Thamud Calleth! Cometh, They the Stars

Fallen London
1

andthereweregodshuntinghimandtherewerestarswatchinghimandtherewastheWhiteandtheWhiteandtheWhiteandtheWhiteandtheWhiteandtheWhiteandhewasreflectedinbloodinbloodthewhitethewhitethebloodtheWhitethebloodtheWhiteinhisbloodandtheshiptheexpeditionthetimethebreakthefailtheloss
He was likely dead.
He was certainly gone.
And now, people use the term ‘gone’ a lot, you see - they use it to describe someone who has left a room, someone who has passed, something that has transpired.
People use the term ‘gone’ to describe something that is no longer present.
It wasn’t merely that he was no longer present.
It wasn’t merely that he had left the room.
It wasn’t merely that he had died.
He was gone.
In the most primal meaning of the word.
Just like everything else here.
Wind blows.
Stories whisper.
Some yell.
Some rage.
Some shine.
Some are silent, and sit in perfect beauty.
He was.
He Was.
Just like everything else here.
He’s a permanent resident.
A native.
An oldtimer.
But what was he, before he merely Was?
What was he, when he still Is?
When he still Would?
He Was.
He was a love story, wasn’t he?
In the end?
A love story.
And one that had never really been resolved.
He picks up the bone, lying in the puddle of blood.
No.
Not unresolved.
He’d just never read the ending, had he?
Nirvana is gold and red.
Ancient hands (Are you certain?) turn the bone (Quite sure?) over.
Sun over one running from his shadow.
Trees above a young eternal and an ancient mortal
Ice under lovers wedded
Gold over wine
Blood under sto-
Oh no.
Much too far ahead, isn’t it?
It starts somewhere back here.

Black waves will lap against white shores.
A lantern will dangle, like the antenna of an angler fish, in the darkness of the zee.
Steam will pump, quietly and desolately, into the Neath air.
A ship, battered and old, will arrive on a beach, timeless and shifting.
Silent figures, moving about the deck in quiet work, will roll their shoulders and wonder why Elton Grim couldn’t afford to buy a better ship.
Scarred zailor faces, puffing pipes to keep them warm, will wonder what a wine collector is doing funding a secret expedition to Irem.
The zailors, moving like soldier ants about the battered boat, will not be entirely sure why they were told to pilot the tramp steamer to Irem, of all places.
Not even the captain, silent at the wheel, will quite understand Grim’s reason for participating in such cloak-and-dagger business, and of a nature so bizarre.
Only those figures gathered at starboard will know.
Those few figures invited to the Grim mansion a scarce few weeks past.
The odd collection of characters, outlined against the Irem landscape, will be the only ones on the ship who know the purpose of their mission.
Some of them will have been to this land before.
Some of them will have never seen it in their lives.
All of them will arrive as strangers.
All of them, even if they recognize the island, will still find that the talk of Irem had at the dinner table, over chardonnay and plots to capture sunlight, pales in comparison to the true thing.
Petal-strewn stairs will stretch into the sky.
Rose-drowned streets will weave through the dark horizon.
Stone heads of serpents will watch longingly.
Existence will be garlanded with red and decked with gold.
Parabolan sunlight will await, hidden somewhere beyond the darkness.
Wealth for the wine collector, something personal for each of the characters at starboard.
Snakes will await them all.
Ah yes.
Here was the right end of the story.
Somewhere without a clue.

2

Edward Ave will step off into the rose-strewn docks, and will squint. He will see the docks, and the Seven-Serpent looming above Irem.


“Not the worst port I’ve been-” Ed said. “Will be to. Am at right now? That last one sounds right, I suppose…”


Venturing onto the docks of Carlisle’s Haven, he sees one of the local inhabitants wave at him.


The same Riddle-Fisher will speak: “The knowledge you seek will bring you great pain.”


“Tell me something I don’t know.” Ed will respond. And what are costs compared to seeing what lies in the dark corners of the Neath? Not like he’s short of Echos or anything… “Though if you don’t mind sharing the Nature of what I’ll find?” he will say.

