[Quest] Act I- Shadows Rising (Invite Only)

[Fallacy]

Act I- Shadows Rising Fall 90, 511 AV The shadows of Alvadas seemed darker these days, a faint whisper on the wind would carry the cautionary words, a warning barely heard, to those in the streets. Those who preferred the indoor setting the wind would blow roughly at the windows, doors, trying to get in, trying to be heard. It was the wind of warning, a foreboding sign that darkness was ascending upon the city. Many would heed the winds warning and silent threats preferring to take shelter inside, to light their way with candles and other forms of light, to scare away the shadows the creep into the city. The illusions unhelping in the manner of terror, giving shadow a living quality about it, a mysterious intelligence, yes, the streets were darker these days and there seemed to be no end in sight. Day had become scarce as the night seemed to take over, the days seemed shorter and the nights seemed longer, the shadows and the light not so bright. A gloom had befallen the city, sudden and mysterious. There were signs everywhere, whispers on the streets, seers going on about the doom of Alvadas and how the darkness was coming, the darkness was coming, the darkness was coming. Those words echoed many times over from person to person, to the highest reaches of Alvadas’ society to the lowest. What it meant though was all but a mystery. Perhaps it was some elaborate prank? The darkness being nothing more than hearsay, a blind rumor, or perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Djed worked in mysterious ways, perhaps belief that something would happen would give it power to manifest in Alvadas? Maybe, and probably the most probable answer was, this all was a product of mass hysteria, a trick of the mind, a play upon the human (or not so) condition? There were many answers to what was happening around them as the citizens tried to explain what exactly was happening. The streets nowadays were less populated the citizens only going out, daring to venture out, into the city if they absolutely needed something. Though not all would feel the fear of this looming shadow, calling all those who fear the dark children, but still there were mysterious disappearances. People who others barely knew just vanishing, no one important, so maybe they would be forgotten, swept under the rug? Not only disappearances, but there were rumors of murders, or bodies lying dead in the streets. Random, these events were as the people slain. They were everyday people, nothing important, nobodies in the complex face of Alvadas, but to someone out there they were someone, a son, a daughter, mother, father, grandpa… Though sometimes nobodies could be somebodies, and it is those nobodies that turn into somebodies that become really great, stuff of legends, and then become immortal forever living in the stories and hearts of the Alvadas’ citizens. This was the grand opportunity to achieve such immortality. Who can save Alvadas and raise the city from the shadows that only seem to get deeper and deeper every day? There had to be a source, a reason to why this was happening, some sort of logic. Why now? Why them? Were the victims just unlucky, or was the city willing this? Who was behind this? Was it who, or was it a what? Though in Alvadas, nothing is ever as it seems; nothing should ever be taken at face value, not the buildings, not the events, not the people.

[Nowa]

