.
Warm-up first. Then some basic movement and technique until the other guy arrived.
I apparently made a face.
Again.He noticed.
Again.
“You have a problem?”
“No.”“Can you do it?”
Now, there are many possible answers to that question.
Unfortunately, when you’re standing there wearing a brown belt, only one of them preserves your dignity.

“Of course.”
So I started.
Warm-up.
Movement drills.
Basic positions.
Technique.Repetitions.
Correcting grips, posture and hip movement.
Explaining why using every muscle in your body simultaneously is not actually a secret BJJ technique.
Reminding people to breathe.
Then reminding them to breathe again approximately forty seconds later.
The guy who was supposed to take over still hadn’t arrived. So I kept going.
A little positional work.Another technique.More drilling.Questions.Corrections.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, something strange happened.
Yesterday disappeared.
Not dramatically.
I didn’t achieve enlightenment. No monks appeared.
The universe did not explain human relationships to me.I simply stopped thinking about it.
Because eight white belts give your brain surprisingly little opportunity for existential crisis.
Eventually I looked toward the side of the mats.
My coach and a couple of the others were standing there.Watching.Smiling.
That was when I realised something.
I had just run almost the entire beginner session.
Afterwards my coach walked over.
He folded his arms and looked at me for a second.

“So?”So what?”“Still somewhere outside the room?”
I couldn't help smiling.
“No.”
“Good.”
Then he nodded toward the mats.
“That’s why I gave them to you.”
And that shut me up for approximately three seconds, which anyone who knows me will understand is a remarkable coaching achievement in itself.
He hadn't needed someone to fill ten minutes.
He'd seen that I was stuck inside my own head and handed me eight people who needed me to get out of it.
Annoyingly effective.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I trust good coaches.
They don't always give you the training you arrived wanting.
Sometimes they give you the training you actually need. So yesterday I was confused by one person disappearing without an explanation.
Today I spent an evening trying to stop eight beginners from accidentally tying themselves into decorative knots.
And somehow I came home feeling considerably better.
Apparently therapy comes in many forms.
Mine occasionally wears a brown belt, smells vaguely of disinfectant and sweat, and keeps reminding white belts that their necks are not replaceable parts.
I’ll take it. 🥋😏
Although the full therapeutic effect became slightly more questionable about twenty minutes later.
After I’d showered and changed, I was standing in the locker room when my body apparently decided it was finally safe to submit its official report on the evening.
The report was not encouraging.
Shoulders: unhappy.
Back: filing a complaint.
Hips: reconsidering our relationship.
Legs: no longer answering emails.
And by the time I got home, pretty much every individual body part had found its own creative way of informing me that tonight had, in fact, been a fairly serious training session.
There’s something deeply unfair about BJJ in that respect. While you’re on the mats, adrenaline keeps telling you, “This is fine. We’re having fun.”
Then you shower, drive home, sit down for five minutes and your entire body holds an emergency meeting without inviting you.
So I have now made an extremely ambitious plan for tomorrow:
Absolutely nothing.
And I intend to pursue it with the same discipline and dedication I usually reserve for training.
I may negotiate with my characters for a few chapters, because apparently even impending muscle soreness doesn’t qualify me for leave from fictional people who live in my head rent-free.

But physically?No.Tomorrow, gravity wins.

In fact, judging by how I feel right now, getting out of bed in the morning may require technique, leverage and possibly a training partner.
Which, when you think about it, is wonderfully appropriate.
Tonight I spent hours teaching white belts how to move efficiently on the ground.
Tomorrow morning I may get the opportunity to demonstrate those skills while trying to reach the coffee machine without standing up. 😂
So yes.
Mind considerably clearer.Body filing for divorce.Successful Friday, I’d say.

