Autobiography of Ziljhi Laneri

[Mariana Xiechai]

I believe deeply that there is a certain solace to be ascertained in writing. There is a specific sort of organizational collaboration you can obtain by scrawling your thoughts out upon paper. Suddenly the meager pen becomes a means of self-expression, the ink a boundless venue through which you can explore your inner musings and ruminations. The sound of my quill scratching its path across smooth, blank parchment renders the entire process even more tangible and promising.

Of course, I think I shall endeavor to describe all that I have seen for other reasons. Beyond the simple value of recording one’s thoughts. To be honest, I am not entirely certain if a being such as myself has ever existed before. I surely have become a “being,” less a man, more a corporeal, ethereal creature. It’s rather amusing to think that if I were to spout such a sentence in public, they would observe my current vessel and disregard it as the senile ravings of a decrepit old dermorian. Indeed, I doubt anyone would be able to grasp my true age without at least a hint of disbelief.

I’m rambling, I see. Already with the rambling. I think usually I keep it under control in conversation, but I swear the pen has a life of its own and possesses my fingers. Perhaps I should simply wind my way into what I wished; into telling my tale. I’ve chosen a novel format, to write a story rather than an informative document. After all, this is done in my free time, a resource both sparse and fleeting. I figure I should at least attempt to incorporate some entertainment, lest my potential audience end up with heads down upon the table and drool pooling on the cover of the book.

So, at the risk of such a grievous end, let me begin:

[Mariana Xiechai]

It is rare that a story starts in happy tones. Often it is the presence of oppressive adversity that spurs the protagonist to action. In application this truth is quite obvious, since someone who is perfectly content where they are will not likely be motivated to move forward. In this light it’s easier to see the downward spirals and depressing predicaments of life as something erring on the side of positive. But then again, that’s a simpler assumption to make when you are only holding the book between your hands and letting your eyes scan the sentences in detached eagle-eyed omniscience. It’s quite different when you are the character trapped between the pages.

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It was a glorious morn in that little valley. The sunlight was shining down upon the earth, reaching out and delivering its energies selflessly to the creatures scurrying and walking and trotting upon it. Dewdrops caught its glare and were cast to radiant sparkling. The birds twittered and chirruped joyously while flitting between the tree branches, greeting the day by greeting their neighbors. Rivnak herds grazed along the grass and ruminated their forage, tails flicking away the pesky flies in uncaring and lethargic motions.

A small village nestled at the heart of the valley was bursting to life in resonance with its environment. Merchants hawked their wares with boisterous enthusiasm, dangling their brightly colored fabric in front of gaping common folk and boasting about its quality. The clamor of daily life filled the air in a mingled din, with finely distinct snippets of conversation caught here and there:

“Aye, that’s five tria for this parcel, thank you for your business.”
“Oh, no, sir, but thank you. I’ll only be buying a dozen eggs this morning.”
“Arayia! It’s been ages! How have you been?”

Booted and bare feet alike trampled over hard and compacted earth that had been hammered to cooperation by identical crowds. And, punctuated by their swift and practiced movements, pickpockets with hands tight-fisted over tiny daggers moved about slitting tria pouches and claiming their bounty.

A lemur stood before a specific booth and perused the wines situated upon it. A connoisseur of such beverages, he made pointed inquiries of the vendor as he indicated products one by one. He held an affable expression and upright posture. His clothing was considerably fine, and a velvet glyph pouch dangled from an intricately woven belt looped round his trousers. He nodded to the seller once, his finger indicating the bottle he had so carefully selected, and gripped it by the neck as it was passed to him. Removing some coin from his own pocket, he poured the appropriate payment out onto the open palm that appeared before him and turned away with his purchase in tow.

Whistling merrily to himself, the lemur wound his way through the tightly knit crowd. He made his way to the less congested alleyways and continued his jaunt home, swinging the bottle and causing its cherry liquid to slosh about inside. So entirely fixated upon the fresh scent of morning and the generally lively atmosphere was he, that he had not noticed the young boy following him with silent steps.

Emaciated and dirty, the child bore himself with physical desperation. His cheeks were shrunken in, his eyes beginning to recede into his head slowly as the malnutrition took its tole. A feather-light breathing showed where his concave stomach was, a belly that had not seen a proper meal in countless days. His eyes were watering, and in his bony fingers he clutched a sharp knife that was as dirty as his grime-riddled face. As the lemur rounded a corner, so did this wraith, this unlikely reaper.