Nowa wasn't ever fond of winter, though this upcoming winter would only be his third. This would be something very new, however. It would be his first winter surviving on his own... more or less. He made a couple friends who would help him, and that was something he had to remember. Winter was coming, but it really felt like something else was coming even faster. It was darker, colder, spookier... Was that normal? Nowa did what he could to store up food, keeping what he could in his backpack. However, most of it didn't last very long. Maybe Nowa needed to only store certain foods. Cake, though tasty, never was filling. Good steak, small and filling, but only if you ate it soon. Two days later didn't taste right, most of the time. Which foods were good, which were not? All food was good, but good for storing away! Nowa had many things to figure out, and he only had until winter. It had gotten much harder lately, with the approaching shadows. People didn't leave their homes as often, so it was harder to find homes to get into. People even seamed to treat him like a bad omen when he was seen in the streets, even more so if he tried talking to them. It was like he was one of the scary shadows they ran from. Nowa knew better, he was afraid of shadows, but not because they were shadows. They can hide things, and those things could be dangerous. Shadows could also hide Nowa, being black, it worked well even if he wasn't super quiet. That helped him sometimes, but it was still hard. Nowa had been watching around, and found a house no-one had left for four days. He didn't even see any lights on inside! He walked up, looking around for people. Deserted as usual, he pulled his lock-picking tools from his bag. He hated needing to use them, as he had to be human to do so. Dressed in his Robe, he figured he could hide the things he picked up in it's many pockets, including his tools should someone be nearby. He went to the window, it was next to a wall today, like the city was inviting him inside at the expense of giving the homeowner a view. He slid one of the tools through a crack, and carefully pushed the lock into it's unlocked position. It was an old house, nothing complicated keeping him out. He carefully slid the window open, and made his way inside. It took a couple tries, though. He had trouble climbing with his backpack on. He tried to be quiet, but he wasn't very successful at it. The stuff in his bag made quite a racket. He slid the window shut again. It would be better to leave it open, but those shadows were always lurking about. Inside was very dark, but Nowa could feel the carpet on his bare feet. He didn't like putting on anything besides the robe, it took too long. He set the bag down near the window, so he'd remember which one. It was dark here, too. It almost seamed as if the shadows had already taken over this house. Nowa slowly made his way around the room. He was practicing being quiet, being noisy has got him caught many times. His bumping into furniture he never saw was giving him away, though. He felt his way about more carefully, and slowly found a door. He opened it slowly, to see the only light in the house, a candle burning low. He slowly walked in, and looked at the light. He wondered how long it had been burning there. As he stared at it, a voice came from the shadows that made Nowa jump back. It was low and crackling, as if from a witch... "The shadows have taken my daughter, and it looks like they're coming for me now. Have you come to take me away? Take me like you took my daughter?" Nowa slowly turned to the voice, finding an old woman who could have been mistaken for a witch... which Nowa promptly did. "Don't eat me!" "Mark my words, shadow! You'll be the doom of Alvadas!" "I never saw your daughter!" "You'll doom us all! Doom!" Nowa knocked over the table the candle was on, turning and running back through the door. He slammed it behind him, and made for the window. He hit and probably knocked over several chairs, and perhaps a table... once there, he threw open the window, and tossed out his bag. He thought he could hear the 'witch' moving to grab him. The hairs standing on the back of his neck could feel her breath. He jumped through the window, knocking it closed as he did so. He stared back in horrer at the empty shadows inside the house. A faint light was dancing from inside, the candle hadn't gone out. Nowa took his bag and ran through the shadows of the night, he had to escape a witch, after all. Finding a tree, he sat at its base to catch his breath. He wondered if the witch was scared, too. OOCFirst! XD I hope I didn't go overboard there. If I need to change anything, send a PM my way. That'll be true for all my posts.

[Ulric]

Ulric sat on the rickety bench outside of his shack, a wry grin on his face as he lifted a clay jug to his lips, took a draught of the harsh, sour red. There was a flap of wings, the caw of a crow. The lane was narrow and dirty, the stones overgrown with weeds, structures of timber and filthy, flaking plaster towering to either side, framing the gray, uncertain sky. There was a rumble as a cart went past, a mule heaving against the traces, making them jingle faintly. The cargo was a heap of rough sacks, probably bulging with flour. The driver was a hunched, gray-faced fellow who kept chewing on some kind of leaf, spat a red glob of phlegm on the ground. The wind was a vague, mournful murmur.

“Trying to spit on me, was he?” Ulric absently brought his hand over the haft of his curved knife, fingers stroking the carved handle like a lover. He wasn’t so prideful as to murder over a wayward glob of spit, though. There could be a wife waiting at home, hungry young ones, more wives and hungry young ones who’d eat the warm, crispy bread the baker drew from his oven. That was what he thought about these days, the sweeping consequences of everything he did, of the meager words that trickled like so much water from his mouth. Maybe the time has come to sink my roots in the ground, he sighed, taking another drink, wiping his chin with the back of a hand. There was a nascent melancholy lurking at the back of his head, the scent of crushed, decaying rose petals always in his nose. There was a whisper of wind, making dead leaves crackle and dance over the stony ground, bearing a wisp of rag high into the sky, faint hints of a vibrant jade evident through the layers of caked muck. The rag hung there like a bereft kite before making a desultory descent. Ulric’s dark eyes chased it over the slated roofs and dark, smudging crests before it vanished behind the bulk of a tapering spire. There’s a story there, he thought bleakly. There was a faint keening, the kind that made his jaw clench, his skin crawl. “Desank, did you hear that?” The Gasvik perked up, lifting a blunt, yet angular head from the crook of its leathery arm, tusks rising to the sky.

“Weon aei adfbub adkjbf, wuwelm. Padnoen nadn no adnaien uadbbb knzb, aidwbey mowne or bubfn aein ubb ayyvd oaewib.”

Ulric hunched his shoulders, staring deeply into the dregs of his wine. “You know, that’s the cry of a child is dying of hunger, cold, neglect, and here we sit, drinking wine and doing nothing.” He lifted his head sadly. “And d’you know what? That’s our kind for you, the dreamers that don’t wake from their slumber, the dark embrace of our humanity made manifest.” He got up, layers of armor creaking, joints protesting loudly, round shield clanging dully, then began to walk along the lane, leaving the jug to the next, pathetic drunk. The Gasvik got up, shook its head wearily, and slunk along in his wake, claws scraping on the ground, nose flaring.