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

So… about that very ambitious plan I announced yesterday.
You know. The one where I said I was going to do absolutely nothing today.
I am delighted to report that, for once in my life, I have shown extraordinary discipline and followed a plan almost perfectly. 😌
This morning I woke up and discovered that yesterday’s BJJ session had apparently continued overnight without my consent.
Everything hurts.
And when I say everything, I mean I have somehow developed muscle soreness in places I wasn’t entirely aware contained muscles.
My neck hurts. My shoulders hurt. My back has opinions. My hips are openly hostile. My legs have resigned from active service, and I’m fairly certain even my little toes are holding me personally responsible for yesterday.
So yes, the morning post didn’t happen.
I was busy surviving the dangerous journey between the bed, the coffee machine and the sofa.
Very demanding schedule.
But sometime this afternoon, after several hours of highly professional recovery consisting mainly of sitting still and feeling sorry for myself, I had a brilliant idea.

Yoga.

Not proper yoga, obviously. I’m not completely insane.
Just a little gentle stretching. A few easy poses. Get the body moving. Loosen everything up.
Healthy. Sensible. Mature.
What could possibly go wrong?Quite a lot, apparently.
By approximately the third pose, my entire body had submitted a formal objection to the project.
There was a very clear moment when my muscles collectively asked:
“Have you learned absolutely nothing since yesterday?”
And honestly, they had a point.
I don’t think I’ve abandoned many yoga sessions in my life, and technically I didn’t abandon this one either.
I simply… renegotiated the terms. 😏
What began as yoga gradually became something closer to extremely slow, cautious negotiations with my own skeleton.Stretch a little.Breathe.Regret it.Reconsider several life choices.
Move another three centimetres.Congratulations. Wellness.
So I have officially stopped trying to be productive today.
Even the heroes of Therys have been given the day off. No battles. No ancient mysteries. No emotional trauma. No one is allowed to save the world until tomorrow.
Frankly, if they have a problem with that, they can write the next chapter themselves.
Tonight’s programme is therefore brutally demanding:
Netflix.Sofa. Rest.

And a box of ice cream that I intend to approach with the focus and commitment normally reserved for considerably more important things.
No guilt. No productivity. No heroic attempts at recovery.
Just me, fictional television problems that are thankfully not mine, and enough sugar to convince my body that I’m sorry.
Yesterday I was a brown belt teaching white belts how to survive on the mats.
Today I was defeated by gentle yoga.
Balance has been restored to the universe. 😂

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Good morning. ☕

Living alone has many advantages.
Unfortunately, waking up to someone bringing you coffee in bed is not one of them.
Which is a shame, because I happen to be very fond of that particular service.
So this morning I did what independent adults apparently do: I got out of bed, discovered that I can now move with something resembling dignity again instead of shuffling around like a recently reanimated corpse, made myself coffee… and climbed straight back into bed with it.
Problem solved.
Romance is alive.
It just requires more walking than advertised. 😏
The muscle soreness is still there, but at least today my body has downgraded its official complaint from “criminal investigation” to “mildly hostile correspondence.”
So naturally, once I had finished my coffee and was feeling slightly too pleased with myself, I made another excellent decision.
I decided to go running.I know.I’ve said this before.I do not like running.
Running and I have never had the sort of relationship where either of us pretends otherwise.
But there was also yesterday’s ice cream.
Now, technically, I’m fairly certain Friday’s BJJ session had already paid for that ice cream in advance.
Possibly with interest.
Still, my brain decided that six kilometres sounded like a responsible Sunday activity.
My body was not consulted.
I got dressed and went out.
The first kilometre was horrible.
Absolutely horrible.
Every muscle I had irritated on Friday apparently recognised what was happening and began contacting legal representation.
My legs were offended.
My back had questions.
My lungs were reconsidering their professional obligations.
And for the first few minutes, I was fairly certain this was going to become a very short and educational run.
Then something strange happened.
Somewhere after that first kilometre, my brain seemed to switch modes.
The protesting got quieter.
My stride settled.
Breathing became less dramatic.
And suddenly I wasn’t thinking about whether I wanted to run anymore.
I was just running.
Which is probably the closest I’ll ever come to saying something genuinely kind about the activity.
And somehow…Six kilometres.Done. Now, was I smiling at the end?Technically, yes.Was it sincere?
I would strongly advise against a forensic examination of the photograph.But I did it.
Coffee in bed. Six kilometres. Sunday morning successfully survived.
That feels like enough personal growth for one day.
Unfortunately, my fictional residents disagree.
Apparently yesterday’s official day off was unacceptable, and several of them have now filed formal demands for the continuation of their lives.
Very inconsiderate. So this afternoon I’ll be writing again.
Because apparently the reward for surviving BJJ, yoga, muscle soreness and a Sunday run is returning home to people who don’t technically exist and explaining why their problems still aren’t solved.
Honestly…
At least the coffee doesn’t argue back.
Have a beautiful Sunday. 😏
— Norian Vayle