Coming upon a fountain, the jolly lemur stooped to his knees and dipped his hands into the water. He splashed his face with it, letting it run down into his collar and cool the temperature for a few blissful moments. The bottle awaited eagerly beside him, and he contemplated opening it right there and enjoying himself beneath the cloudless sky. After all, a more perfect day for such an endeavor there could never have been.

His eyes reopened and he cast an optimistic smile down at the surface of the water. Droplets dripped from his face and broke the tension, making tiny ripples and distorting the mirror intermittently. Seemingly from nowhere, a dark figure appeared behind his left shoulder, and with a slight frown and a furrowed brow he turned his head to observe this new addition to the background.

His neck had been in the process of swiveling when the knife plunged into his back. It sliced through his skin as though it were delicate as the finest of fabrics, severing arteries and veins in its path. Eyes widened in brief and bewildered panic as it pierced through his chest, emerging and carrying with it rivulets of his own scarlet blood. His faithfully beating heart squeezed around the foreign object, causing it to separate the ventricles and render the organ a useless shamble.  Quivering pale-blue hands came up to circle the harsh metal in dismay, his brain attempting to wrap around a way to save his own life and stop it from flowing right out of him upon the dusty, worn cobbles below.

Lips were beside his ear, and a frantic voice was saying something to him in both abject and timorous tones:

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” He heard the broken punctuation of a sob. “I’m so hungry! I’m just so hungry! I don’t want to die!”

Unable to accurately comprehend the meaning of these words, he gasped as the cold metal was removed, leaving him to topple forward into the fountain. He hung over it, half in and half out, his blood steadily pouring into the water and tainting it. There was the feel of a hand inside his pocket, frantically apprehending the tria that resided within, and then the sound of feet smacking the earth as his assailant ran away with his prize.

Then, there was nothing.

[Mariana Xiechai]

And now I should like to stress to you, dear reader, the intriguing mystery that is commonly referred to as the “moral compass.” For while it is necessary to at certain levels adhere to the concept of vindictive justification, it is to my knowledge often a measure of control to stay one's hand in seeking the sweet victory of vengeance. To every tale there is a worthy rebuttal, and to every opposing line on the battle field there is an enemy with thoughts and morals equally as construed towards the concept of being “right” as the other. Nearly all is a matter of perspective, for it is a rare thing indeed when the vilified persona truly believes in their heart that their actions are deserving of remorse. From this angle of thinking, it is difficult to decide:

Who is the villain, and who is the hero?

><><

It was his time.

Not to experience the disorienting realm of Death, to wander in its plane and listen to the rattling sounds and terrifying sights that plagued its tunnels and paths.

Whatever powers that be had decided it was his time to truly die, to be spun into that abyss which no scholar or mage or madman had ever successfully defined, that place that was left entirely up to the imagination in every aspect of its design. It could be both nothing and everything. Light, and darkness intermingled. No one could return from it, and so no one could define it, except make vague and thoughtless implications about what this thing could possibly be.

Was it the end of all things, or a means of rebirth?

Of course such thoughtful ramblings were certainly not what shot through the Lemur's brain as he realized what was happening. Certainly, there was no thought given to contemplating the realm of the unknown, far too clouded by panic as the fingers of some unseen deity reached in to try and wrest his soul from his physical body. Or at least to tear the electrical charges that allowed his higher levels of thinking from his person, and render him unto oblivion.

Little thought, but very much action. In that split instant between being conscious of himself and feeling tugged outside of himself, the Lemur made a decision: to live. No matter what the great gods Vodul or Dakkru wished, he was all to aware that he did not want to die. His time, he felt, in all the infinite wisdom of his mortal state, had not fully been spent. At any rate it was quite unfair to expect him to willingly offer up his being because of circumstances he could not control, like being stabbed to death by a bastard street urchin.

In direct defiance to this pre-ordained, allotted order, he used the last tiny spark of thought left in him to trigger the mind glyph residing within the velvety confines of his pouch. Why he did so was uncertain; it was merely a hasty reaction to an equally fast-moving situation. Something strange occurred, something out of the realm of scientific and in fact even magical theory. Quite unexplainable in terms of common logic, but then again, so was the entire escapade up to this point.