Caw, caw, caw.

The crows were back. The winter was coming, and they would soon feast on the corpses of the poor, the wretched, the unwary. There was some sort of mischief on the frosty winds, elder wraiths seeking a fragment of bone, a whisper of despair to clasp to the voids of their barren hearts. He’d already seen the lurking horde of shadows, the taunting, inky fingers weaving skeins of fear and doubt, making his heart wither.

They’re out there, he frowned, reaching for the bearded axe at his belt, taking scant comfort in the cold, curving head under his hands. They’re out there, so why won’t they face me? Ulric wanted to tear this nameless, faceless, formless foe asunder with his bare hands, crush it against his chest, hack away the chains of fear that kept the city in a menacing embrace. There was only one fate. Kill them all.

With a gleeful, rumbling chuckle, he strode down the long, winding lane, disregarding the chimeras that faded before his solemn purpose, bearded cheeks sucking in slightly as he whistled a cheerful tune. There would be a reckoning.

Caw!

[Seidaku]

Seidaku peered about himself nervously. It should not have been this dark yet, he thought, sparing a glance upward toward a sun that perched at its apex, glowering back sullenly, seemingly through a funeral pall of clutching black.

Ducking his head and unconsciously tucking his shoulders, he quickened his step and took a turn at random, no longer securely knowledgeable that it would take him home. Over the last several days, there had been more and more of that. Half of his students had been unable or unwilling to make their way to the Garden for today's classes. He could scarcely blame them, though. There was something amiss, a feeling of wrongness that raised the hairs on his arms and made the skin on the back of his neck crawl.

There were parts of Alvadas that could seem frightening to foreigners. He knew that. Just as he knew well enough how to avoid them when he saw them. He was not foolish enough to believe the city free from peril. But, until recently, knowledge of the warning signs and a native's intuition had seen him safely from start to destination.

Which was why it should not have been this dark. Or this cold. Or this... He refused to use the term evil. Evil was an arbitrary distinction used to label anything the labeler disagreed with. The sense of unease he felt was not evil, it was just unfamiliar. Possibly threatening even, but he would not succumb to superstitious fear mongering.

None the less, he clutched his small bag of chalk to his chest with one hand and felt at the item tucked into his belt with the other. He may refuse to use the term evil to describe the unsettling sensation that had befallen the city, but he was all to aware of the concepts of human weakness. With the rumors of murders in the streets - more than rumors, he thought, remembering the cold, heavy sensation of a severed foot in his grasp, and the hot spray of arterial blood across his face in broad daylight at the Bizarre - the small eating knife tucked carefully through a loop in his belt might be only a small protection, but some protection was better than none at all.

Thus armed, he took another random turn and hurried his steps until he was almost running, fleeing the fast approaching dark. For the fourth time, he passed the now unmistakable red building.

[Victor Lark]

If Victor felt any disquiet in the persistent shadows of that late autumn, he did not seem to mind it. He had collected better things to think about, a life that was slowly rooting its way between the shifting cobblestones of Alvad streets, a job and an investment and a body to warm his sheets. He did not mind that those now distant sheets were freckled with blood, just as he did not mind the puddle of it that smeared against the Wager’s floor beneath the dark orange ropes of his mop. Screams and laughter both filled his ears as he pressed the mop into a bucket of dark water and sloshed it onto the floor again, spreading the red stain in a wide arc over the wood.

When the floor seemed sufficiently cleaned (or rather, the puddle sufficiently flattened) he sloughed the tools of his trade to the back room and picked up an equally orange rag, one specifically designated for that sort of business. A false smile of amusement never left his lips as he strode toward the four men circling the table responsible. All of them were laughing then, even the one with tears carved through the blood on his face, his hand cupping the side of his head. With a grinning nod, Victor reached between them and grabbed the still-warm ear that had been deposited at the table’s center.

“I’ll get this wrapped up for you,” he said, wiping the red shadow it had left with a single deft circle of his opposite hand. He was gone from them for mere seconds. When he returned, he tossed a little white cloth package at the bleeding man, a dot of red on one corner. Without a beat, he asked amiably, “Are you up for another round, then?”