“Why not find out for yourself?” The Riddle-Fisher will respond. Ed inwardly frowned. “That worked the last time, though considering who it worked on…”

3

Lhota will kiss the golden cross on his neck, and offer a quiet prayer to Mihir. He will step to the docks without luggage, a pelt of black and red fur draped over his shoulders as a cloak.

A riddle-fisher will look him in the eyes. He will look back. The riddle-fisher will look sad and pitying, and offer him a freshly caught fish. Lhota will bow, swallow the fish whole, and offer a fungal cracker from his pocket. The riddle-fisher will struggle to look grateful.

Lhota will follow Drake before she has to eat it. In his mind, he will recite a prayer to Mihir in the fish’s stead.

She will sigh, and put the cracker in her pocket for later.

4

The waves will crush against the shore under the Sergeant’s wary gaze. The breeze will be brisk, but refreshing.
The boat will stop on the shore, old and battered. An ancient relic tossed away by the zee.

He will visit Irem before. Or he had visited it, in the future. In any case, he will find it in his memories, albeit among the fuzzy ones.
The stone serpents clinging to the pillars will remind him of an ancient obelisk he will once see.
The great building in the distance will remind him of the large mansion he will be used to live in as a child.

Will he visit Irem before? Had he visited it again, in the future? Maybe his mind will play tricks on him. Nothing will be familiar, everything will.
The same images, the same places, all will belong to that place and many other. He won’t care either way.

He will sigh.

“Will you bring that with you?” will ask the Riddle-Fisher, gazing at the sabre hanging by his side.

The Sergeant will rest his hand on the sword’s hilt. “It will always come with me. It had always come with me. It is coming with me, as always.”

“I know your lot. Those who hold onto their weapons. You’re trouble. You always have strife in your heart.”

The Sergeant will shove the Fisher aside and follow the others down to the docks. “At least I come prepared.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/28/2017

5

A bundle of filthy rags would creak on the docks, no belongings bar what they wore.

A riddle-fisher would say nothing as it passed, for there was nothing to say.

6

A man will have stepped off the gangplank of the boat onto the docks of Irem with his hands in his coat pockets. His name was and will be Joseph Blackwood. He brought with him only what could carry on his person, and ignored the riddle-fishers and their gaze as he walked past them.

He will have… no that’s not right… he had visited this d______e place before, although he could not recall the reason why he returned. Was it to reminisce about the years he spent as a captain on the zee, was it to experience adventure one more time, or had something else draw him here? He couldn’t for the life of him recall the reason for his sudden return. He sighs and rubs his thumb over the locket in his coat pocket.

He will have taken out his pipe and will wait for the rest of his present the company to find their way off the boat, at a fair distance away from the others.

7

Apart from the arrivals, a figure would stand. With Their scarred crown of tin. With Their cloak of jaded scales. With Their tools, useless for all trades beside Theirs.

Not quite a native. Not quite one of Them.

A figure would wander nary a city, were it not for the rules of Irem. A figure would be in nary a place, were it not for the rules of Theirs.

A Riddle-Fisher will say nary a word about a figure, for They would rarely make for good guests.

8

A scientist will come. She has- will- is- the point is, at some other point in time, whatever meaning linear time even has now anyway, Florence exists here again, under very different circumstances.

She will have questions, questions that have gone unanswered for too long to bear. And she will find her answers, and in the process, she will learn something else. Something of value to science, of course. Which is why she will carry a suitcase of valuable equipment as she will take her first steps forward, ever forward.

9

(Cowritten with Bertrand Lyndon, ForScience, Drake Dynamo, IronParrot, John Moose, Nomad, Professor Sketch, Lord Gazter, Vavakx Nonexus, and that one in the corner)

“Streets of rose,” Grim had said, “Snakes of stone. A beautiful place. Or so I’m told.”
Petals will cling to boots.
Snow will decorate shoes.
The serpents, the stars, the Riddle-Fishers - something, always, will watch, as the group that had clung together at starboard will gather on the ivory shores of Irem.
Feet will find familiar footprints already left.
Eyes will find no mark in the snow over which they have passed.
An immortal, a soldier, a foreigner, a wanderer, a shadow, something terribly unlike the rest
Cometh, they the stars.
Will began to pass
Thamud calleth
Into something scarcely dreamlike.

