Tales Of Grimea

by Andrew Mowere

Tales of Grimea

  Copyright 2016 Andrew Mowere

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  Blurb

  Thank you for the smile

  The wind and the tree

  And thank you for being

  The thing that I see

  Also By This Author

  The Final Life

  The Final Death

  When a man bleeds (short)

  Hymn of Faith (short)

  Heroes (short)

  Table Of contents:

  The Pathseeker

  Survival

  Whispers Of Insanity

  Crossroads

  Worth

  Strangers

  The Blacksmith Of Coeur

  The Pathseeker:

  Year: Unknown

  This tale precedes recorded history, having been passed through oral tradition for centuries before any known written form of tongue was invented. Most scholars from all four continents consider it to be myth. Those few who will take the possibility into account credit the unnamed man mentioned within, all those hundred thousand years ago, with taking humanity on its first step towards discovering magic.

  The man ran, wheezing. His breath was as long as a great tree stood, but his stalker’s persistence was longer still and his left leg throbbed. Knowing not how he will survive the day, he began to look for places to die. It was common for two footers to avoid being eaten, at the very least, but the tall man thought it was wise to give back to nature. Deep within, he understood that it wasn’t demeaning to let the beast eat him, for he was part of everything in one way or the other. He was not its better, but still thought it would be best to find a suitable place to at least finish this desperate fight properly. The trees flashed by, a storm of green leaves and air heat causing his every inhaled breath to come in with a little bit of water. He did not understand that this was the very stuff that makes rain. He noticed a faint stench coming from far away, and his mind grasped at a possibility of survival. The sun stared at him from directly overhead as he turned right, racing over branches and ducking under vines. He could hear great loping strides behind, and at some point the haze of his vision intensified as fresh blood spurt from the nasty gash he’d been dealt earlier.

  The man reached a copse of different trees with tall trunks. The stench of sweet death intensified, but he hoped that his pursuer’s feline nostrils were too filled with his blood. Before him, the ground stretched a rich dark brown layered deep and soft, like stacks of tired leaves. Above him, far above, he could barely glimpse fat reddish fruit hanging from branches. They looked ripe, which meant that care was needed here. Instead of looking down, the two footer wades through the fluffy brown ground rising up to his waist, knowing the dangers. As he did, he could feel the shake travel from his bare clawed feet and touch the trees nearby. A growl came from the creature behind him, but it was not the immediate danger. His blood pumped, and for a second everything slowed down. This was the single most dangerous moment he’d been in since infancy and his mind sharpened appropriately. It was one thing to charge the everyday dangers of this world, full of monsters and poisoned food and unseen death waiting to claim, quite another to willingly walk beneath Muahug’ha trees. He could hear the heartbeat, feel the very wind touch his skin with a blowing cold. He could smell the brown furred beast with death clinging to its fangs, white like polished bone after a hearty meal. It would pounce in one and a half heartbeats, for its muscle were already clenched with the determination to take this two footer’s corpse and flee quickly.

  Perhaps it was the haze of blood loss, or perhaps the twofooter’s concentration had never been tested thus before, but at that precise moment something happened. Within the body that was within his body but had no body, something stirred. It was vague as the wonder of color after a sunrise, or the breath of an unnamed odor instinctually carved onto a man’s skin, but he grasped at the stirring. Suddenly, he looked at his body from without, and saw many ripples in the clearing, with the mountain cat behind him, the trees above, and the jungle around. Countless things rippled; insects and birds and small animals of little consequence as a hawk fluttered far above. Not knowing how or why, the man focused on himself and suddenly he was the calm of a lake before the ripple, knowing exactly what to do. Left and right, the trees would shake, but they would be too far from him. The animal would startle, and it would be time for the lake to take his shape and move before the third shake. This was not the future, he knew, but the understanding of what happened in the moment and how it would shape things.

  Quickly the man turned, leaping a bit the side and forward, ripping off mountain cat hide tunic as he did. The first and second trees shook, sending red fruit as large as his head tumbling down. The fruits were so full of juice that they almost burst without touch, and their skins cracked as they tumbled down. Overhead the hawk turned, sensing someone’s doom. When red fruit hit soft brown land, it burst but was contained, for they fell deeper and burst onto a thousand little strands of earth. However, the sound prompted his enemy, a mountain cat with yellow eyes and hate against this two footer who dared impersonate its brethren upon his skin. It leapt, but the man was already in between its claws, waiting. He snagged one claw with the tunic, letting the other go. Both beasts roared, and both roars were of triumph, but the man’s prevailed. He knew the cat’s fate, clever as he was. In that instant, as it soared through the air and he grabbed it by ear and limb, the man felt three things.

  The first was the bloom of pain in his chest as four claws scoured deep marks onto his haired, chiseled chest.

  The second was a pang of sympathy for the beast as he and it exchanged looks and he understood the fundamental differences between them.

  The third was a ripple behind him, and it was the shudder that reminded the two footer of life and death.

  He twirled, using his strength to lift the beast further as it flew to his left. He had it in a grip and threw it behind him, where it finally landed with a snarl, angered and perhaps confused. The second it landed, the man scrambled back and onto safe greenish brown firm earth, clawing his way out of their arena. As he did, a splat was heard, and by the time he looked back the beast was dead, covered in red poison juice. Its face was twisted, and he knew the expression to be that of an anguished death. At least it was quick, and the jungle cat would be destroyed quickly, turning into more fuel for the Muahugh’ha trees. Within a day, one would hardly know what had happened here, for the soft brown earth would have taken over.

  The two footer waded slowly out, feeling something was off. His chest burned and so did his leg. In all likelihood, he would not survive his injuries, for Najera’s mark would probably soon appear where he’d been wounded. It would fester and grow, taking claim slowly until death chose to come with his clean tunic. The sun being directly above made it more difficult to tell directions, but the man looked around a little and noticed the mountain housing his cave. From the ones all around, it was the eighth highest and stood waiting behind two rises. The two footer knew that between them a river would snake, sly and blue. He made his way towards it, and caught a bird soon after starting out. His limp, after all, did not stop him from lunging with lightning speed, and his prey was lazy, flying too low so as to avoid detection. As he walked, putting one clawed foot in front of the other, the sun seemed to follow him, and he adjusted his direction appropriately, knowing that it would set directly behind his cave. The darkened blur around his sight would take over at times, casting him into darkness. Whenever he awoke from it, he would be further ahead. One time it happened just before reaching the river, and when the man awoke there was no sound of running water anymore and his feet were wet. Sweat covered his
face, mixing with the dirt in his shaggy hair to create knots. He did not mind much.