He allowed no fatigue to wander to the front of his eyes, but he wanted desperately for them to leave soon. He hated when they stayed late, because then he was advised to sleep in the dank old room they offered him upstairs instead of wandering around for his own home and his own bed. But the cold brown eyes that watched the patrons from afar would not allow their dismissal. Business had been slow lately; those souls that did dare to brave the dismaying darkness did not tend to double their chances at death with a gamble. So he had to oblige the ones that did come, however long they stayed. He gave the deck of cards a few begrudging knocks against the table, then split them and shuffled them as he glanced at the door.

[Ifran]

Ifran had not grown up in any sort of danger. The palace of the House of the North Winds was as secure as any place had a right to be anymore. It wasn't until a boy grew to manhood and set out into the vicious worlds of art and politics in Ahnatep that danger came into the equation. Alvadas hid as many perils, its illusions mere trickery of the senses, while Ahnatep was intrigues within intrigues, smiling faces hiding slander and knives, though it was anyone's guess which was the sharper. In Ahnatep, he subsumed his political ambitions into the theater, waiting for his esteemed grandfather, the paterfamilias of the House of the North Winds, to offer him some small support before he made a play for power on their House's behalf. But here nobody valued his blood as highly as they ought, nor cared about his masks other than those he wore on stage. Things were getting dangerous in Alvadas, and he wanted to figure out what was going on. Once that decision was made, he left the Crooked Playhouse, sure that some little bird or another would tattle on him to Master Fabel, but fortune favored the bold, and so out he went, his bronze khopeshes slung from his hips, his clock pulled close about him to ward off the ever closer approach of winter's chill. There were people here that mattered to him: his brother Hasre, the Ethaefal Corvus, even that endearingly obnoxious young Kelvic, Nowa. Something had to be done, and he had come here with an eye to court Ionu's favor. Perhaps the best way to do that was to suss out what was troubling the deity's city and help rectify it, whether by skill of sword or acuity of wit. "Ionu," he whispered, "guide my steps." He had learned the trick of finding places for the most part, though the mischievous city sometimes led him astray all the same. But finding some amorphous problem, that was a different matter. He tried to keep that idea in his head, letting his feet take him there, the path shift to meet him, but he did not know that it would work. It was a strange city and had not yet taken him in as its own for all his work ethic within the Playhouse and his study of the worship of the deity of illusions. This could all go terribly wrong, of course, and so he recounted silently to Ionu his hopes and prayers, because who else would be listening so closely to the prayers of Alvadas as its patron deity? Let the Northwinds maintain their supremacy. Let Izdihar find happiness along with her dreams. Let Aru rise among the ranks of the Ano Cult and be a power and an influence upon the world. Let Hasre find his way back to Ahnatep and happiness. Let Corvus and Laszlo find the path back to the Ukalas. Let Nowa find a safe roost and plenty of food... And if there is time, O Ionu, let me survive and find your favor to return to Ahnatep and effect change among my people.

[Shazvagrimkon]

Grim walked through the streets of Alvadas as he would any other normal day, although the days were not so normal lately. The city seemed to be darker, colder, and seemed to lack its usual bustle of odd faces. The lack of bodies was fine for Grim seeing as how he was not the best in a crowded setting. The cold is what would get to him. He knew he should wear his coat more, but he hated the feeling of being constricted by it and it would be in the way if he had to change forms quickly. The wind seemed to cut through his loose shirt and pants and chilled him to the bone. It’s not that the wind was particularly cold, but it carried a sense of dread and foreboding that he was not accustomed to in the city of Alvadas. He was more accustomed to the open and seemingly playful personality of the city. The city still held its playful feeling with its twists and turns and maze like streets of confusion. But it was a darker and more sinister feel, seeming as if every turn could hold danger or amazement.

On this day the night came quickly, leaving the streets empty and ominous. As he walked, his mind wandered through topics of training, magic, and of course the recent changes in the city. He had the idea that whatever caused this might be magical, but with lack of very much knowledge on the topic, he couldn’t do much with the thought. Something was causing this though and whatever it was could not be good. The shadows along the street had grown considerably larger and darker as the sun slowly set. He could not shake the feeling of being watched by the shadows everywhere he went. He wasn’t too worried at this with his sword at his side and bag slung across his back and if he really wanted to he could shift to either of his other forms and be able to see perfectly fine in the dark. But you never know what is out there hiding in the darkness or just out of sight.