Wrested out of the omniscient claws trying to pry him out of his fleshy human container, the Lemur found himself flung, tumbling, in the opposite direction. Opposite of what was unclear, and since there was no specified orientation it was uncertain precisely what was going on. All he was aware of was being very cold, a turtle forcibly yanked out of its cozy shell. He was aware of collision, some sort of landing, though not of the usual concussive quality that involved the breaking of bones. He no longer had any bones.

A high-pitched wringing he could “hear,” but not in the usual way. It went around and through him, carried along the imperceptible, invisible lines of electricity that resound in the air everywhere. The workings that allow impulses triggered in the body to react, the nervous signals that are all controlled with the same well-worked quality as a fully functioning machine. He could “see,” but everything was bright, too bright,  bleached and lacking color. Grainy in quality, like looking through a broken spyglass or magnifying instrument. Different representations of things were not necessarily only physical. Colors floated by in spontaneous wafts, the rough outline of the Death Realm the backdrop of the display, and he took a moment to wonder at them in gape-mouthed awe.

At least, he would have if he'd had a mouth.

Now stranded in this half-corporeal state, aware yet intangible and incapable of being seen himself, he began to float along these individual paths of vibrating current. The colors entranced him, and he followed them with a detached curiosity, not fully comprehending what was going on, but too fascinated to really care. One such anomalous tendril pulsated with an eye-catching, bright and brilliant blue, beautiful to behold. So he latched his phantasmal self onto this thread, and was whisked along with it, bubbling with a sensation that previously would have been the prelude laughter.

The world became a fast blur as it shifted by him, as though he'd just boarded the finest and fleetest of Pterosaurs. The wonder of it banished any fear that he might have had, as he tried to find a way to recall and write down later everything he witnessed. Certainly, this was something for the record books, a thing that was the stuff of enlightenment. What priests, in their avid and fervent hours of prayer, had always sought to lay eyes upon.

His ride came to an abrupt halt, and sent him whirling away as it smashed full-throttle into what he presumed was its source. It glowed so brightly at first that he could not manage to make it out, concealed by its own light. But he did not leave, far to excited to consider simply hoisting himself up onto another kaleidoscopic train, so he willed his ghost-like self get closer.

Only when the finer details became apparent did he realize this thing was a man. Shock registered, an awe, not understanding how a simple human like himself could project such radiance. What was more, this crumpled, sobbing form that lay upon the compact earth, digging his nails into his cheeks in his bitter weeping, hardly seemed capable of giving off any light at all. Yet there he was, clear as the crystal when it was at its fully waxing state. A Diaboli by the looks of him: shimmering black skin covered in oil, pointed tail, sharpened horns. His red hair was cropped close to his head, as was his goatee, the only part of his face not clean-shaven. By the look of him he'd been through much, as he held a rolled up bit of parchment to his chest, his tears streaming down his cheeks. He wailed and groaned piteously, begging Dakkru to take him, to relieve him of his suffering, whatever it might be.

Realizing that he could in no way offer comfort, this unseen sentinel was about to simply wander away when one of the azure strands of light whipped up and collided with his being. He felt a shifting, and for one devastatingly horrific moment he thought this was the end of him. The light wound around and through him, and with it came a heart-crushing sorrow. It welled up inside of him, so badly that he knew it would certainly rend his being in two. Cause him to split apart into tiny, separate impulses and scatter him to the wind.

A coherency suddenly joined in with the overwhelming emotion. Words, carried through this new connection that locked both him and the stranger together, furthering a strange sense of duality.

He was aware of different musings, but none of them were his own. He knew that the man before him had suffered the worst kinds of losses. A chain of them: his family, his lover, his home. All forever gone by a cruel and torturous fate. A fate that had ravaged him body and soul, and left him this shriveled up husk of a man, lying curled in a fetal position on the ground, begging to die.

As the Diaboli's sorrow grew, so did the Lemur's, to the point that he thought his heart would truly burst. In a frantic gesture, he reached out as best he could, and it felt as though he were traveling directly over the man's brain, tweaking this impulse and that, trying to find the source of his pain so that he could somehow offer consolation and mend his aching emotions. The prostate man responded, his sobbing subdued to simple, silent tears, and then abating entirely.

Content with this turn of events, this benevolent Samaritan was about to leave the man well enough alone, and let him continue on his way wherever he had wont to go. That truly was his intent. But it seemed that the same fate that had ruined him had other plans, and turned its devices upon the Lemur just as he attempted to leap back into the euphoric version of nothingness he'd become so enthralled by.

Because instead of sparing the native and vacating the alien, the opposite occurred.