  His thoughts turned slowly, and as usual they went towards sympathy. The bird lay limp in his hands, and he kept his grip deliberately tight so as not to drop it. Also, he wanted to get it salty, as he’d discovered that salty food tasted good and that was exactly what sweat did. It was a grain of information he kept to himself, not letting the other two footers find out, although he intended to share it eventually. He regretted not telling them, but salty food was a good bargaining tool. Speaking of regrets, he felt bad for the cat. It was killed, but not for food or use. Such a death was shameful. These thoughts throbbed and swirled within the man’s mind as the jungle gave way to craggy rock and he climbed up. Then the wave of darkness crested again and when it washed back, he was near his own cave. There were people walking around him, and he saw a woman tut at his condition from the left. He walked with a rocky cliff to one side and a drop to his left, overlooking more mountain and the jungle. Caves lined the path to where it curved left then right again. There were many of them, and he could see two footers holed up in some. The sky began to sleep as he looked, and the man knew that he would be unable to ward off predators. Perhaps for the first time he was glad to live on this mountain, for there were many caves and it would be safe. He fell asleep walking.

  When the two footer awoke, it was dark and he was in worse pain than even that time he fell down a tree and his foot pointed in the wrong direction. That time, he had been able to force it into place, but on this day there was not such relief. He was forced to howl at the sky dots, for the burn in his chest and legs became unbearable. Worse, every time he closed his eyes, the inside of his head would throb and he would burn on the inside whilst shivering in a cold sweat. When that happened, he became the lake once again, feeling every living thing around him. The two footers around him walked, the animals in the forest climbed and ran and slithered. Birds flew and roosted and fed its young the very same worms that wriggled beneath his feet, far within rock which waited patiently. He could see and hear and smell every bit of it, and the knowledge hurt. It was like shouting within his heart, screams he regurgitated ten times or more that night, howling. The two footers around him, he could tell, thought that he would die soon, and he went quiet. Despite everything, the two footer understood two facts which clamored against each other: He was the same as everything else, and yet no two things were entirely alike. This, mixed with the euphoria of fever, lent itself to his own natural empathy, and in delirium the two footer took off his tunic and stuffed it into his mouth so as not to bother anyone. His life replayed itself before his eyes as he fell into the fits. He cried, remembering the time he had given his smallest brother some painstakingly gathered food, just to have it slapped out of their hands. He raged against himself, seeing the time his advances towards a particular maiden were largely ignored seemingly because he knew not how to swim. He sighed, reliving the day that his parents ventured out as one beyond their tree home and never came back for them. There were embarrassments and saddening moments, yet there were little triumphs here and there as well. Swimming in the river to cheers, having a young child recover from fever after he’d given it berries against the desperate protests of its mother, making friends with a slitherer. All these the two footer remembered as the fever raged. Slowly he began to control the lake within him and his inner sight quieted down, becoming a slow trickle, showing only some of what lay beyond him.

  Within a few days, he was terribly weakened due to the lack of food but otherwise feeling healthy. The two footer dared poke his head outside for the first time since collapsing and found a few children playing beneath his spot. He growled at them and they ran away. Naturally, he was thought dead. Proving them wrong felt good. When a few older two footers came and checked up on him, they decided that recovery was possible. Angry scabs stood out along his chest and right thigh, but were unlikely to cause serious harm. Thus, fruit was brought to him. There were red orbs, green long tubes filled with brown nectar and seeds, and bitter bits of leafy things which tasted better the more you ate. The two footer feasted on those, mentally marking the cave they came from so as not to forget the debt owed.

  When the sun next rose, the two footer was able to hunt, but left his cave cautiously. Just a few days earlier, he had seen the painted face of death. Moreover, the visions of what lay around lurked in the corner of his eyes. The lake was never far from him, and the two footer feared its pain. He was unsure of his ability to keep it at bay whilst moving, and so moved slowly so as not to steal from his concentration. When his feet were safely upon hard rock, he looked about, eyes stinging only a little. There were already children playing, parents going about here or there, and two footers wrestling playfully whilst trying to communicate as best they could. Luckily, the two footer saw a familiar face nearby and made his way to the child, pulling two objects from his tunic and brushing off a little bit of dirt from them. He grunted to get the black haired boy’s attention. When it was done, he showed him the first one, a leaf kept from last night’s dinner. He tried to remember the sound then grunted, “You me?”

  The boy seemed confused at first, then nodded. Luckily, his parents had taught him some fundamental speech.

  The two footer smiled kindly, then repeated almost the same guttural sound, pointing vaguely at a certain area of caves. “You You?”

  Again the child nodded then laughed, pointing at a specific cave and saying “You yew!” over and over. Satisfied, the adult two footer gave him the second object: A green bird caked in salt, only slightly smelly. He pointed at the cave as he did so and the child snatched it from his hands, saying gibberish but certainly meaning well.

  The two footer went down into that jungle certain that despite his weakened condition, there would be food to be had. The source of that confidence was the discovered lake of calm within him. There were noises everywhere, of insects and running animals and flying ones; even those strange climbing things that looked suspiciously like hairy two footers. He could smell the forest and the water mixed into the sun’s heat. When he’d gone sufficiently deep and there were no predators or two footed annoyances to disturb him, the man went left to climb up a tree. It reached high into the blue, but the man only went higher than two of him could stand, using vines to secure a sitting spot. There he found a small climbing animal, grey of fur but sporting two massive fangs. It hung upside down from the branch he sat on, waiting for prey to walk beneath so it could drop teeth down and bite. He sat next to the animal, much to its apparent disdain. It shrieked at him, fists balled. He chuckled and apologized.

  The man allowed his breathing to slow down. His eyes closed and the lake within went completely still. There was only he at that moment. Slowly he relaxed, allowing the lake to take him into sweet euphoria, although he went careful and slow, staying deep within himself so as to avoid pain. He became aware of the blood pumping through his veins, of the bones creaking imperceptibly, of the air spinning within his lungs before coming back out. He was, of course, oblivious to what lay within humans, but somehow could feel things within himself as if his entire body had suddenly learned to touch. Every second was good, in the moment, and for minutes he thought of nothing, just sat and felt. Then slowly, he began to feel fatigue of a type unusual to him. There was power in his muscles, and his thoughts were silent but true. However, the two footer could tell that the very intent behind his being was drained slowly by this new sense he’d developed. It was like a dull void deep within who he was, an ache in marrow within bone. If this was taken to an extreme, he would lose all will and forget to breathe, sealing his fate and slipping into sweet oblivion. That, he needed to avoid.

