A Path of Memories and Musings

[Eathon]

[Well, after a few years of playing Planeshift, I've finally gotten around to writing something! Comments and criticism are welcome -I've been considering a rewrite anyway, but I decided to leave it be for now. Am I allowed a dedication? Okay. Parallo, Rinenud, and the Nameless One. I hope you enjoy the story Edit: Partial rewrite completed]

Prologue: Candlelight

Dreaming.
It was beginning again.
A purely imaginary shiver ran down Eathon’s spine as the familiar room slowly formed from the reaches of his dreamless sleep. It had always been the way with him, thinking –albeit blearily- while asleep. Just the way things were. It came naturally, he supposed. He could see the room, now, that now-familiar sight filling him with anticipation –almost yearning- for, after all, he knew the ending of this story. With what he imagined would be a wry, bitter-sounding laugh in the waking world, he waited, his emotions betraying his rational thought once more, as terrible, heart-pounding fear threatened to engulf him- but also a kind of exultation, a fierce joy that ran through his veins like wildfire, a fierce, exulting song that rushed through his dream-self, rushed towards the inevitable conclusion. After all, this time he knew the ending. So he waited.

 The familiar room was illuminated by a tarnished metal lantern, spotted with reddish flecks of rust, set on a small wooden table that had evidently been discarded, pushed haphazardly against the green-papered walls. The small lantern was heaped with fuel, causing light to blaze in torrents from every inch of glass, flooding the room with a flickering, golden light, a piercing illumination that bared every dusty alcove to its lofty scrutiny. If it truly had been an observer, it might have found the small room somewhat lacking in common comfort. The sparse furniture, evidently well-made, was pushed to the very edges of the room, even the oaken chairs heaped high with stark white papers on which spidery script danced across the pages in meaningless jumbles of scrawled calculations and idle –or not so idle- musings. And in the centre of the brightly lit room… his dream-breath caught in his throat, the liquid song running through him seeming to swell in intensity… was a slender Lemur. The figure was thin and haggard looking, once well-fitting blue robes alike -almost identical- to Eathon's own loosely enshrouding the figure's entire body. Eathon's eyes lingered on the robes of the figure for as long as they could, but were drawn upwards, compelled to look into the face he knew only too well. Still recognisably his own, the figure’s –his- face was gaunt, pale flesh sunken into cheeks, leaving only the eyes as noticeably Eathon’s. But even these had changed, the former kindly-looking blue orbs now seeming almost haunted in the intensity of their gaze. Eathon almost pleaded with himself to see that this was not him, that this apparition could not be him. But it was a futile hope. He knew the answer- yes. It was- but then he shook his dream-head, dismissing this ridiculous outbreak of vanity. But again, his emotions betrayed him.

 Slowly, the figure –his!- hand closed on a small iron box resting on a nearby table, set atop a pile of papers with evident care, and lifted the lid with one slender finger, letting it slide onto the table with apparent disinterest. But that was not it, Eathon realised, waiting with bated breath. Perhaps it was merely that the figure’s attention was riveted on that within the box- and, perhaps, something more. But once more his feelings put the lie to rational thought, as the figure’s pallid hand closed convulsively inside the box, and the tension, the liquid song inside him sang with a fury that forced his attention to the box, that made him feel full even to bursting with that inside him.

The light to fire liquefied, the figure blazing, burning –Eathon burning, the seething maelstrom of liquid light tearing at him, ripping him apart as the song ran through his veins in liquid fire, and he…

Woke.
 The lone candle illuminating the room had burned down past the carved mark, yellow wax dripping down onto the blue-bound book resting near to Eathon’s slumped figure, balanced precariously on a spindly wooden chair. Slowly, he shook himself, inwardly berating himself for idleness. His work was necessary, and vanity could not be permitted. Stifling a yawn, he wrenched a thick sheaf of papers from the pocket of his blue robes, and began to write. By candlelight, the black ink spiderwebbed its way across stark white paper, a trail of thoughts and memories and musings, a story leading to an inevitable conclusion.
Outside, it was snowing.