The stone pillars will surround them. Snakes will loom from their top - the fangs drawn, yet frozen in time ever changing. A threatening welcome. Or a bad omen.
“This place and time hardly seem things of beauty.” will say the soldier.
The future and past had met and will meet at odd angles in Irem, turning things to be into forgotten memories and things long gone into visions of the future. He might as well be someone else here. An old kid. A young elder.
The soldier’s gaze will meet the one of the immortal for a moment. They will share a past that will seem yet to be. He won’t say anything to him: what will happen is a matter better buried in the past. They will work side-by-side once, and they had worked together once more.
However, he will not be there just to search for the parabolan sunlight. What sunlight he will bring in his bones will be enough for him. The son of a sun-scorched land can find all the warmth he needs inside himself.
But Parabola. Oh, unfinished business will await him there. His old allies will hear his demands, and accept them, if they are wise. His questions will be answered. For a price, of course.

The shadow’s silence will remain even when he is among the rest. His eyes will look upon the pillared city and its petal strewn streets. His mind will wander. Those memories of himself on the dark and unforgiving waters of the sunless sea, seemed as ancient as the city that surrounded him. Were they truly even his? They seemed more like stories than his own memories.
No they are his and his alone.
More and more the memories will begin to flow into his mind.
The shadow will place his empty pipe into his coat. His thoughts will turn from those half forgotten memories of earlier years, and return to his surroundings. His gaze will turn towards his companions. The shadow will return to them, and his mind to the matter at hand.

The immortal will stand in hallways he had always tread once before. There was a reunion here, between he and a sibling. Perhaps there would be another- a reunion, and a sibling. But, that would come later. There will be work to be done before then. Law within the unlaw, the sun in the mirror, these will be certainties.
Drake will shake his head. Irem will do that to you, make you think in strange ways. He will turn and see a face he perhaps recognizes. He will know her from the boat, or perhaps the hunt. Perhaps that hasn’t come yet. Still, he will approach the scientist, the scarred doctor.

–

Bright blue eyes will scan their surroundings, measured, studious gaze taking in every detail. Everything will be filed away mentally to be written out later. Temperature fluctuations noticeable. Lack of consistency. Lack of meaning. You asked the wrong questions and got answers you never wanted.
Whatever happened?
It’s too late to answer that question by standard means. This is her last hope. No matter how far she must go to find out.
Ask a question, get an answer.
It’s all going to be too familiar and yet too alien. Streets that aren’t quite right, buildings set to 89-degree angles. It will all be wrong.
But one foot after the other, step by step, she will draw inexorably closer to her answers- or, rather, closer to asking the right questions.
Whatever happened when she was attacked in her cabin of the Reckoning Postponed?
Whatever happened when her brother was hung for a crime she never thought him capable of committing?
Whatever will happen?

The hunter in him considers the smell of fresh and plentiful fish, behind. The righteous man in him considers the looming demons, high above and ahead, overwhelming and preparing to feed. Proceeding does not seem a sane prospect, only risking further damnation and transition from outcast to outright heretic. He would not have the courage to proceed, were it not for the last vote in his inner council.

The darkness whispers in his ear, arriving by each wave crashing against the shore. The unheard (return) voice that (dive) led him (swim) from the light. That call (hide) led him astray, and (feast) will lead others, until the light (evermore) returns to this (I will embrace you) godforsaken cave.

The call of this voice, pleading him to return, is reason enough to proceed.

&quotThere will be beauty enough, soon&quot he responds to the soldier, dark and hate-filled eyes looking up at the statues. &quotAnd nectar, and sweet promises, and then the sting and the last embrace.&quot

The scholar will see that their steps will move dreamlike, like always. But here, in Irem, it just seems that much more sleep-steeped.

“This place…” The scholar, will have been lost for words, for they always seem always lost for words. But the words seem even more sluggish to come, now. The pillars, the petals of roses, the ever present snake motif. “Something seems well and wrong all at once. But I suppose that’s the nature of things. If it was easy, someone else would have done it already” The words came jagged and haphazardly, from a stream of consciousness.