That sense of being in a symbiotic partnership with this stranger was abruptly ended, as his new neighbor was evicted quite beyond his control. Staring with  his jaw hanging open, and his new, coal-black eyes, he felt the final vestiges of their mental link fall apart, just as steady hums of happiness and joy reached him, and then the Diaboli's essence was completely and utterly gone.

Hilariously the first thing that occurred to the Lemur-Diaboli following this strange and wondrous event was that he'd never been quite this tall. He was at least a good six feet off the ground, quite possibly more, staring down at well-polished, rich looking boots. Of course he'd gotten a fairly extensive relay of the man's life before he'd been expelled, and he knew that wealth was certainly not a concept that was foreign to this particular body.

He began to walk, and immediately stumbled, landing on the ground and scraping his hands and knees. With a grunt, he pushed himself up once more, using the rusty metal railing to navigate his way long the metal grating. He knew not how long he'd been without a vessel. It had felt like mere moments, minutes maybe, but this general aversion to being in a physical state made him wonder if perhaps time, like the general scenery, had been gravely distorted.

He wandered, but he was not lost. Even from the presumably short time he'd spent in that indescribable plane, he knew the way to one of the exits well, and he followed that path unerringly. It was not long at all before he stepped through the portal, and the darkness of that hated realm melted away to reveal the bright and life-giving rays of crystal shine.

He took a deep breath into lungs long deprived of fresh air. He closed his eyes, and felt the power in the muscles of his, muscles that were not his own, yet he now pulled the strings to manipulate their use. Adjusting to this drastic change, he allowed all other thoughts to flee from his mind, and when he opened his eyes again, they glinted with the telling spark of anger.

Only one objective now permeated his mind.

Revenge.

[Aramara Meibi]

And now I should like to stress to you, dear reader, the intriguing mystery that is commonly referred to as the “moral compass.” For while it is necessary to at certain levels adhere to the concept of vindictive justification, it is to my knowledge often a measure of control to stay one's hand in seeking the sweet victory of vengeance. To every tale there is a worthy rebuttal, and to every opposing line on the battle field there is an enemy with thoughts and morals equally as construed towards the concept of being “right” as the other. Nearly all is a matter of perspective, for it is a rare thing indeed when the vilified persona truly believes in their heart that their actions are deserving of remorse. From this angle of thinking, it is difficult to decide:

Who is the villain, and who is the hero?

It is indeed a fine line you've drawn between Ziljhi and Barsidious.

[Mariana Xiechai]

* Mariana Xiechai tilts her head. "...Oh? Hm...I suppose that does apply there too. Even crazed serial killers don't inherently find themselves evil...especially if they're as off their rocker as Barsidious." 

[Phantomboy86]

But... But... its all so easy when you're evil! 

[Mariana Xiechai]

And upon following this last anecdote, reader, I should like to further illustrate my point. Opposing as our views might be, are we not all driven by similar passions? Surely, then, at our core, we are in sync with one another, the emotions and motivations that whirl through our sentient brains synonymous from one being to the next. Chaos only ensues with the goals of one person clash with those of another, and from this battle of wills, wars are born. An interesting concept, then, the idea of being able to feel the wants and fears of your most hated enemy.

Such a thing would surely lead to peace.

><><

The boy deserved to die. It was the only thing that controlled the man's thoughts and actions. It consumed him, the very idea of  it. To take that boy's neck between his now strong hands, to clamp down and watch his eyes go wide in sheer terror as his life's breath was stolen from his lungs. He wanted that disgusting wraith to feel what it had been like, to know the pain and horror that he had invoked upon his person with a quick jab of that little dagger. And all for a measly pouch of tria, hardly enough coin inside of it to provide food for more than a week.

So obsessed with these ruminations was he, that he did not realize the way the bitter wind nipped at his skin until his face grew numb. Eyes narrowed in perplexed confusion, he lifted his head from where it glared at the snow upon the ground. His feet were sinking into this powdery blanket, and more lazy flakes were falling from the sky and floating towards the earth even as he stood out in this field, exposed to the elements. Chilled to the bone, he puzzled over this in utter confusion. It seemed to him that only moments ago he'd been killed, and had only taken minutes following his demise to find his way back to the surface. Why, then, when spring had been in full bloom and summer close upon its heels, was a blizzard now tinging the horizon with monstrous white clouds?