  The two footer decided to stop feeling for the day. Coming down from the tree, he spent a few minutes resting idly at its base, picking at leaves and doing nothing until he felt better.

  The man went deeper into the forest, cautious. A hush was coming over the area he entered, which told him there must
be a mighty predator prowling and keeping everything away. A good hunter did not go to a place birds did not dare fly over. In the distance he saw another two footer, who waved to him. He waved back, then motioned that he was going back. The other gave him an exasperated gesture.

  As he walked back, the two footer found many low hanging fruits. The entire way, he marveled at everything he saw. Even the slitherers, whom he normally hated, looked resplendent in their scales that day. Perhaps it had something to do with the feeling he’d experienced earlier, but he felt light, better almost. A jungle’s constant chorus was often an overlooked form of music, but on that day he treasured every whistle, cluck, and roar. He smiled to himself that entire day.

  Soon, the two footer fell into a familiar routine. He would wake up early, go out and feel for as long as he could, savoring the sensations gleaned, and then go hunting. Raised awareness became his ever-present companion, and even though he spent a little bit longer feeling each day than the one before it, there were never any hunting problems. He would hear and see things that would have gone overlooked before, smell fruit and other bounties in hidden places, and return to his cave happy each night, sharing a little bit with the family that had helped save him. The father, especially, took a liking to him and would teach the two footer things about tying vines together to hold things. It was a useful skill, he learned.

  One day, months later, the two footer decided to take his feeling a step beyond. In his usual tree, next to the small grey climber, he felt not only himself, but slightly beyond. It was a jarring feeling, like expanding, but somehow he was able to control it and not go into the painful state he’d found himself in after being injured. He felt the branch beneath him, the speedy climber’s wheeze, and the slow patient throb of tree. In the tree, something felt off. Being unsure of what it was, but getting a certain sense of direction, the hunter looked towards a specific branch higher and to his left. He was surprised to find a piece of fruit there, hidden from sight by a peculiar arrangement of leaves. The fruit was rotten in its place, but taught the two footer that it was possible to use his ability to locate food. That day he left the tree early, saving his strength for searching. Every few minutes he would sit and feel, probing the immediate area around him. He only looked as far as he could run in ten strides, but the technique proved effective. That day he found a large amount of food, and had to leave some behind!

  As days went on, the man learned not only to probe farther, but also discern his surroundings whilst moving. That made it possible to hunt animals better. The first time he did it, his skill was used against a red tailed four footer. It was tiny and weak, but with time the two footer was able to expand and find better prey and avoid predators, like those larger than trees or more dangerous than even the Muahugh’ha. Feeling lighter, knowing when and where obstacles may show up, made all the difference. The fourth time, he was a able to run and climb, barely touching branches with the tips of his arms and feet before swinging off and leaping, pushing off as if he were walking vertically on trunks. A huge tree came up, but the man was prepared and leapt high, landing against it with most of his upper body, but keeping his knees supple. He held there for a second, suspended by speed, and before he could slip down he leapt vertically, towards another branch. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the immediate surroundings. A ripple moved towards him, fast, and the man knew that if he moved his arms forward it would swoop down to compensate. He put his palm in the correct spot and a large bird of prey flew right into it. It had a menacing beak, black and white feathers, and dangerous talons. The man smiled at his dinner.

  That day, the two footers looked upon him with shock. No one caught that type of bird like that. Sometimes they were found, perhaps even trapped by a genius, but never caught. The man basked in it for a while, and then went to the family he knew, giving them the bird and gesturing that with that, his debt towards them has been paid in full. The father agreed.

  Day after day the two footer hunted, finding better pray and understanding the lake within him better. There were slight differences in the ripples, telling him exactly what he was sensing and its conditions. The ripple of a river fish was different from that of a lean beating crawler or a sighing slitherer. Everything felt different and yet exactly the same. It made hunting much easier for the two footer and freed him to think of other things.

  It is incredible to behold what people could achieve when they weren’t desperately fighting for survival. The two footer realized that his new sense worked on some principle different than climbing or understanding. There was something within him, a stamina of sorts. Moreover, he realized that the lake within him was the same one he saw from above in his mind’s eye, and that the ripples were reflections upon his own senses. His senses depended on the size of the lake, as well as intricacy of what he felt. If he stretched himself thin, he could feel farther, but with less detail. At distance, it was difficult to tell an injured bird from a leaping climber.

  The two footer was fascinated with his senses, and so sought to develop them. He began to store food, and when he had enough for a week he went to his cave. It was not deep nor bright. There were no animals and no wood, just leaves for him to sleep on. It faced the sun’s rise to wake him up when time came, and it was high to protect him from predators. Most importantly, this small hole in the mountain was his home. On one side, its right wall curved to allow him a seating space, and that was where the two footer went.

  He sat, making himself comfortable. He allowed his eyes to close and his breath to slow, then realized that the children would not allow him to work in peace. He needed another spot, and so tied up his storage of food in vines, making a small bag for it. He took it deep into the jungle, to a giant tree he knew of. The tree’s bark had seen many years, and so had mingled with the death-green. Only, he understood that the death green had nature and life within, small enough not to be noticed but important all the same. The man came to this tree because it had a hold in its trunk, allowing him to sit inside, hidden from everything. There were enough pieces of bark to cover him from predators, and the mossy seat was comfortable.

  The man sat, watching the sun set beyond his mountain home. The light entered his eyes but stopped at his nose. This was how he would tell time when a day passed. Once more, the man allowed his consciousness to almost fade, closing his eyes and slowing his breath. He became the lake and sensed innumerable ripples all about. Wonder filled him at the euphoria of life, and he could hear many voices, chattering together as one. He saw them from above with his body as the center. He could see about as far as he could run for a few heartbeats. Slowly he focused on that feeling, allowing himself to push the boundaries whilst not rushing things. More than anything, he focused on the pleasant sensation of being one with himself.

  His senses travelled, and every time the ripples became faint he would stop, savoring the sounds of a beating heart or a bloomed flower’s scent being lifted high into a cloudless sky by a red eyed bird. He saw the smallest of things and the largest of the mountain sized animals, those with skins like leather or hair longer than a man. Whenever the fatigue left him, he would continue expanding his senses until suddenly, he felt a two footer. He was used to how different two footers were from the rest of existence. There was somehow more complexity to them, whilst betraying no higher importance. Then the feeling came again, later, and the man realized he was sensing his home, where the caves were. Children danced and men laughed and women ran races against one another. Meanwhile a fluttering betrayed the ripples of butterflies. He pushed further.