And here, Ed sees a group, alike only in seeming disunity. A group the scholar looking for memories would join, for reasons not even he knows.

Step will follow step as they will move through Irem. Beauty will be nowhere, but promises will abound.
The soldier won’t be sure whether he will like that place or not. Crossroads – be them of ways or times – are good meeting places, but also good stages for ambushes. However, nobody will be waiting them there, nobody will hunt them. That will be a feeling better suited for another time. The past. The future. But if everything belongs in the present there, how can he be sure he will never be there in the past, or he hadn’t been there in the future? Another time might happen in that very moment.
In fact, you’ve been here before: it’s where you finally reunited with your sibling. She’s just some annoying madwoman. My sister. Yes, how could I forget? I met my sister here. No, I have no sisters. Brothers, I have. No, only one. I only have one brother. But I haven’t seen him in a long time now. Actually, it’s like I have no brothers anymore. We’re dead to each other. We have sworn to be dead to each other. I have a sister of sorts though. Not a sister. An annoying kid. A liability at best. A sister. No. Yes. As if.
The soldier will snort in annoyance, wondering why he will be thinking about those things. They will have nothing to do with that place. He will remember that woman, though. He will have met her before. On the Reck. During the Hunt. With the immortal. Again, the immortal. That old connection will start to feel like an unneeded burden already. Not that he will be able to do anything about that. Yet.
He won’t like the uncharacteristic turn his thoughts will take. There will be no reason to dwell on the past. Or the future. Is this place toying with my mind? The anomalies in my thought processes are within acceptable standards. No, maybe I’m just tired. Or my excitement is to blame.
The soldier will pick up the pace in a futile attempt to outrun his own thoughts. The streets and alleys will be seen and soon forgotten, just like the faces of his companions. Stray thoughts dancing before his eyes will be cast aside in a dark corner of his mind. He will set his soul on one purpose alone.
Parabola, oh Parabola.
Step will follow step as they will move through Irem. Promises will abound, but beauty will be nowhere.

The shadow will follow behind the rest. One step and then the other. His focus will drift away from the present again, yet he will pull himself from them, again and again. The memories will not lay dormant, no matter how many attempts.
Those memories of old will begin to flow.
Why do they come now of all times? Why do they haunt him in this place? What purpose do they have now that all has been said and done?
Memories? Why did I return to Irem? I have returned to Irem for memories of course. Wait that’s not right. Have I come to Irem before? Yes. No, I don’t believe I have. I must not look for those memories. But I need to remember them. No! Those memories should be forgotten.
The shadow will place a hand upon his head as it swims with thoughts and memories. He needs to keep moving. Just one step and then the other.

The Immortal will pause before he reaches the scientist. His hands go to his face and he feels to make sure his glasses are in place, to soften the appearance his scars give him. Wait what? I don’t have scars. Or glasses, for that matter. Drake will try to clear his head by taking a deep breath. As he exhales, he recalls the explosion of the machine, and the fires burning all around him. I’m not that kind of scientist. I’m a Correspondent. The Immortal will continue his walk towards the scientist, and he will notice the more he walks, the further she will get from him. This isn’t right. This reminds me of the time that murderer broke into my cabin and tried to strangle me in my sleep. NO! Not my memory. Get out!
The Immortal will claw at his head, in a futile attempt to free his mind. Have to save Drake, he’s just been thrown off the boat. Yes Florence come help me I’m losing it.
The scientist will not hear.