Moving hastily, he ran towards the town that he knew so well, the one that he'd built his life inside of. He raced past the entrance, where the stationed guard eyed this crazed maniac that dared to wander through winter in nothing but trousers and a tunic. The streets were hardly bustling now; all the inhabitants hidden inside their homes to avoid the bite of the cold, huddled up like rabbits inside their warm and simple hovels. But, now and then, he would glimpse one brave soldier out cutting wood to feed their hearth's fire, or another attempting to strike out and purchase some food before the snow was too high to trudge through.

Before he'd known nearly every face in this place.

He recognized none of them now.

He told himself that perhaps it had been a few months, then. Not a real problem. He'd had no family to be bogged down by, preferring to be free as a soaring eagle. So no one would have been looking for  him with terribly rabid ferocity, no matter his social standing as a trustworthy and reliable merchant. As he ran, however, it became more apparent to him that the passage of time truly had been lost to him. Houses that had never been present before now dotted the alleys, and this simple town now stood to nearly twice the size it had been before. This was not a change that could occur in a matter of months. It was one that could only evolve over a matter of years.

Panting, panic and apprehension making his fingers tremble, he stopped before a ravaged shamble of a shack that, despite its neglected state, was familiar. The foundation had long ago crumbled. Left without its caretaker, his home had fallen quickly to ruin, the walls collapsing in upon themselves as the wood rotted and became consequently unstable. The roof had caved in from the center outward, so that it was no longer worthy of being called a building at all.

He strode closer and stared down at one of the windowpanes. Miraculously, one of the panels remained un-shattered, and for the first time he could glimpse clearly the visage he'd taken on. Shock registered. He'd figured out what had happened well enough, but to glimpse into a reflective surface and not see his face staring back, but that of another...

Stumbling back a step, a gurgled sound of horror found its way out of his quickly closing throat. Many ponderings assailed him at once. What had he done to this man? Had he in fact forced him into the place he was meant to take, and unintentionally sent him into the abyss? This skin that he now wore like a fancy jacket, the muscles that rippled along his arms and down his back, did not belong to him. The pointed, gleaming black horns that jutted out of his scalp did not belong there. Where was his face? What had become of his physical form? No one would recognize him for who he was, and if this individual had had any surviving family, they would greet him as though he were Lazarus, resurrected from the dead and brought back to them alive and well. As though he were their relative. They would cease their mourning prematurely.

He was no one. A man without identity, without name. All because of that damnable street urchin, and all because of his petty greed. His lust for the pretty sparkling gems that made the world go 'round. Left in this identity limbo, the man was honestly considering ending himself with one of the shards of glass before him when movement drew his attention around, back to the road.

The boy was there. Or at least his doppelganger was; trudging his way valiantly through the heavy sheets of snow that were now pouring down from the sky. He could barely see now, and he raised one of his dark hands to shield his eyes from the snow that was trying to cake his lashes, creeping along the wall and away from the dilapidated house. His breath fogged the air as he followed the boy, the rage in his heart making his blood pulse so loudly in his veins that despite the howling wind he felt he could hear nothing else.

I'm going to kill you, he thought. Stooping, his fist drove into the snow and wrapped around a sharpened piece of metal, rusted from age. Tightening around his brutish weapon, his muscles now twitched with eagerness, eagerness at being able avenge his untimely death. The weather was perfect to conceal him; he could barely even see the boy's back now, and he knew that, crouched as he was, he was invisible to his prey.

The boy stopped in front of a house, and he shifted his feet as he moved even closer, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth in anticipation as the details of the boy's face came into view. He raised his weapon, and was about to drive it downward into his chest, when he suddenly realized that this child was not the one he sought. Similar yes, but the structure was different, not the same. He barely prevented himself from cursing as he spun to the side, trying to hide himself further against the wall and amidst the maelstrom as the door opened and leaked warm light out into darkness. Arms reached out into the night, and accepted that little boy into them.

Remaining glued in place, the Diaboli watched in shock as colors, similar to what he'd observed before, spiraled and swirled in the air just past the door. He could see them, clear as day: wafts of orange that were warm as a sunrise. Like a physical sensation, they curled around his wrist and tickled his chest. The love of a father for his child. It brought tears to his eyes to feel it, and to realize that moments ago he'd nearly taken the child's life on the false assumption that he was the one who'd lead to his ruin.