[Mathy Stockington]

Very descriptive and intriguing, you make the reader truly want to know what happens next. Great work!

[screwballl]

I Agree with Mathy.. well written but a teaser for so much more to come.... what was he writing... what did the dream mean to him and his world... what was in the box that would cause him to wake so... what specifically does he write about.. and what is the importance of it snowing...

[Andoryn Thaakor]

Gripping... Can't wait till part 2.

[Anumesa]

Excellent

Extremely descriptive, (sorry to steal your word Andoryn) gripping writing..well done!

[Apnew]

Nice setup. Good attention to detail very vivid. I look forward to reading more.

[Entevir]

Now i feel like the odd one out. While the writing style itself is good and i can't say anything about it it's just that for my taste this was about.... Far off from the mark i even refer to as slow. Other then that... Not bad at all.

[Eathon]

Thank you. Well, I'm currently working on a few alterations to the original post. EDIT: Completed

[Eathon]

[I've had to divide this chapter into two parts for the sake of practicality. Again, I hope you enjoy it. Please don't hesitate to post any comments and corrections!]
Chapter 1: A Tarnished Mirror (Part One)

Blinding light.
Slowly, Eathon opened his eyes. Bright light was streaming from the open window, filling the room with a soft glow that seemed to fall in gleaming, golden droplets from every inch of polished wood, a complacent radiance that flooded the room in idle glory. Reluctantly, he shook his head, wrenching himself upright. He was sprawled atop a spindly wooden chair, the ache in his limbs paying testimony to the reality of his uncomfortable position- the candle beside him had burnt down to a stub, barely extending above the rim of the burnished steel candleholder, now encrusted with delicate runnels of yellow wax, which had evidently extended to the papers below: stark white sheets covered in calculations and scrawled notes. Stretching, he rose from his seat, gazing around with bleary eyes. The sparse wooden furniture was well-polished, set haphazardly about the small room; most covered in stacks of papers or piled boxes, while a large trunk rested below the open window. The trunk was flung open, exposing a few scattered possessions- a pile of books, stacked neatly in small piles with uncommon care, and a number of smaller objects, each set in its tiny alcove with obvious caution. The large window, also set ajar, was made of fine glass divided into broad panes, exposing a view of the guard tower - a tall structure, roughly hexagonal in shape, roofed with a low spire of dull sea-blue tiles and capped with a small crown of curved stone spikes. Most likely of Xachan construction, Eathon mused, before dismissing the view –idleness!- and turning to the closed door, from which the drifting aroma of baking mushrooms could clearly be distinguished. Eathon forced a slight, amused smile –Jomed Parcen!- ignoring the first twinges of hunger in his midriff. Breakfast could wait. After all, dinner had waited as well, and he’d managed to suffice with a little bread from the kitchen for lunch. He smiled again, more genuinely this time – there would be time for luxuries after necessity had been dealt with- and stepped outside.

 The Kada-El tavern was deserted, the great majority of its residents having left for the bright day outside. Eathon paused on his way downstairs to look into the kitchen, where it became immediately apparent that not quite every occupant was outside enjoying the morning. The small room was filled by the babble of raised voices and the warm scent of baking mushrooms, from which Eathon quickly withdrew. A kitchen? Evidently the lack of food had taken over his thoughts. Wrenching himself away from the doorway, he stepped out onto the short flight of stairs leading to the rooftop, grasping the railing to steady a slight tremor. The light to fire liquefied. No! He grasped the wooden railing again, turning his face from the blinding light of the Crystal, before resolutely facing the city in a vain attempt to quiet his roiling thoughts.