[Fallacy]

Yes, darkness had befallen the land, and now wasn’t the time to falter for the shadows of the Underground might scoop the unwary up and spirit them away. Though in Alvadas nothing was ever certain and things were always changing. What could cause this invisible force to rise and act and scoop people to the Underground, make them disappear. Was it eating them, feeding them to its young, supplying a small army with food? Or was it for a more benevolent cause, protection perhaps? Though many theories run amuck the same gripped the city, fear of the dark and what might be waiting within. By now most have heard the horror stories, the ‘eye witness’ accounts of people being dragged off and never seen again. There was speculation that the government was behind this, that they unleashed and woke up a force, a side of the mysterious city, that was better off staying asleep. Yes, even mages were accused. This stinked of magic to some. The citizens so convinced that some wizard did it that anyone who openly practiced magic was shunned on the streets. Any magic user from out of town was treated poorly and every price imaginable was raised just for them. It was an unwelcome welcoming, and they meant to drive out the magic. Maybe then, just maybe the shadows would stop? But they did not. No. In fact, the situation seemed to get even worse, like the presence of magic had been stopping the creatures, the shadows, from coming full force. Now, it seemed, Alvadas was invaded by an invisible enemy, one which held more chips than the citizens were comfortable with, and one which had an advantage. They were quick, they were efficient, they were feared, and they used that fear, milked it, to put this paralyzing hold onto the city further dragging it into the essence of the dark. Though not everyone backed down, no, the city itself felt the fear, felt the pain, felt the anguish, and it was going to move soon, and soon had come. Alvadas was going to protect Alvadas and so it sent its call, an invisible and silent whisper to most, but to some it was heard. The city had a voice and it stood there, watching, in silence for too long. It had but one voice though many tones. It spoke through the people but not, and to those who were called, who could hear the voice it would say in a thousand tones, like a choir singing, some happy, some sad, some hateful, some dull. Every emotion could be heard in the words of the city echoing with a thousand different tones. This was the voice that spoke disembodied, ringing the heads of those who could hear the guardian angel of city of Illusions. The message was simple: You have no reason to trust us, but know we are here to guide you. Do not let on that you are being talked to. We are here to lead you to the One. Only it can close the door which has been opened. Your journey starts here, now, and you will go through many trials. The first is already underway: Escape the darkness… It sounded like the voice had more to say, but before the message was completed Alvadas would be shaken by a cry and the shadows again would start rising. The trees shadows rising up, becoming three dimensional, like a napkin being picked up at the very center. The buildings and even the persons own shadow would rise up, much in the same way, forming a three-dimensional figure, blank and humanesque. No one was safe now, not even those who were indoors. The shadows are going into something they have not before, walking into the light, have they grown stronger? Red and Yellow pairs of eyes suck out of the being as they reached for every person they could get their mitts on. What the City says : In case you cannot read that: You have no reason to trust us, but know we are here to guide you. Do not let on that you are being talked to. We are here to lead you to the One. Only it can close the door which has been opened. Your journey starts here, now, and you will go through many trials. The first is already underway: Escape the darkness… OOCALL Characters can hear the voice, unless you dont want to. If you choose not to hear it please PM me Assume there are many shadows by your character now XD I don’t care to give exact numbers. Yes, blades and such will hurt them. If you sever an arm or something feel free to describe it falling and then dissipating or something like that. Sorry for the HUGE delay.

[Nowa]