So caught up in this display was he, that he did not realize a voice was calling to him from the doorway. The boy watched him with astonishment as his father, a Ylian with warm brown eyes, held a lantern to the wintry night and stared at him where he cowered against the wall, tears falling and freezing to his cheeks.

“Good gods man!” The father cried, shooing the child back into the warm confines of the house. With his free hand, he beckoned to the Diaboli, who was still frozen from the display. Striding outside, the man reached out and wrapped a warm hand against the cold flesh of his arm. “Come here! Come out of the cold, you'll die out here!”

He did not fight as he was led inside. The door slammed shut behind him, and banished the cold. A blanket was placed around his shoulders, and he was led towards a chair, given steaming fresh food and scalding hot tea. All these ministrations were lost upon him, and soon the family, discouraged by his display of numbness, left him on his own in front of the fire, hoping that this would rouse him.

And left alone, he tried to make sense his own confused thoughts, until the impossible task proved too much, and he simply fell asleep.

[Mariana Xiechai]

I know this is a bit hard to read, (it's had to make it flow without names) Unfortunately it's relevant that the "main" character has no name, per say. It'll get easier when the others are named, I swear. 

[Mariana Xiechai]

Life is such a delightfully complicated thing. Grudges are formed, sometimes broken, sometimes held. Sometimes it dances merrily on the tip of a blade in a metaphorical sense, other times that weapon is quite alarmingly real and plunging into your throat. One moment you're soaring high above the clouds of wanton bliss, others your wings are abruptly clipped and you're sent spiraling head over hills to the ground miles below. But perhaps it is perseverance that makes the tumble all worthwhile. Soaring or falling, it is the breaking of vendettas and the calming caress of sweet forgiveness that strings this lackadaisical orchestra into a beautiful symphony.

Sadly, the wisdom it takes for such coordination is often lacking in the one doing the conducting.

<><><><><><><><>

It was the scent of spices that roused him in the morning, as the first rays of light were coming peeking through the window. He couldn't quite figure out where he was at first, the memory of the death realm and the cold the only things that came to mind. There was a bustling about him, someone was whistling a merry tune and dishes were clattering softly. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and turned his head towards the ruckus, trying to discern his location.

All about him was the interior of a warm, small room. A fire was dancing merrily in the hearth somewhere below his feet, and above his head hung a portrait of a smiling family. Ylian, by the look of them. A mother, a father, and two children, one small, the other nearly a fully grown woman. The entire enclosure was small, homely; not so much full of fabric and riches, more functional than decorated. The Diaobli slowly sat up from his position on the couch he'd been sleeping on, eyes finally landing on the other person in the room.

She was standing with a plate of steaming hot food, her lips quirked upwards into a downright ironic smirk. Waves of brown hair fell down to her waist, and her warm brown eyes were smiling at him along with the expression on her face. There was nothing particularly notable about her physical appearance, but there was something about those eyes that drew him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, you blizzard-braving dunderhead.”

Or perhaps the cold had simply done unfortunate things to the intricate wiring of his brain.

The woman walked towards him, and it was then that he noted the slight limping in her steps. She tried to hide it, he could see. Tried to hold herself so that the physical malady was invisible. And to a point she managed to succeed, so long as someone was noting only her attitude and not the off-kilter gait with which she strode.

“Here,” she said, and placed the plate in his lap. The scent he'd noted before wafted up towards him, and immediately his mouth began to water. Kikiri meat and assorted vegetables. His stomach gave an angry growl, and he would have been embarrassed if he wasn't so famished. He was contemplating digging in with his fingers when she produced a fork, saving him at least that indignity, her eyes twinkling with that same haughty amusement.

“So big guy,” she mused, leaning back in a chair as she dragged it across the floor. She sat with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her folded hands. “What's your story? Better yet, how about a name?”

His mouth was full of food, so his only response was to look up with his cheeks half-full and a piece of yam hanging out of his lips. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and swallowed. For a few prolonged moments he contemplated. He had no idea what this body's name was, and he wasn't about to reveal his name. Time had elapsed, certainly, but there was no way of knowing precisely how much time.

“It's...uh, it's Ziljhi. Ziljhi Laneri.” A professor he once was tutored under as a child, dead now. He was obscure enough to be unnoticeable, at least in the circumstances.

“Ziljhi?” She laughed aloud. “Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.” The woman stuck her hand out with deliberate confidence. “Name's Irra. Just Irra, plain and simple.”