  The two footer had never seen any bodies of water larger than his jungle’s river. You can imagine then his gasp of wonder at finding his sight stopped by an incredibly ancient presence vaster, it seemed, than a dream spanning a thousand nights. The presence was filled with different types of animals the two footer had never encountered, having never been away from the jungle ringed by mountains. He could also feel other predators on the land between mountain a
nd ocean, bigger still than the ones back home. Two footers, however, he could not sense. Instinctively, he was glad to that none of these predators roamed his lands.

  If you walked along the river in the direction to your left when facing the sun, you would, in the two footer’s jungle, find two or three spots of land surrounded by water. This, the two footer discovered, was how most land was. There was mostly water, and he, his jungle, and everything around were one island. Smaller islands headed in a direction, then two large ones, far from one another but connected by a long thin strip. Far below him, down enough that it somehow became up again, was one last island. Four there were, in this… place they inhabited. The two footer had no concept of planets, but surmised that everyone lived on a ball. By this time, he had eaten a few times, but had stopped for nothing else. The sun rose when he found his strength waning and he stopped to rest his mind and self, and his eyes stung both with light and revelation, although these two things were sometimes one and the same. There was too much to know. Everyone lived on islands surrounded by water, on a ball? His head hurt with the number of new beings he’d felt. By the end of his day’s out of body adventure, he could only sense beings larger than reality, like the lizards that flew or the fish that walked or the two footers made of tree. Once more, he was glad to not have any in their jungle, for he sensed there was no way to hunt these things.

  When his rest was over, the two footer readied himself to feel once more. It was now high morning, and he’d thought a few things through. Instead of feeling just all around, he sent his senses in an orb around him from the get go. It was coming to his attention that under was not quite always under, and as with many new revelations he took this one with wonder and a change of thought. When he passed the globe, this time, he could feel smaller things as well. Realizing that his senses were growing, the two footer gently pushed on through, and was surprised to feel little resistance. It was as if the space he probed was devoid of anything. He thought for a few seconds that he’d reached the end of the world, and so spent a few minutes basking in the world and in himself. Then, when caution’s grip loosened, the man pushed on further, until he reached white rock. Then he moved on and felt more rock, and more, then something akin to the red tongues which were sometimes left behind when lightning smashed its foot against the ground. There were no living things to touch, and yet the man was not disheartened, for he was the lake and could feel all around him. With a deep breath he moved on, sensing himself moving slowly. He spun slowly, and yet was still. He moved not, and yet at the same time hurtled through the void, as he could tell by his distance from the rocks. It was only when night fell that he realized that he’d felt moon and stars. It was a revelation of wonder, for he’d always assumed that the moon and stars hid during daylight. Things were proving different indeed. That night, he did not sleep or push on, but rather chose to pull back his probe until he could sense even the smallest insects again. It was that sense of unity in being the lake that brought him comfort through the night.

  When the sun rose on the third day, the two footer had reached inner peace. He pushed through, going farther into the void beyond his world than he’d ever dared. He became sure that there was no living thing outside his void, and so stretched himself thin, taking a stroll. Thus, he was shocked in the same sense as being dowsed by cold water when his sensed something. Immense beings, beyond his understanding. They walked between the stars gently, through paths known only to them.

  Hmm? Remarked a voice in his mind, strange and echoing. The man was so stunned that he said nothing, and the voice repeated its sound. There was a sense of question, and the two footer assumed he was being contacted. The being was so large that he felt an urge he’d never had before. He tried to contact it, focus on it, and enter it. Pain blossomed in him and the two footer retreated.

  Gently, the being touched him and the two footer almost felt himself snap in half. It pulled back hastily, and he realized that it had only tried to communicate. A sense of disappointment came through, and he felt guilty for not being able to speak with it. There were almost a hundred of them, and he sensed them talk to one another. He felt jealous and lonely, so tried once more to communicate with the star walkers with their long strides, despite the pain. His attempts bordered on desperation, for he wanted more than anything to speak with them and be like them. He wanted to be one with these amazing beings, as he was one with the jungle. He needed their contact. He could tell that the attempts were killing him, and that he would never be able to step out of his body again. Still he tried, until finally he snapped. The pain was too much to handle and he almost blacked out, but was grabbed by someone.

  The being he was trying to contact took him gently, preserving his mind, keeping him safe and trying to tell him things too big for his primitive mind to understand. When it released him, he was sucked back into his own body, which he knew would become his trap forever more. With a gasp, he awoke in the inside of a burning tree, with the sun setting, and knew that he would never be able to feel again. He tried, to great pain. He knew that he’d set the tree on fire, but knew not how.

  The two footer went back to his cave, haunted by what he’d tried and seen. Only two pieces of information were gleaned from the star walkers, these mighty god figures. The first was the understanding that what he’d done, how he felt, was part of something larger. There were no specifics. All he knew was that living things were able to learn how to use something deep inside. The second piece of information was how the star walkers crossed great distances. In his cave, he used blood to draw a symbol: Two curves mirroring one another, almost touching. In their tails three dots sat, and at their heads triangles waited. The holes of void met inside and created the pathways for these great beings using the dots and triangles.

  The two footer was sure that with time, the knowledge gleaned from them would prove useful. He knew that if the thing within him weren’t broken, he would be able to use it to great effect after his revelation, but there was no use crying over what was. He would make sure the others understand and keep the knowledge going until it became of better use. Time after time he drew the symbol, filling the walls of his cave. Time after time he repeated the revelation of magical wonders depending on inner strength and vitality, knowing that there was a world far beyond him, and a path that only he could walk.

  Survival:

  Year: 801 post Kerallus. 251 Pre Adventus

  Claudis made her way outside of the nice, small home, savoring the scent of cooking pudding mingled with early spring flowers. She walked along the path to her small herb garden, making sure not to step over daffodils as she dead. The flowers seemed to look up at the woman in appreciation.

  She hummed in a soothing manner as she cut small snippets of sage, thornswash and Heldibliss. Scissors snipped and the purple flower fell to her hands with a solemn sigh. She offered a prayer to Til, god of nature and forests, for the boon. It was said that offering such prayers gave the plants incentive to release more flavor. She walked slowly back, where a beautiful man sat by a fireplace, knife in hand. She frowned. “Markus Demask Dernagen, what do you think you’re doing?”