–

The hunter’s steps quicken, and he moves to the front of the advancing group. He grows restless, and the rest are proceeding infuriatingly slow. He’s not used to working in a group. I hope they won’t be a bloody liability, like that nosy kid. He frowns. What kid?
Under his cloak Lhota rests his hand on a knife of flint. Are the devils playing with my mind already? Everything seems hazy. I can’t seem to hold on to a thought, like when kneeling at one of the hidden shrines. What? No! Shrines give a sense of purpose and bring us closer to Mihir’s light and secrets and certainly do not confuse STOP IT!
He stops in his tracks, allowing the others to catch up. This is something new. A wordless call to the darkness, a yearning for the forbidden and evil, yes. Actual voices? He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No point stopping. Do not listen to the voice. It’ll get worse, but you can only charge ahead like at Cairo. Stopping gets you shot. Just charge into the bullets and hope the artillery rounds don’t find you. Cairo? What is… SHUT UP. It’s just the wax-wind blowing in the trees. Parrots mocking me. Move fast, stay ahead of them. Hunt, don’t be the hunted or we’ll have another damn fiasco like at Seven Devils. SILENCE, I KNOW YOU ARE A DEVIL, BE SILENT DAMN YOU!
The hunter is running now, trying to outrun the images flashing before his eyes, the voice in his head.
Don’t think. Just get a move on already, and if the immortal and scientist and the rest can’t keep up that’s their problem.
Into the fangs of the bear. Into the clouds of smoke. Smash the serpents’ heads. Charge for the guns.
Sprint. Charge.
To Parabola!

–

A figure wouldn’t watch the procession, were it not so bl__dy loud. A drifting through would sail through Their net of tin, Their cage of scales, Their curious intonation, irreconcilable with languages written or spoken.

What does it seek?
Nothing-No, I seek my-Nothing.
Does it know not its own purpose?
Safer that way.
What does it have left to give Them?

Silence.

–

The scientist will stay her course, unfaltering, though if she turns around she might see an old friend, someone calling for help.
She will not turn.
Instead she marches forward, through the fog- is that condensed water vapor, or just a lack of information about what her surroundings should be?- and yet again she thinks about her lost brother and a reunion, after the long search finally they could be reunited, now all that’s left to do is bring Emma back to the Reck- wait why the hell am I thinking about Emma?- but in the end it all works out, a lost sibling returned and a family brought back together through sheer force of will. But of course not. Dominic is dead, she saw him hung, hers had been the last friendly face her brother had ever seen. All she wants is to know why. But that’s unnecessary when she’s standing right here, you’ve come this far and now here she is-
The scientist will let out a strangled sob. Maybe Drake managed to find his sister again, but she will know that such a thing is impossible for her. But thoughts and memories that aren’t hers keep buzzing in her mind, they will be a reminder of what she will never have-
Drake, please, come help me. I’m losing it.