[JAMXR @JAMXR01]

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[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Apparently, I've been a little quiet here for the past few days. I would love to tell you that this was because I was somewhere terribly exciting, drinking something expensive beside a pool and making questionable life decisions. Unfortunately, the truth is much less glamorous: I made the mistake of looking at my own manuscript.
You see, I don't really write books one by one. I write the story. I follow the characters, the conflicts, the consequences, the terrible decisions people make and then somehow expect me to fix three chapters later. At some point I simply have to stop, look at the growing mountain of pages and ask the rather important question: So... where exactly does the next book end?

That was supposed to be a relatively simple task.
Narrator: it was not.
I already knew where Book Two began, so I started going through everything I'd written after that, organizing chapters, checking story arcs, moving things around and generally pretending I was a responsible author who had everything under control.
Then I looked at the total.
Roughly 1,200 pages.
There are moments in life when silence is the only intellectually appropriate response.
That was one of them.
Apparently, while I thought I was writing Book Two, I had quietly written enough material for Book Two, Book Three, and—because apparently moderation is a concept I've only encountered in books—the beginning of Book Four.

Excellent.

So instead of asking myself where Book Two should end, I suddenly found myself performing literary archaeology on my own work, trying to discover exactly how many books I'd accidentally written.
The good news is that I eventually found the answer.
Book Two is finished. And now officially published.
It's available on Amazon in both eBook and paperback, which still feels slightly surreal considering that a short while ago it was buried somewhere inside a 1,200-page document staring back at me like a threat.
Book Three? Already there. A substantial part of it, actually.

Book Four?

We don't talk about Book Four yet. It has already demonstrated enough confidence for something that technically hasn't been invited.
And that, together with the usual work chaos that arrives when half the civilized world goes on summer holiday while some of us remain behind to discover how many jobs one person can apparently do at once, is why I've been a little less present here lately.
So, apologies for disappearing somewhat. I haven't abandoned X, joined a monastery, or finally developed a healthy relationship with time management.
I've simply been writing.
Far too much, apparently.
Anyway, I'm back. Book Two is out. The story is considerably further ahead than even I realized.
And somewhere inside those 1,200 pages, my characters are probably already making decisions I'm going to regret.
So everything is perfectly normal again. 😏

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

So… I suppose I owe you an explanation for being a little quieter than usual these past few days.
No, I didn’t disappear again. I didn’t escape to another beach. And, surprisingly, I didn’t buy more shoes.

I was finishing this. 📚
And now I can finally say it:
Book Two is officially out.
Both books in the Therys series are now available on Amazon, in eBook and paperback editions.

It’s a strange feeling seeing them there together.
What started as a world inside my head—characters arguing with me, scenes being rewritten at ridiculous hours, notes scattered everywhere, and more coffee than any responsible adult should admit to—has somehow become two actual books that other people can hold in their hands.

And yes, I’m proud of them.

There. I said it.

Please enjoy this rare moment of uncomplicated self-confidence. Normal sarcastic programming will resume shortly. 😏
But seriously… thank you to everyone who has read, commented, asked about Therys, shared something, or simply stayed around while I occasionally disappeared into this world for far longer than intended.
Book One opened the door.
Book Two takes you much deeper inside.
And apparently I haven’t learned my lesson, because Book Three is already sitting on my desk demanding attention.
So much for having a quiet hobby.
Welcome back to Therys. ⚔️
Both books. Now available on Amazon.
eBook & Paperback.

— Norian Vayle

[Norian Vayle @Norianvayle]

Nézd meg Norian Vayle videóját! #TikTok https://t.co/EPZzR3PyNL