 It was late morning now, and the Crystal blazed overhead like wildfire, an inferno of golden flame that seemed to arc across the city in glorious flares of colour, outlining the solitary Windowless Tower in a fiery corona of blinding light. The radiating buttresses were almost indistinguishable here, the massive red-streaked tower seeming a lone, accusing finger raised in rage or remonstrance to some unforgiving god. Below, the bright light beat on the tiled rooftops of Hydlaa, the neatly arrayed rows of houses almost shimmering in the scorching heat, while the plaza seemed burnished steel, the worn flagstones a gleaming white rather than their usual dull grey. Eathon let out a wry chuckle –generally the day turned gold to dross, in his experience- before surveying the park, mildly intrigued. Below, shadowy figures dashed madly across the grassy expanse like bouncetails after the scraps of vegetation that you saw so often, below on the Barn level. Eathon shrugged, dismissing the commotion below, before ascending the short flight of steps to the roof of the tavern and glancing around. The roof was deserted, even Aleena having left, though it seemed unlikely in the extreme for one of the city’s many alchemists to be so fond of walking outside. The polished wood seemed to glimmer softly in the bright light as he settled down upon the floor and retrieved a fresh sheet of paper from the pockets of his robes, delicately setting it upon the floor and beginning to write, the quill slowly scratching its way across the stark white paper in an endless justification of deed and recollection, a story leading to an inevitable conclusion. Dismissing his wayward thoughts, Eathon began to write.

 It was hard, he thought, not to remember, rather than the other way. No matter how he tried to push away painful recollection, it insisted on a swift return. Again, Eathon laughed – a strangely humourless sound, oddly bitter in its way- thinking. And then again, where would he be without memory? An amusing thought, that. It was memory that spurred him on, drove him on, those first memories of success and failure - though he prided himself on possessing few of those. But of course, this would be his greatest success. He chuckled again –perhaps “fulfilment” was a more accurate term. Nothing could be allowed to endanger that. Again, his thoughts returned to the two, Aiwendil and Lhaa. He sighed briefly, before nodding reluctantly in acquiescence to some hidden thought- soon, he would have to abandon contact. He nodded again, more decisively – yes. But perhaps... yes, he could permit himself this one indulgence. He could afford it. Slowly, he nodded once more in resolution, before turning back to the fresh page beneath his quill.
wall hanging depicts the three…

[Mathy Stockington]

Your writing is wonderful. I am very much enjoying your story. The descriptiveness of it really makes me see everything with such clarity. You left me wondering what is next to come and that makes me want to read more. Very well done. Can you help me write a story or teach me how to write? I am very impressed.

[Lolitra, Celorrim Purrty Twins]

An intreaguing style.. and lovely descriptions that flow the reader to feel they are with you there... in the thick of it.. 

keep it coming.

Lolitra

[Eathon]

Chapter One: A Tarnished Mirror (Part Two)

The remainder of the day passed in a similar manner, Eathon slowly setting out words upon the page as the Crystal’s bright light dimmed to twilight and then dusk. It was early evening now, the city blanketed in murky shadows, save for pools of dim golden light gathered around the few lamps lining the Hydlaan streets. The air was thin and cool on Eathon’s skin, the slight breezes eddying and swirling around him. Reluctantly, he wrenched his gaze from the parchment resting in his lap, the thin scrawl now barely distinguishable in the half-light, and stood, bracing himself against the slight numbness in his limbs. He chuckled slightly, forcing himself to ignore the ache – he had little time left to waste, and none on fripperies – and stepped forward towards the staircase, fumbling for the slim rail in the shadow of the rooftop. Eventually grasping it, he carefully negotiated the stairs and stepped into the brightly lit tavern.
   