–

Parabola, oh, Parabola, oh, Parabola, ohToParabola!OhParabolaOhToparabolaohParabolaohtotototoohParabolato
Bertrand, come help me I’m loBut why ask me for help, damn it, I’ve no idea what you requiget out of my heaMemoriesMemories?Memories,IcamefortheComehelpmeI’mlosingDominicWell,who’s D O M I N IC Well he fell off the boaGo help him he’s losing I haven’t any sisters who’s talking I’m talking I’ Who’s talkingm talking
It’s something terribly like insanity.
There’s the soldier, isn’t it, running from the scene (and now who’s that chasing him, marching through the fog - it’s the Drake the Drake the Hunter sobbing on the ground the shadow where’s the Immorta)
I’m the Immortal, I’m Dynamo, aren’t I? Drake Dynamo, proud citizen of the English Empire, at your service and why’ve I got a gun at my side, I wonder, don’t you smell sandalwood and blood Well if it isn’t
What are you talking about? It’s me, Drake Dynamo, isn’t it? Drake Dynamo, proud citizen of the English Empire, at your service and where’s the kid gone to, that little brat? That brat? That brat? I’ve got a brat, I’ve got a brat Drake Dynamo doesn’t have a brat just a brother, a brother, a Domic named ‘brother,’ and it’s me, it’s me, isn’t it? Drake Dynamo, proud citizen of the English Empire, at your service and Florence has just fallen off the boat, hasn’t she - it figures on this cursed voyage, this Wreck, this Neathean ArWhat are you talking about? It’s me, Drake Dynamo, isn’t it? Drake Dynamo, proud citizeAnd hush, you’ve had your turn to speak - it’s me, Drake Dynamo, proud citizen of the English Empire, at your service and what are we doing here weren’t we hunting the Shade the Shade Is it me, the Shade? The Dynamo Shade, from the gutters of London Well you can’t be Dynamo - the Shade began at the Wound - so you can’t be Dynamo, you can’t be Drake, can you? Drake Dynamo, proud citizen of the Drake Dynamo, Drake Dynamo, Drake Dynamo, Drake Dynamo, Drake Well none of us are Drake Dynamo are we cause that’s him dead over there But I thought he couldn’t die
But there’s no real insanity when everything’s insane, is there? That’d just be normalcy. There’s none of that he
Where is here? We’re on the Reck, to the past The streets of London, to the Shade The Iron Republic, out of time A coffeehouse, talking with a Drownie A burning lab, to the Neath
Do you remember it - Hell? I never fought in Hell. Well, it’s not where I’m from. We fought in Hell. Did you now? Somewhere near Hell. Let’s go to HeIt’s an alleyway with a kid in it that wants you to be somethiSomewhere inevitable, but far aheaSomewhere stone-sunned, we’re on our way theSomewhere wher ethings burn
I will fall to the ground and
I will trip backwards and
I won’t fall I won’t I wouldn’t I’d fa
LL higher than that somewhere near the
Clouds don’t go up to the clouds I haven’t seen them in age
S that’s where the clouds don’t
God, Grim never warned us of this
(Are you certain?)
I never would have signed up if I knew
(Quite sure?)
Of course I’d have signed up; I’ve been here before.
(Are you certain?)
What the Hell is going on?
(Quite sure?)
That’s not an answer at all!
(Are you certain?)
Who’s speaking?
(Quite sure?)
(Are you certain?)
(?niatrec uoy erA)
(Quite sure?)
(?erus etiuQ)
(Are you certain?)
(Are sure? you Quite)
(Quite sure?)
(sure? Quite Quitareyoue QuSure)?
(Are you certain?)
I never would have signed up if I knew
(Quite sure?)
Of course I’d have signed up; I’ve been here before.
(Are you certain?)
Now stop it!
(Quite sure?)
That’s my role!
(Are you certain? Two can play at this game)

(QuiI’ve got you nowte sure?)

(cerrrrrrrrrTo Parabolatain)
-------)
ToParabola To Parabola To()Parabola
To Parabola!

–

Whirling sensations.
Stone suns.
Somewhere beyond completely lost.
In memory of all the dreams ever forgotten.
Parabola.
(Are you certain?)

10

(Most of this was inspired by the dream of capture. I really like all the Game of Chess dreams, and I wanted to reference at least one, so I did.)

Irem is no more.
The pillars change into trees.
Are these trees really pillars? Are these pillars really trees?
Maybe the pillars have been trees all along, hiding until the moment was right.
Or maybe these are not trees at all, and this is a forest of pillars.
A forest.
A winding path.
Mud.
Autumn leaves.
A brisk breeze.
Skeletons of trees.
The House of Wisdom is near – built on Seven Pillars.
A Tree-House of Wisdom – built on Seven Trees.
Down, across the path, the Knight waits, sabre drawn.
It’s you, you fool! A younger you.
Indeed, the Knight could be his younger twin. Ten years younger.
Do you remember why you’re here?
To unwind.
Unwind what?
The Gordian Knot.
Who do you think you are? Alexander?
I will be Alexander. And Cesar. And Sulla. And Pisistratus. And Dionysius. And Phalaris.
I will be Drakon and Lycurgus.
I will be the new Lawgiver.
A foolish thought. You will ascend into a gourd, much like Claudius did.
He’s in front of the Knight, sabre drawn.
It’s no longer the time for talk.
The steel rings as the swords meet each other.
A lunge.
A parry.
Riposte!
Each strike, each feint, each dirty trick.
All mirrored.
Mirror against mirror until one shatters.
A game of doubling.
A parade of reflections.
The glass creaks, but neither shade of himself gives in.
In a moment, everything change.
The Knight is tripped by an exposed root, and the sabre leaves his hand.
His foe lays at his feet.
There’s no regret or fear in his jaden eyes.
He presses his sword against his twin’s neck.
Surely, you won’t slay yourself, will you?
He feels nothing as he opens the Knight’s throat.
There’s no blood.
No dying gargle.
Only smoke rises from the wound, as the Knight fades into nothing.
Why did you do that?
To unwind the Law, you have to unwind yourself first.
One day, I will shed my skin, and be reborn.
This is merely the beginning of the first step.