A quiet whisper, coming from nowhere. "The darkness is coming." A man turned around suddenly, finding himself staring at his own stall. "Hello? Who's there?" He looked about, the street was empty, and dark. Superstitions were for fools, he had to be somewhere, right? He started to make his way around to look behind his stall, easy enough place to hide. "The darkness will get you." He looked behind his stall, seeing only a bird pecking at his stall. He shooed it away, and began to sweat. The voice was closer that time, but from where? "Who's out there." He looked underneath. The voice seamed to come from further away this time. "Run, before the darkness arrives." He looked around around the street again, but all he saw was that bird again... or was it a different one? The shadows seamed to be creeping up on him, as if swaying on their own. He locked his stall up and put on his coat. There wasn't much business today, he figured, and he locked his stall, right? What's wrong with a little time off now and again? He made his way down the street in a hurry, hoping he would find his home or a bar quickly. "Cra-woo!" He started to run. The bird flew off, but just around a corner. A little boy, grinning sheepishly came back around the bend, wearing a backpack and robe that both seamed too big for him. He ran right up to the stall, and pulled out some tools, small and metal. He stuck them into the lock, and moved them about with purpose. This boy is Nowa, and not afraid of the dark. He felt about with the lockpicks, got a feel for the lock. He tumbled the tumblers around until he heard a click. He lifted the door, but wasn't tall enough to open it. After looking, he found a crate, and pushed it over to the stall. Opening it, he took a moment to marvel at his prize, a cart full of apples. He began stuffing them into his bag. A voice rang out, speaking in both whispers and as clear as day. It's cryptic message left Nowa confused, what did it mean? He had to find someone that brought him to a number? Were they somewhere that was bright? Did they mean he had to make it to tomarrow? A journey, but he was fine right here! ...Well, he would be well fed for this journey, he thought. As he pondered the meaning, he watched as the very apples he seamed to be gathering seamed to... double before his eyes. The new ones were all black, and as he looked around he saw another him rise up from his shadow! ...and he couldn't see his shadow anymore. It was then that the pieces fell in place. "Oh, you're good at this! Aren't there enough apples to share here? Look, they even doubled!" The other him didn't say anything, only looked at him for a moment. That moment was all it took for the fear to sink in, the eery yellow eyes and black form, it wasn't like him at all! The shadow grabbed Nowa, who began to struggle to fight him off. With a couple kicks thrown in, he managed to knock both of them over, apples spilling everywhere. Nowa crawled off, rising to a run very quickly. He heard a thump behind him as the shadow tripped on the spilled apples. Nowa didn't look back, just kept running. As he looked up, he saw them. Black crows, both with yellow and red eyes that seamed to glow. A shiver ran down his spine, he hated the crows. He turned around a corner, and stopped to catch his breath. As he was ready to run again, the crows started to clamor out, and the shadow Nowa caught up. Nowa ran once more, this time not bothering to stop. His heart pounded enough to hurt, his legs hurt, his head began to feel heavy, and the crows kept following him. "Go away! Help me Ionu! Anyone who isn't black! Ah-woo! Ah-woo!" ...and now his voice hurt, too.

OOCWell, how many people are in earshot to hear a kid screaming in terror? XD I have no idea (right now) as to how he'd escape, but it's long enough for now. I can post an escape later if I come up with one.

[Ulric]

There was a shuffle of leaves, scraping over the patchy rocks in revelatory swirls. Their periphery crinkled and russet, banded by strakes of umber, bored into the recesses of his disregard. They rose thickly, like cloying smoke from a censer. That augured a nascent tragedy. Don’t you fret, he grunted, looking over the frayed, inky crows. Don’t listen to them, or dredge up their vulgarity. This isn’t our turn. There’d only be unraveled deceit, any veracity badly sundered. The way those cages of ribs crack under your fist. There’s just a brittle husk left, in the end.”[/b] Trudging for the soft gleam of a hanging lamp, ruddy clay crested by rising oily whorls, he let out a chuckle. The scar of his lips furled. [i]There’s no use in playing that hand yet, my fiends.

Biding by that dangle of sooty clay, he peered at the few, tawdry moths drifting by the dancing flare, sucking in the stench of parched grease. They scudded away from the rim, riddled by a frenzy. Their perishing fervor was consuming, exulting shackles bundled around his chest. The craving to witness was implacable, and he focused in so deeply that he nearly became one of them.

But as ever, he couldn’t.

They came for him, those wirings of vestigial dusk. The hushed garble clove through his lustful trance, veering into banshee before the welding of his glee. This was a scroll of fate, freshly hurled upon a pyre. The shards of a scorn, braised in a mummer’s sulfuric lampoon. They come for me? Trenchantly, as if lacerated by a incisive jack-knife, his hilarity sliced by the dusk. They crowded his chest, so he swung himself in the pirouettes of a deadly waltz. Tenderly, as though he were fearful of treading on a glass slipper. That nudged into a crash, a tangle inscribed by glazed insubstantiality. This was his orchestral fury, vaguely dwindling to vapidity. That cruel, steely instrument, deftly weft and whorling in its plying, scoring those final, burgeoning revenants into a trounced, nebulous sea of ribbons.

Hurling in primal chorus, the symphony of his bitter maul rent this tapestry of insubstantiality. The lantern cleft like a beacon, and he reached for it, breaching the multiplying perils. There was no salving this rift, no sundering it from his chest. The whisper came to him, and he lunged for its promise. There was nothing of the irascible, dowsing slayer, for he instantly transformed into an acolyte of this profaned nebula, seeking answers. This dread was inherent, but he wouldn’t suffer it to leave him cowering, a petching weeper. The stiffness of his spine, creaking with recalcitrance, left him standing before their transgressions.

“Begone,” he snarled, hefting the lantern before his face. The yellowy-orange glow, unfurling in soft swathes, bathed the rocks beyond him.