  He looked up at her. As they sometimes did, the curves of his facial features took her by surprise and Claudis felt out of breath. His nose was slightly overlarge, and his messy hair often found its way into places hair had no reason to be, such as imperfect ears. Still, the sun’s rays kissed his lips through a nearby window, and somehow he seemed to light up their little living room. “Why do you need to know?” he asked confidently. This was the voice people didn’t often hear, mostly because he was too polite. With her, things were different.

  “Because you might be trying to make me another wooden ring.”

  “Maybe I am.” At that, the woman rolled her eyes. Her husband, for all of his good qualities, was not a craftsman. Woodwork didn’t come naturally to him, as was evident by the green bandage wrapped around his left thumb. Unfortunately, he could be as headstrong as a Gost. Jus
t as the troll like things head-butted rocks to get at the water within, Markus liked to tackle challenges. Seeing her worried glance, he invited her over to him. When she came to check his hands for further injury, however, the man instead cupped her face with a hand. “Look into my eyes. I know what we talked about.”

  “So you know I didn’t really mean what I’d said about back then.”

  “Of course. I also know that if it were easy, you’d be more than happy to get a handcrafted wooden ring. You just don’t want me to get hurt.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been through battlefields and this,” he showed her his thumb, “Is the injury I carry with the most pride. For you, I’d lose arms and legs. Let me make you happy and I will fly over a solemn moon in my dreams.” Now really, when he put things like that, there was little to be said. She let him continue fiddling with the knife, surprised to see how far he’d gotten.

  Hours later, when Sol was finished pulling the sun back to its resting spot, Claudis and Markus sat down to have their dinner. She had brewed them a thornwash tea, and he had in turn brought out cheeses and breads. As she sat at the table, the dark haired woman saw a circle of relatively well-shaved ashwood. It was almost as white as his skin, spotted with a tiny red dot here and there, and obviously a few sizes too large. A simple chain had been passed through, and it hunched upon the table, average and unassuming. Little did that small ornament know that it was the best ring that had ever been made. Her impossible miracle smiled, and she smiled to him in turn, saying nothing. Words were too difficult to summon at that moment.

  A knock came from their kitchen door, and after exchanging puzzled glances she went to answer. A little boy stood there, all freckles and energy. A part of her lamented not having one of her own, but luck had its way of taking and giving things. “Hello, Jareny!” she announced loudly.

  “Evening, Mrs. Dernagen,” the child answered, fidgeting. He was polite as usual, but she could sense his urgency. “I’m sorry to bother you, but Ma asks if you have any of that burlen honey left. Da fancies some and we ran out a week ago.” She informed him loudly that she did, thus saving herself of explaining to her husband. After slight hesitation, she bade the child wait and went to take her ring with its chain from the table, placing the now necklace over her head and around her neck. She mouthed, “Thank you,” and her husband lit up. Then Claudis told little Jareny to go inside and get himself some cheese while she fetched the honey.

  Claudis’ well-worn leather shoes thumped against dirt for a few seconds, then she turned left into grass, making sure to walk carefully. Night was relatively safe in this part of Veld. They didn’t even keep their Regalians hidden, for they were part of the fair kingdom and people were civilized. Still, one could hardly explain that to a snake or a belg just sitting there, waiting for a bite with impossible patience. She walked with eyes peeled under the moon’s solemn grace, silently asking Hydra for luck as was customary until she reached the small wooden structure they used for a secondary storage. The small room was wide enough for her to stand within and spin, so long as the tall woman kept both arms firmly at her side. Shelves lined the thing, stacked high with all sorts of things they’d chosen to keep. Both the man and his wife were hoarders at heart, and despite trying to keep that embarrassing fact to themselves it showed now and then. There was a small ladder on the dusty floor to help reach the higher things, and Claudis unfurled it in the tight space, breathing musty air through her mouth. She stepped on the first step, moves on shakily onto the second, then felt a small wiggle beneath her. The ladder didn’t sit right on the ground. She went up one more step and suddenly, Claudis felt her world turn sideways, then heard a thud.

  When Claudis awoke, everything was strange. Something about her body didn’t sit right, and her head was strangely turned sideways. There was no pain, but when she tried to push it a little straighter her arm’s movement was strangely shaky. She stood in a grassy place filled with boulders, and could not for the life of her understand how she had come to be here. Furthermore, dull silence echoed in her ears, as if they were covered. Eyes scrolled downwards and she realized that something was horribly wrong. Her legs were bent wrong, and they should have screamed in protest. All the right one did was flop, and the woman knew she should be in terrible pain. Still there was nothing. All around her people slowly got to their feet, and she wondered why they had been sleeping on the ground wherever this was. An older lady made her way towards her, and Claudis assumed she must have been injured too, for the woman walked a pronounced limp. In the gloom a child hopped slowly, as if it were difficult.

  Then dark clouds unveiled the pale moon and she gasped in horror. This was not a garden or a park, but rather her town’s graveyard. The boulders were tombstones, and what she had taken for small houses had been mausoleums. Even worse, the old woman limping towards her was partially decayed, flesh falling off her like pieces of horror. The young child was actually barely more than half a skeleton, hopping upon its midsection. How had she gotten here?

  Suddenly Claudis felt her ears pop and sound burst to life. Three tones she heard. The first was an incessant whisper, gliding like oil upon water or a bird with too few feathers. The second was a female voice, ringing out in prayer like a clear bell. The third was a scuttle beneath a nearby tree, and it was to this closest sound she turned, putting the two others behind her. The whisper called to her very being, speaking of dark things and maggots, pulling at the strings of her being. She ignored it, and a dull throb began to mount in her head. Instead she focused on the scurrying man. He was terrified and yet instantly recognizable. “Markus? What are you doing here? What’s going on? Claudis meant to say these words, but only managed to gurgle. She found it unreasonable to address the scene around them. Part of her discredited it entirely.

  “Claudis! Oh Claudis, what have they done to you!” He began to back away, and the woman realized that she was walking towards him in a fearsome manner. She began to reassure him, then to stop, thinking it best to stay still with injuries like the one on her right leg. She was unable to stop. Unbidden, feet shod in black moved on regardless of her will. With horror, she realized that there was no control in her. She began to drool, yet could not stop it.

  “Now,” hissed the sinister voice that had been whispering, “Go forth and kill the human, my undead beauties. Feast on flesh fresher than yours, feel jealousy ferment in you.”

  Undead? That couldn’t be. Just now, Claudis had been going to get some honey. Then her arms raised involuntarily, and she saw three things. Firstly, the Markus backing away from her, leaving his hat behind on the grass near the tree, was older than she remembered. Second, she was the only one going towards him, with everyone else heading somewhere behind her. Lastly, her flesh was rotten with maggots where her hands should have been human and rosy. She still didn’t understand what had happened exactly, but the woman tried to get her head around it.