It’s silent now.
A moment of silence before the Light is born.
A question rises.
Will you ask of the Neverborn King?
Will I? What’s that?
The Neverborn King. Will you ask?
I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m you.
You lie. You always lie. Your very breath is a lie. Will. You. Ask.
I might, when the time is right.

The soldier awakens in the middle of a field.
His sabre rests on the grass, sheathed.
There’s no Knight, no twin to be seen.
Only the rest of his ragtag group.
And a question.

It’s time for us to move on.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 5/19/2017

11

[color=000000]The hunter wakes with a jolt, and leaps to his feet. As he takes in the scene around him, as well as the notable lack of attacking snakes, he allows himself to relax.[/color]
[color=000000] [/color]
[color=000000]He sniffs the air, catching the scent of flowers and trees. The smell is different than in the fungal forests of South, but something in him smiles.[/color]
[color=000000] [/color]
[color=000000]In London, he is the foreigner, with curious customs, and lacking knowledge even a small child has, if it’s been born in London. He has grown accustomed to the constant bewilderment. However, now they’re foreigners and trespassers all - except…[/color]
[color=000000] [/color]
[color=000000]It has already been years since he left the jungles that raised him. Now, under the impossible sun and surrounded by the shrieks of birds, he feels dulled instincts awakening. Listen for heavy footsteps. Head downhill for water. Scan the ground for droppings. Eat the red fruits, but not the blue.[/color]
[color=000000]Not all is as it was, he isn’t the same wild child that the Elder Continent made him. Father O’Sullivan has beaten proper manners into him and rekindled his faith, and a believer does not behave like an animal.[/color]
[color=000000] [/color]
[color=000000]However.[/color]
[color=000000] [/color]
[color=000000]However, he isn’t entirely sorry that the hell he has to pass through for salvation is this one.[/color]

12

A figure would find a certain irony in pursuing those that venture from Here to There.

Before Their winds crowned the dainty head, a figure was one such.

A figure would cling to the shadows, and Their shadows cling to them.

The second of three gifts for those dutiful to Them, a figure being one such.

A figure would listen for Their orders in the soft whistling of leaves, in the susurrus of London-in-the-mirror.

Their quiet murmur will lead a pawn to reach D8, a figure will be one such.
They will take the name AMETS, as coil of the Orts, as Huntsman, as Queen, as the Wind, the Shadow, the Murmur. As the Impossible Lead.

A figure would take the name Amets, as an heir unfit for Their fate, as Huntsman-to-be, as Pawn, as what once was the Deranged Solicitor. As the Dreamless Understudy.

It is pointless to wait any longer. Proceed to the group. Reveal as much as you deign necessary.

A pawn leaves Their sanctum in pursuit of the new arrivals. With the Wind in Their hair, with the Shadow heavy on Their shoulders, with the Murmur tight against Their lips.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 6/8/2017