 It was warmer here, illuminated by the flickering glow of the fire roaring in the hearth, and Eathon quickly descended the narrow flight of stairs into the tavern proper. The large room was almost deserted, the carved doors thrown open to admit passers-by from the dimly lit street outside. The worn furniture –evidently once of fine make, but now scratched by the passage of countless mugs- was scattered liberally about the large room, each small wooden table surmounted by engraved glasses, degraded in similar fashion to the furniture, while the wooden walls were finely engraved with swirling patterns of clouds, the designs clearly distinguishable upon the well-polished wood. Eathon glanced briefly about the tavern, before relaxing slightly and letting out a small sigh of relief. Evidently they had not yet arrived. Enjoying the unfamiliar silence, Eathon slowly walked over to the counter, noting Allelia’s quiet presence with a brief nod, and waited. It was strangely quiet tonight, Eathon mused, glancing around the deserted room. Strangely reminiscent, that. His journey to the seventh level had taught him the value of silence. Of course, it was necessary, he reminded himself, just as all of this was necessary. He could not allow them to know. Glancing upwards, he looked about the room in a vain attempt to still his agitated thoughts, before smiling once more, in triumph or realisation. Yes, he had a little control yet. And while a man could not gorge himself on “little”, sometimes it was enough to tip the balance…

“And hello Eathon. Dreaming again?”
Eathon turned, almost leaping away from the thick sheaf of papers resting on the counter. She’d arrived and he… hadn’t noticed? No, that could not happen again. If Aiwendil had seen his papers… Eathon dismissed the thought. Aiwendil, a female Diaboli –of around twenty-five years- with reddish, shoulder-length hair was standing by the counter, looking slightly amused. He sighed. That was usual, though – Aiwendil always had a smile for everyone, and a more peculiarly good-humoured individual you would be unlikely to come across, in Eathon’s – albeit humble- opinion. Quickly, he feigned surprise, gasping “...Aiwendil?” and inwardly wincing, as he quickly gathered up his papers from the polished counter, slipping the thick sheaf within the confines of his robes. Ah. Evidently, Eathon realised, the ploy had failed. Aiwendil was looking around at him, somewhat suspiciously, and replied with a drawn out “Yes?”. Hastily he mumbled “Ah… ah… Greetings” – painfully obvious, Eathon thought critically, and inwardly, he winced. While he attempted to gather up the papers remaining on the counter –and his idle thoughts-, Aiwendil continued “You don’t look very good again. What do you do with your nights?”, before giggling softly “I have an excuse most of the time when I look like you. But I didn't see any girl around you lately". Perhaps he should hire some kind of torturer instead, Eathon mused. That avenue of conversation seemed to have precisely the same effect. Grimacing slightly, he replied in what he sincerely hoped was a level tone “Ah, work”, before speaking again, more resolutely -he thought- “Yes”. Without a pause for thought, Aiwendil continued “Beside… And I think you still won’t tell me what your work is about”, raising an eyebrow enquiringly, before continuing her inadvertent monologue “But I’m a bit concerned. You should look in a mirror sometime”. Gaunt, pale flesh sunken into cheeks.. Frantically, he drove away the thought –the recollection-, returning his gaze to Aiwendil and replying in a slightly bemused tone “Why?”. Unfortunately, he realised, the brief deterrent wasn’t enough. “I really think you should get some sleep. I sometimes wonder how you can work at all”. She knew? Too late, he realised he had spoken aloud, quickly iterating “No matter. Ah, well, soon” in what he knew was a vain attempt to relegate the phrase to mindless pleasantry . He sighed, deeply relieved, as Aiwendil continued, shrugging “But never mind. You say I will find out about your work soon? I'm very curious what your work is about”. Swallowing, Eathon forced a slight, worried smile “I'm sure Lhaa knows something. Knowing you two, you'll know before long, I suppose”. Which was, he supposed, the truth. Lhaa must know something, with her constant murmuring of the megaras’ flight, mustn’t she? Aiwendil smiled “Maybe I should ask her. But I would prefer to hear it from you" and mutters "and I'm not so sure if she would tell me”. Slowly, Eathon grinned “Isn't that how the story ends? The secretive scholar gives away his knowledge? I'm afraid this story hasn't quite ended”…

[Mathy Stockington]

Very well done Eathon. Keep it coming. I must admit to totally enjoying your writing style and your story.