  She was dead. A dark force was using her body against her will, and it had managed to give her wrong directions. Instead of going after whoever owned that clear bell like voice, she was going to kill her husband. Something clinked, and Claudis realized that there was a white ring still around her death infested neck. Ever practical, she focused on the task at hand. No.

  With everything she had, the woman tried to fight the voice’s control. It hissed in delight. Behind her, she could hear the two voices clamoring against one another.

  “Your gods do you no good here, girl. You should have given up last time.”

  “Merla guide me, take my hands. Slim lights grow bright when they know what has been done and what is to be, for the river flows towards good and the depraved shall seek nothing but love.” This was a prayer of a goddess outside the niners, rarely worshipped in this part of the country. The woman who stated it did so with conviction, and lights shone from behind Claudis. White and blue, it was. It brought warmth and pain and strength. She could hear fire and blades and bones being crushed while sighs f
illed the air. The old man’s voice gained urgency, and he focused on his spells. Thus the two battled.

  Then Claudis focused on her own battle. She let the large one behind her rage one, praying for the priestess to vanquish her foe. The wind howled and lighting appeared out of nowhere, pitting light against dark as it sheared the world in half. Still she tried to stop moving those murderous limbs of hers without success. In desperation, the woman focused on her right arm, willing it to hold on to a nearby branch. The strategy succeeded, but only momentarily. Her husband was dazed with shock, and tripped with a crack and a cry. He crawled for dear life, but she would catch up with him. Scenes of their happy life together flashed, and the woman realized that for this man, she’d give up…. Yes. Exactly like he’d said the night before, although it must have been years ago. He still came to visit her, and she still saw a ring upon the terrified man’s finger despite the ashen streaks in his hair. He still came here, when the moon shone bright. She knew it instinctively, as if her cold body had remembered. For him…

  As the fighting behind them intensified between priestess and foul magician, Claudis focused on her arm again. Every struggle against the forces holding her in their grasp caused the pain in her head to blossom red and hot. Still she refocused the former strength of her happiness, shaping it into pure will. Her arm moved, picked up a stone from the ground when she next limped close enough. She took a deep breath, seeing how close Marcus was now. Part of her, unbelievably, was happy to see everlasting love in the despair of his expression. She swung, striking her right leg. A snap was heard, and she lurched but kept moving. The incantation took on a lighthearted tone, as if mocking her efforts. “Ah, a feisty one. And going in the wrong direction, no less! Oh, oh, I see! Well, now then… I took your feelings out of mercy, hurmph! Let’s see what happens when I give them back, shall we?” Instantly, a gnashing within her bones almost caused Claudis to black out.

  “What drivel do you speak, old one?” demanded the priestess.

  He cackled. “None of your concern, child of light!” With that, the battle continued.

  The two fought. Their songs clashed, flames of dark and glowing blue blades facing off amidst behind the woman. From the bangs and lights, Claudis was sure that the priestess was surrounded but advancing, wreaking havoc on the sorcerer’s undead army. She was sure that the havoc within her was worse still. Her brain felt like sea froth. Crushed lungs struggled to gather something unneeded whilst her bones grinded against one another. Even the falling skin and tunneling of insects could be felt. More than once, Claudis knew unbearable pain. At the same time, she did not give in. She knew that her husband could not move faster than her, and to give in was to doom him. The rock was still in her hand, and she swung again, fully shattering her right leg with an inhuman cry. She fell to her knees, and the undead within her began to crawl. She kept swinging again and again. The physical torture was nothing compared to what would happen in her undead heart if she killed Markus.

  When the battle ended, the priestess in her white and blue garb was victorious. With an unholy cry the magician fell, along with most of his army. She lifted her black candle and mace, one in each hand, allowing a final songspell to leave her lips. Just then, the sun was peeking over the horizon, attempting to dispel the night’s terror. It revealed a mangled undead minion, barely more than a torso, kneeling just a foot away from a man shocked beyond belief. “Oh, my darling,” he murmured in a torn manner, trying to keep himself strong. She’d hated it when he cried. “I wish you’d let me join you.”

  Claudis was in the throes of a sweet void then, offset by a single pinpoint glow. She could see nothing else. The light beckoned, and she was almost ready to go. She heard footsteps behind them, but the priestess remained silent. “I…” Claudis started in a gurgle, then struggled on. “I… you s… solemn… moon… ring….let…ppy…” She hoped that he got her meaning, for there was no strength left in her broken form. As she let go, content that her love had survived, the priestess offered a long slow prayer.

  Whispers of insanity:

  Year:822 Post Kerallus. 230 Pre Adventus

  The following is an excerpt from the diary of Mardow Grame, a prisoner and one time apprentice of Krulov Gregerovitch, who would one day lay waste to cities numerous and wreak havoc over the eastern continent of Jerr. Eventually he would be stopped far west, at the gates of Lor, but not before he even managed to force Haq Ramad, the shadow spear, to slit her own throat.

  Today, I heard a tale that caused my stomach to churn. Abused from the tender age of three and turning to crime earlier than I could walk, I had thought this tired heart incapable of sympathy, but the master’s story was unusual in its simplicity. My very heart cringes at the memory, and I pray never to become like him, for it was not the circumstances of his tale that spoke of woe, but rather the very destruction and depravity evident within mind and soul. I know now that the man, if unleashed, could cause the very world nausea.

  I had gone within his cell, which was the only one beside mine perpetually unlocked by prison wardens, in order to bring the man some soup and stale bread. He sat there upon cracked stone, weathering whipping wind laced with ice. The window next to him was unbarred, for none could climb down the mountainside in such freezing condition. Not that he would try. Kurlov Gregerovitch was here of his own volition, though naturally the mind controlled guards treated him better than most. That was why I found him wrapped in a course blanket, shivering contently. I’d found out early that the master enjoyed having pain inflicted upon his body, as long as he could control frequency and intensity.

  “Master,” I said to him by way of greeting, to which he nodded at the hot bowl of soup in my hands. I handed it to him, accompanied by a loaf of bread. Ignoring its greenish hue, the brown skinned man set upon his meal with the grace of a noble. Dipping chunks delicately into the murky liquid with two of his fingers, the man said, “Say, Mardow, how fares your training?”