He took Irra's hand in his, clasping it and noting the strangeness of the structure. The bones beneath were noticeably small, brittle. Judging by her limping, there was something wrong with her. She was ill. The more he looked at her face, the more cues testified to this: sunken eyes, pale lips, cheekbones and a collarbone that were all far too prominent for his liking. He could tell by the living space this family was not impoverished, so it wasn't lack of means that left her this way.

“What were you doing out there, eh Ziljhi?” She released his hand and leaned back again, every gesture she made casual and relaxed. She exuded this; she made him feel comfortable too, as though simply by being in proximity she had the ability to put others at ease.

Thinking fast, Ziljhi licked his lips and rattled off a fabricated story of being a merchant, of having had his cart overturned in the snow and being unable to see clearly in the whiteout. Immediately she offered to go out with him to find it.

So he conveniently added that it'd fallen off a cliff.

“Well damn,” Irra commented. “Rotten luck you've got there, buddy.” She raised herself out of her chair, and again he was shocked at the smallness of her. He could see her leg for a moment, as her skirt swished about her legs, and noted that her limp was due to a serious break she'd suffered at some point. Her ankle, unpleasantly narrow, was twisted so that her foot angled inwards, forcing her to put her weight on the side rather than on the soul. She grinned when she saw him looking, and swished her skirts again, moving back and forth in a comical way. She winked playfully at him, but rather than flirtatious it came off as a mockery. “I know, I know,” she said. “Prettiest things you ever did see. Please, hold your applause.”

Ziljhi could not help the smile that crossed his face. He tried, but couldn't, and ended up glad of it because she laughed again when she saw it. When she'd sobered, she leaned over towards him and thumped him in the arm.

“So, you going to stay here with us for a while, until you get your 'merchandise' back?”

The sarcasm she hinted at in the statement startled him. When his eyebrows raised in concern, she only gave him another wink, and conspiratorially put her finger to her lips.

“You'll tell me what really happened in your own time, buddy,” she said. “For now, you're good and strong, and we've got work to do around here. You'll be helping my father with his carpentry to help pay off your room and board.” Her hands gripped his and twisted, tsking her tongue at the baby-smoothness of his skin. “That won't last long,” she announced, and slapped the palms with the tips of her fingers like she was giving him an exuberant high five. Backing away once more, she tilted her head back and hollered:

“Father!”

Ziljhi nearly jumped out of his shoes.

In answer to the beckoning, a male ylian came striding in from an adjoining room, his hair covered in what looked to be sawdust and his jerkin similarly sullied. He dusted himself off, but when this caused a cloud of fine powder to fly out and start mussing the kitchen, Irra gave him a glare powerful enough to melt the flesh off his face.

He stopped. Silently the man found his way to Ziljhi, offering his hand like a kicked puppy, eying his daughter with an apologetic look. For the second time that day the Diaboli accepted the handshake, trying his hardest not the laugh at the entire situation.

“Name's Kirin,” the man said, halting his hand where it was raised to extricate his sandy hair from the equally sandy debris. “And...like Irra said, I'll offer you a place to stay, if you're willin' to work for it. Woodworking, that is. It's a good job, don't have an apprentice, wouldn't mind taking one on. Could also use the extra manpower.”

There was an agonizingly awkward silence in which Ziljhi got the impression he was supposed to provide an answer. And, seeing no other alternative, he accepted the offer. They sealed the deal with another shaking of hands, he followed Kirin back into the opposite room, and his sudden apprenticeship began.

<><><><><><><><>

Cycles flew by them. The first was the fastest, and then three came after, all whisked into the abyss of time before Ziljhi could fully grasp them in his fingers. He learned carpentry until it was second nature to him; until he felt he could mold wood with his hands just by running it enough times between his fingers, if only it were so malleable. He learned salesmanship, which proved easier and easier as he slowly collected another sack-full of glyphs. He didn't command a purchase, persay....but he could certainly use his abilities to make the items seem that much more desirable. He got to know the family and claimed them as his own, somehow filling in the hole that Irra's mother and Kirin's wife had left with her passing, a sad history that he'd learned within the first few months of his tutelage. Ziljhi was there when the youngest child, Phlin, was pummeled by a group of unsavory young boys. He was also there to give said boys a tongue lashing that would leave their moral more tanned than their hides ever could be, and to send them scampering back home with their tails between their legs so that their parents could apply the term in a far more literal sense.

In the middle of his third year of living with them, he took Irra as his wife.

And three months later, he learned that Kirin was the boy that murdered him.