[Eathon]

Chapter Two: Gifts

 The Crystal’s light had just begun to dim as Eathon reluctantly stepped out onto the broad Hydlaan street, his good humour of the previous evening entirely evaporated. The city, of recent times bustling with the passage of merchants hawking their –often entirely illusional- wares, was quiet, the cool air still and thin. The wisps of clouds that drifted overhead were streaks of dully-gleaming silver, shadowed strands against the soft glow of the Crystal, set high above on the cavern’s roof. Now, it illuminated the city with a fading light that, although warm, failed entirely to warm Eathon’s feelings towards the meeting that he knew was awaiting him. It was necessary, he reassured himself, though it seemed scant comfort in the face of what he must do. This time he must stop himself from babbling away like a squalling infant! It was hard, of course –he, of all people, knew that- but necessary. Shaking his head slightly in curt dismissal, he wrenched his attention back to reality, and stepped away from the open, welcoming door of the Kada-El tavern, from which the enticing smell of baking was emanating. Worn shoes clacking harshly on the cobbles of the Hydlaan street, Eathon strode away, heading down toward the plaza.

 The plaza was silent, the air, that had begun to carry something of evening’s chill, still and unmoving. The harsh features of the robed statue atop the fountain were masked in shadow, that almost chilling gaze hidden from sight, while the slabs of worn stone paving the plaza below were merely featureless blocks, whatever inscriptions they had once borne long since carried away by the rain and winds that periodically swept the city. Eathon glanced across the plaza, eventually assuring himself that it was, indeed, deserted. Perhaps the meeting would never take place. Perhaps he could retreat to the warmth of the tavern in the assurance that there was nothing he could have done. But again, he reminded himself – it was necessary. Abruptly looking up from the worn slab of stone beneath his feet that had transfixed his gaze, he once more swept the plaza with wary eyes. Ah. It seemed that his hopes had been unfortunately curtailed. Allowing his pale fingers to once more grasp the gem strung about his neck in a tense, nervous grip, he began to ascend the shallow flight of steps, his breath coming rapidly – perhaps at the sudden exertion, but to Eathon’s mind, it was the result of something entirely different.

  Lolitra Purrty, a pretty –many, Eathon felt, would say beautiful, but he had always enjoyed a gift for understatement- Enkidukai, greeted Eathon’s cautious “Your Highness” with a regal nod as he approached, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the worn flagstones. She was wearing a –rather appropriate, Eathon thought- suit of polished steel chainmail, the tiny, interlocking links clinking slightly with each slight movement, her long mane of hair swinging free. He would have to work this conversation around, he realised. “A fine day, your Highness”, he said aloud, wincing inwardly and blinking to cover his slight lapse, which was rewarded with a slight smile from Lolitra
“It is indeed, Mr Araeshorn”. Perhaps…He swallowed, slightly nervously, before speaking once more
“Did your House succeed in finding the culprit behind these vicious-minded posters?” All he’d have to do was give them the gem, he had promised himself. He should have realised it wouldn’t be that easy, even neglecting his stupid sentiment. He couldn’t afford emotion. Not here. The conversation continued in this manner for a few moments, before Eathon unwittingly replied “Indeed? That is news, but I do not know a woman who despises me in that way” to a remark. Lolitra shook her head, replying in kind
“Nor do I, Mr Araeshorn. You are a seemingly pleasable person... And quite handsome for a Lemur...” Inwardly, Eathon winced. Why did it always come to this? Eathon winced visibly, looking away, before speaking in a resigned tone
 “Hardly, I think, as of now. I thank you, but... It was necessary”. Surely, he begged, surely she could leave it at that. Eathon swallowed slightly as she continued “What was necessary?”