  “It’s not faring at all, Master. I am no closer to leaving my skull.” The words were spat out, for it had been a month already since the man accepted me as his pupil in psionic, and the only thing he’d told me was to try and leave my skull. It was less of a technique and more of a described state, according to his explanation, where the mind can come in touch with what is beyond it. “I don’t understand. How does the brain do something like that?”

  “Not the brain, boy!” snapped Master Kurlov in annoyance, his beard and wavy hair seeming to writhe. It seemed to cause him frustration as well, and I wished there was someone else I could ask. “The mind is different from the brain. The second is housed within the temple, but the other wanders freely around it like a cloud or a soul seeking salvation.” His words made no sense to me, but that was the paradox of attempting to learn something completely new: The action never makes sense until you were already able to act it out. Thus I kept my peace and let the man speak. Outside the wind howled agreement and the drop beckoned as it always did. “To leave is to find enlightenment and awareness. You begin to understand truths and touch others.”

  “But how, master? How do you reach that state? Is there a mental trick or exercise or-“

  “I don’t know!” His eyes shined, and I could tell that he was thinking so I let him at it. It was frustrating to be stuck at the doorstep of knowledge for so long, and so my temper fumed. As he thought, two prisoners powerful enough to be allowed out the cell walked around, although they gave Krulov a wide berth. Had I been alone they would have bullied me, but I was with the master. I pulled a hair out of my grey beard, placed it on my palm, and blew in their direction. Scret hissed quietly but the other pulled him along.

  “The key isn’t to think hard, but rather to think wide.” The master had oily hair, and now he brushed the straight length with his dirty fingers. He was dressed in a coat and cotton gloves, and I wish I knew what color they’d originally been. There was an emblem at his chest, stitched out, but the thing was so faded that I could not for the l
ife of me make it out, and he’d never told me anything about himself. “You let your mind expand and at first it stretches you thin then you understand that thin is relative because space is for physical things. When you’re there the understanding from your mind will touch things and tell you things relative to what they know back home. Ah, but the selves won’t match at first because the me and the I only exist as me and I in the center, and when the world is the world and not what my world then what I see of me isn’t what I see but what the world sees and things become as they are. Thus one touches the all and begins to understand with a new sense…” At that, his lapsed off into another fit of drivel about colors and compounds and different frequencies of mental chirping and spectacles and towers of the mind. I could make no sense of what the dark haired man said at all, and so sought to distract him before I lose him completely.

  “A lot of the prisoners here are insane,” I said, and the man stopped talking, looking at me as if I had interrupted something vital. “I think it’s the system here. The guards seem to enjoy letting prisoners run free and wild, but they also want us locked up and quiet. Men turn into beasts easily when in a caged jungle.”

  “Well,” said the master whilst eyed one of his gate’s bars. He stood and went to look at it in interest for a while, then put his hands on the thing and tried to bend it. He struggled for a full minute valiantly with the desperation of a man requiring release, pulling and pushing and tugging with all of his weight. His grunts were loud and his face was flushed with effort. Foiled at last, the prisoner went back to his spot, ignoring the open door completely. “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of insanity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it has its uses. To be insane is to ignore reality, whether it be painful or angry. To be insane is to see with new eyes and be free of the world’s shackles. That is how I gained my powers, after all.”

  “Truly?” It was true that the master had his moments of nonsense, but I had thought the man was mostly coherent. “So you’re insane?”

  “Not right now, no. But I was for a moment, and every now and then I would embrace that sweet freedom and see colors that shan’t ever exist. That’s when I know the ultimate cruelty of existence, crystallized in its own perpetual nature.” He was beginning to lose me again, and so I decided to seize the moment. I asked, “Master, how did you gain your powers?” If he was able to tell me that, perhaps I could recreate the experience.

  I assume he knew my intentions, for Krulov’s eyes glimmered and he smiled in deceitful innocence. And then he told me his heinous tale. “When I was younger, I was a noble in Xera of no real consequence. Versed in etiquette and knowing it was my destiny to become an official, I submerged myself in studies and found I had a roaring intellect. Soon enough I rose and was able to hold position, and that was when my father did the sensible thing and forced a woman upon me.”

  “Sensible, sir?”

  “Indeed. In Xera most would disagree, but I believe that if the person is indifferent enough and agreeable enough, there is nothing wrong with having a future partner decided for him or her. But there was a twist in my case, because despite being convinced that it did not matter who was chosen, I was infatuated by Helia upon our first meeting. We both agreed to marry readily and enthusiastically. She loved to enjoy her time more than I did, and despite a quiet nature had a way of being heard. Her hair was honey, her skin was milk, and every second with the girl filled my heart with such warmth as to make me walk the streets of Xera with no regard for ice or cold.”

  I wondering where his story would go, but had I known what he would say, it is likely I would have asked him to still his tongue and spare me his teachings. The man’s voice gained strength, although he still spoke in a whisper.

  “One day, she and I went to see a play. Upon leaving, I realized that I may have had a cup of wine too many, and had chosen a roundabout manner of reaching our manor. Of course, at some point she tried to warn me, but the man I was didn’t listen. There was too much love, if you could call it that. I just wanted to impress her, and in my pride ignored any indication that I could be wrong, ignorant, stupid, stupid stupid!” That last word was exclaimed with venom, and I had to calm the furiously whispering man, cooing and shooing as he babbled. When he’d calmed down enough to be coherent, he moved away from the window, where he couldn’t be heard as well due to the icy wind. Naturally, I was bewildered by the master’s fits today. He is prone to them, but rarely and only when teaching something complicated. Today, the revolved around a single recollection and the core of that iron will of his. Part of me dreaded the knowing, yet allowed him to press on. “Thank you, boy.” He always called me boy, despite being twenty years my junior. “So, where was I? Ah. My pride took us in a route next to one of Xera’s rougher neighborhoods. Now, being a criminal yourself, I’m sure you’re away of that city’s rougher area, home to thugs, rogues and mercenaries. In fact, since Greta to the north fell to some unknown calamity, only the roughest there had survived and made their way to our city like beasts. But I digress: they came and so Xera had become worse than ever, with gangs like the Reds and Fingers. Well, that day we went through and there were seven drunk men awaiting on the icy road. One called out, for my lovely was fairer than they’d ever seen, as nobles only could be when compared to the mongrel whores such men are used to. There was a light of fire far behind them, and we made for it as they leaned against a wooden back of whatever tavern it was and watched us. The tavern’s wall was of dark brown wood, which I remember clearly for whatever reason. The ice was white, although her skin was paler still, and her eyes were captivating.” My fists hardened at the dismissive manner he used when addressing those of my ilk, for my own mother had been forced down unfortunate paths and I knew us to be no beasts. However, I kept those fists firmly against the cold, chipped stone floor. The master could doubtlessly sense my rage, and could force me to jump through that window towards a cold death in an instant. I had seen him do it before.