 Eathon glanced about the plaza, managing to avoid meeting Lolitra’s gaze, before replying “It does not matter. Of course, I have been, let us say... unwell of late, but it was necessary”. Surely illness was a passable evasion? It seemed to be.
“Oh.. I am sure you will.... Fill out a bit once you stop fasting. Though it does show you sure jaw line... Quite rugged... Some find it handsome.” Now, that, Eathon thought, was quite unnecessary. He knew he had changed, and there was no need for others to conceal the truth from him. Hesitantly, he replied with what he hoped would deter her from this painful line of inquiry
“Thank you. But I am afraid that hiding the truth does no good, and I will be honest. I will… not recover, Highness. Of course, you understand that sometimes there must be sacrifices to yearnings”. He looked away, tightening his now-painful grip on his pendant. Curse his ridiculous honesty! Surely he could have given a pleasant enough response, instead of this. He could only hope it would be relegated to mindless pleasantry. Unfortunately, such was not the case. “Yearnings? What kind of yearnings would drive you to starve yourself?” Nodding slightly, Eathon spoke again
"Yearnings, desires, ambitions, aims", before forcing a slight smile "I do not wish to trouble you with my concerns, Highness", fervently hoping that such a blatant evasion would succeed. Fortunately, it seemed to.
“I see”. Eathon relaxed slightly, before Lolitra continued “Perhaps a good meal might see your strength grow a little?”. He forced a smile, swallowing again, before continuing
“Do not worry. It’ll end soon”. Hopefully, Eathon thought, that would be pleasant enough to turn this dangerous avenue of conversation aside.
“I hope the ending is not too finite... And only a beginning of your good health, Mr Araeshorn. You would be sorely missed, I find your company a tantalising diversion to my mind” Inwardly, Eathon shook himself. He could not let emotion take hold of him now! Eathon forced a slight chuckle, before tensing his expression “Again, I must thank you, Highness. Please, I beg of you..”. Quickly, Lolitra interjected
“Oh, do stop that.. It is not becoming.. Begging...”, before Eathon continued, the words tumbling from his mouth in a mad dash for freedom “I will soon have no use for this, and I would wish it to go to a worthy cause” Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted the gem from around his neck, setting the small gem down in the palm of his hand and allowing the links of its silver chain to slip through his slender fingers in a seamless cascade of polished metal. Even on that dim evening, the polished facets of the emerald glimmered leaf-green, almost sparkling under Eathon’s worried gaze.
Swallowing deeply, he extended his hand.
It was done.
It was done, and now he but needed Edielin to end this farce.

[Eathon]

Chapter Three: Edielin Lyiet

- Three Days Previously-

 It was a typical late Ojavedan afternoon. The Crystal blazed down from high in the Ojavedan sky, polishing the whitewashed buildings of Dsar Akkaio to an almost blinding sheen, and the bustle of the market was just beginning to dwindle. A steady stream of merchants heading towards the Akkaio Gate –now, when it was barely late afternoon- paid mute testimony to the dangers of nightfall on the road to Hydlaa - unfortunately, thought Edielin, slightly wryly, that just happened to be where he was going. He was sitting cross legged on his customary perch atop the foundation of the Broken Door, gazing down slightly regretfully at the gate that marked the boundary of Dsar Akkaio – and more worryingly, the beginning of the wilder lands outside. Dragging his gaze from the huge gate that dominated the Ojavedan landscape –if such a term could be put to the mass of dust-streaked walls and blocklike houses that made up the hereditary home of the Enkidukai -, he quickly scanned the Dsar for any hint of a merchant convoy that looked as if it would be staying until nightfall. The Dsar had fallen strangely quiet, the still-blazing sun keeping the majority of Ojaveda’s residents asleep inside the white –though now carrying the faint sheen of the Ojavedan dust- houses, piled atop the many stone plateaus lining the Akkaio walls Above, the vague outline of the bridge spanning the entirety of the Dsar could be distinguished against the blinding light of the Crystal, while below, the market was dwindling as merchants gradually filed towards the gate, carrying behind them large packs of whatever goods they hawked to the residents of Ojaveda, or in the case of a few of the more wealthy frequenters of the bazaar, leading a variety of the more common beasts of burden that dwelled on the Dome level. Unfortunately, none of the merchants looked to be staying more than a few hours, when Edielin would be leaving. Heaving a sigh, he resigned himself to travelling alone.

 Slowly, he lay back against the dust-stained wall of the Broken Door tavern, quirking a slight smile at his great show of misfortune – surely, of all people, Edielin Lyiet least deserved that particular epithet. Running a finger about the rim of the small scroll protruding from his pocket, he grinned – he was on his way to Hydlaa, and perhaps –he dared to hope- to gain an apprenticeship. It seemed all of the time waiting had finally paid off, and this message, the very message that had been sent to him, of all people, was the key to it all. To lose that truly would be misfortune. As if alarmed by that very thought, Edielin ran a questing finger once more around the seal of the message, an imprint in red wax that he had so gently eased from its resting place with a heated blade, carefully opening the scroll before replacing the seal – two intertwining lines, enclosed within a triangle of depressed wax. Smiling, he closed his eyes – he had best get some rest in preparation for the journey ahead.

Yawning, Edielin wrenched his eyes open. The sky above was a deep and midnight blue, the Crystal’s soft glow reaching as if in twining vines across the cavern’s roof, far, far above. Slowly, he stood, glancing briefly around as if to confirm his fears – it was evening. Inwardly grinning in spite of himself, he stood, giving the dust-streaked fur of his legs a brief rub in an attempt to excise the dull ache, before walking –rather boldly, he fancied- across the dusty ground to the Akkaio Gate. Looking back, he gave the Dsar a cursory glance, scarcely more than a brief inspection, for, for the first time in his life, he was going to Hydlaa! Chuckling, he started along the worn road, striding ahead in leaps and bounds that betrayed his weakening resolve. At last, after all of this time, he was on the road to Hydlaa!

 The Crystal was scarcely visible when Edielin reached the haphazardly-piled pillars of roughly hewn stone that marked the boundary – if such a place existed – of Ojaveda’s lands, and the true beginning of the track leading to Hydlaa. The road, partly shod with crude cobbles in parts, though mostly a heavily rutted, mucky track, ran as far as Edielin could see into the distance, the rough track disappearing into what horizon there was between two shadowy hills. Glancing upwards to note the hour, Edielin began to run, prising his feet from the clinging, sucking mud with increasing regularity as he continued. Before long, the fur of his legs was streaked with black mud and sodden with the residues of what could possibly –if, Edielin thought, one was generous- be called water. Stubbornly, Edielin continued to run, the clouds overhead having lost their former silver hues to be replaced with an ominous grey-black. Edielin sighed. Things certainly weren’t improving much.

 Eventually, Edielin reached the twin hills that had previously –in Edielin’s mind- marked the boundary of the road. His frantic run had dwindled to a walk, and then a weary trudge as he progressed, the road’s end still remaining stubbornly elusive. As he shuffled through the broad valley, his eye caught a hint of movement in the blackness surrounding him – a brief snatch of vision that soon eluded him. Cursing his luck, he spun around, squinting into the darkness – nothing. Whatever was there, it was shrouded in the almost tangible darkness. Giving himself a brief smile at his display of nervousness, Edielin turned to continue. A slight whisper of sound, the faint hiss that –Edielin thought- one would imagine as belonging to the soft caress of silk against steel, a soft and sibilant rasp. Then he ran, his footfalls painfully loud in the heavy silence of the night, his heart pounding in his chest.

 The trepor, paused briefly, before resuming its patient scrutiny of the landscape. Deprived of its evening meal, it stood with no less patient implacability than before, whatever feelings of rage or hunger it may have had unshowing in its inscrutable gaze.