  “We walked further past them, she holding my arms and I tipsy and moving my feet as fast as possible. Then something stirred in me, a desire to comfort her. I told her that such scum would never dare harm her, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than did I hear a crash that took my consciousness with it. My eyes opened a few times after that, and it was always to a gap toothed grin and another punch or kick. Behind them the starry sky beckoned, and I could heard screams and laughter, although of what I knew not. That could not have been the screams of a man, such pain they conveyed. Behind the men, orange fire and safety beckoned, but I could not reach it.

  “When I awoke finally, it was to a physician’s room, white and sanitary. The man himself had painted the cabin, I knew, for he was my family’s physician. I don’t recall his name, but I do remember his grim sadness. He told me of gladness from my survival, although I was bandaged from head to toe. Every bone in my body had been broken or nearly so. I could not see much through the bandages, but when I asked him of Helia a softness entered his sadness. Perhaps he didn’t like me, but there no doubt that his heart had been moved to tears by her ordeal.

  “She was raped. Not unheard of, but shocking all the same. The old fool told me of how she’d been taken by all seven of them in turn and in tandem, screaming and crying all the while. Naturally, I was devastated, and my thoughts turned to imagination. Of her lying in the cold snow, shouting for me, begging and pleading. That set my heart aflame, and I hated them with a passion. The pain from my own broken fingers vanished as I clenched them, and shattered teeth ground together in anguish. Those filthy worthless scum, her as I lay there?”

  “You were unconscious, master.” My words were meant to soothe, but he chuckled instead. I noticed for the first time scars on his browned skin, subtle yet numerous on his face, and I was sure his body would be covered in more. It was curious that a man of his heritage would be a noble in Xera, for the land was covered by pale men, both blonde and brown headed like this
man’s lover.

  “Exactly what I thought at first. But was I? I imagined her screams so vividly, so perhaps I was at the edge and could hear. Maybe my mind blocked the vision, or perhaps I could see her there, stomach against the ground and a man twice my size destroying her as she tried to push away. Was she pushing or pulling? Was that begging to stop or to continue? Was she asking for that other one too? Such blasphemy, it could not be! How could I think that about the woman I love? No, in the first place, who would enjoy the rape? Surely the human mind would detest such unwanted intrusion? But maybe? I was filth, they were scum, and she should die! I Hate my weakness and their evil, and want nothing less than murder for them.” With the darkness of his words came a glitter to his sight and a pain within my skull. I realized that not only were these the exact thoughts he had back then, my master was lucid no more and the formidable power of his mind was running rampant. In horror I listen, fixed and place and begging silently for release, but not through the window. I could hear footsteps far away, coming from the corridor leading further down into the dungeons.

  “I want blood and blades and burning and dancing and carnage I could watch in glee. I want them dead and tortured whilst I laugh. no!” As he exclaimed the word, the footsteps grew numerous and close. I turned first in relief then horror as the first prisoner, blank eyed and bare footed, stepped slowly into the dungeon, bowed to my master… then leapt headfirst through the portal and to his doom, shouting “Hail Gregerovitch!” with a voice growing so hoarse that I feared his throat had turned bloody before he struck the ground. One by one they went, prisoners large and small and weak and smart. One man even crawled, for Footless was exactly as one could imagine from his nickname.

  “I want us all tortured and killed, slowly. I want to see destruction, then justice for those who abuse it, then more and more! I want hate, hate, hate, hatehatehhahahahaha! Then,” he continued with a calm smile and quiet voice as if nothing happened, to my horror. The few prisoners left in line were released, and the fled to their cells in terror of my master. I was close to fainting myself, but listened still. “I howled. The sound was guttural and base, and there was only one word in my mind. Hate. I hated everything and everyone, and in my mind countless visages of death arose, each horrid and strangely satisfying. When I shouted, my mind expanded for the first time and the hate within me dropped the physician and his aides. They were dead before hitting the floor, of course. Still the scream continued unabated, and my mind stumbled along it with more raw insanity than you could possibly imagine. For the first time, the world was mine to shape, and the walls of logic melted away. Then the breath ended and I inhaled. With that, all the hate was directed inwards, and it broke everything. There was nothing left to fear, for I was to become the stuff of madness itself. All would fear me, and all was required was to share.” His smile then was innocent, and set my legs a-shaking. Whatever he could do, I wanted none of it.

  “You see, my boy, the thing I hated the most was my own weakness, and so my mind sought to compensate. I became strong of mind. The first thing I did was erase my existence so as to become no one and be able to spread things in anonymity. My wife, parents, friends, even those dogs who’d taken Helia. All took their own lives in numerous and enjoyable ways. Directly afterwards, I came here, and here I shall remain until ready to set out for the task at hand. Naturally, all here will die then, but that’s hardly a pity. You all are a sorry lot, barely worth the breath, guards and prisoners alike. Except for you, my child” he reassured me, “You shall live and spread the word long after I’m gone, when none can stop me anymore. You shall speak of your master when what I want is accomplished.”

  “a-a-and what is it you desire, my master, lord, and god?” I sought to appease him, but that monster of a man was bemused.

  “Don’t call me a god, that’s just plain silly. Why, I thought my want was simple enough to understand.” With a grin he turned to look at the window, then stepped over to overlook the mound of dead bodies barely visible far below, then tutted. “One of the buggers lives. Another one must have broken her fall. No matter, a slow freeze is fine as well. Where was I? Oh, yes. Many people live in the realms, you see. I just want to hear all of them cry in unison before it becomes quiet. Now, administer my daily beating and then run along, child.”

  Run I did, as fast as my legs could take an old man after kissing the master’s feet, to where I immediately wrote this passage. I do not know if he’ll keep his word and spare me, for Krulov Gregorovitch is deep in the clutches of madness, and what’s frightening about it was that I hadn’t even known till this very day. I had thought him a capable psionic, if of dark disposition, but his every word hinted at fury so deep it could spell ruin for many. I yearn to stab him in sleep, even if the attempt results in my own doom, but he may end up leaving me alive when he decides to leave. Call me a coward, but life is precious. Perhaps he knew of this struggle, perhaps he even wanted it. If I do attempt the deed, and there are no more entries, then remember Mardow Grame not as a thief far past his prime, but either a hero who delivered many from certain doom, or a man who tried to.