13

Ah, yes. The voyage truly begins.
The soldier, there, a sheathed saber.
Hadn’t he seen a soldier somewhere else?
Perhaps not.
Some other him.
Perhaps so.
Some other time.
Certainly not here.
And the one crowned AMETS, pumping blood something royal (something blood), not the same as the rest (not the same as any), a native. Here before he was here, though he fails to remember ever not being here. Hadn’t there been a time when he Is? Perhaps that had been when the one crowned AMETS had been here, waiting for him to fill their vacancy.
The immortal
watchoutwatchoutwatchout
The bone pulsed.
He casted a glance over his shoulder.
Was someone there?
The Waswood failed to rustle.
Stories of those that Were flowed through the tree branches, tales carved into the bones littering the floor looked back at him.
Nothing.
bewarybewarybewarybewarybewary
He’d better keep an eye on him - this part of the story stunk of something close.
The hunter.
Holy man.
The puddle of blood - has it grown smaller?
Does it dry now - shrink, disappear?
Diamonds and leaves.
From the South.
An unexpected direction.
They’re headed northwest.
Diamonds and leaves.
Sunlight and trees.
Kings, littering the scene.
He glanced over his shoulder again.
Did he hear something crackling?
No.
His imagination, surely.
He turned back to the bone - back to the story.
The soldier, the native, the immortal, the hunter, leading the pack, the rest following behind them, marching under the stone sun. Eyes, more than just his own, watch - they are aware, to some degree, the native more than the rest, he guesses. Perhaps they even sense him, reading the story, as he senses someone reading his story now. Yes, he knows (the proscenium in layers).
He skips ahead, over a long walk, over silence in confusion, over osmosis of surroundings and acceptance of a new reality.
He stops where trees block the way, where the walk ceases, dirt-scuffed boots coming to a stop in the middle of the road.
Wooden gates.
Rainbows in chipped paint.
A civilization, crisscrossing through the trees, up and down, in blazing green.
Eyes, thousands, watching from the foliage.
A palace of emerald, suspended by dreams, vines, history.
Somewhere, deep within, songs of rain, muffled by distance and chapel walls.
The trees, even from outside the gate, can be heard, whispering to one another.
One of the travelers, standing before the February Kingdom, breaks the silence.
edited by The Atumian Sputum on 6/9/2017

14

Joseph’s mind begins to clear. The clamour was gone. The foreign thoughts that were there just a moment ago had suddenly grown quite and the tumultuous clamour of his own memories were no longer flooding his mind. Everything was silent. Joseph looks around him, but all he can see is darkness. He blinks. Darkness still.

Suddenly and without any warning the darkness around him fades and Joseph is surrounded by light. He quickly covers his eyes with his arms to block out the blinding light. He squints and looks around trying to find the source of the light. He finds that the source of the light, a large glim lamp above him. The lamp moves bringing the bright light with it. He removes his arms from his face. His eyes begin to adjust. He grips onto the railing in front of him and looks down at the water below him.

“I’m on a ship,” Joseph realizes, “a zeegoing vessel at that.”

Joseph notices some of the ship’s crew gathering up nets. The crewman of the ship move about doing their tasks and ignoring the newcomer in their midsts. Joseph tries to call out to them, but his words catch in his throat. Something was off. Something was not right. This seemed too familiar. The crew begin tossing the nets over the side of ship. Joseph looks down at where the crew are looking and sees an ugly beast floating on the surface of the water. It had too few eyes and too many fins and jaw large and powerful enough to eat a man whole. Unnaturally colored blood oozed out of the creature’s wounds and into the water around it.

One of nets makes it near the creature, but not close enough another makes it even farther, and a third doesn’t nearly make it far enough. This continues on for some time until one of the crew begins shouting and tossing his net down on the deck of the ship. Joseph walks over to the crewmen. Finally one of the crew shouts and calls over the others to help. They begin pulling the creature up and up and up until it comes up over the side and onto the deck of the ship. The creature now on deck and the preparations made the crew begin to gather around. One of the crew walks over and smiles a satisfied grin before pulling out their knife.

Joseph recognizes that grin. He recognizes that face. He begins to recognize several of the faces around him. His stomach ties itself into a knot. Panic fills his eyes. Joseph rushes over to the side of the boat. There on the side of the boat were the words ‘Wayward Storm’.

Joseph groggily opens his eyes before shutting them again. It felt as if he had been bashed over the head with a cudgel. He places a hand against the side of his head.
Where was he?
Slowly bit by bit it came back to Joseph. He was in Irem with a several others. Joseph gingerly lifted his head and opened his eyes. He searched around him for signs of the pillared city, but found that only blurred and unrecognisable shapes filled his vision. As the shapes became clear him, Joseph sees not a city, but instead sees a forest. A forest that is green and full of life. The trees were not the scraggly, pitiful things that were in London. They reminded him of the trees on Mutton Island, although much larger and more plentiful in number.
What was this place?
Where were the others?
How had he gotten here?
Joseph tried to remember, but the pain seemed to dull his thoughts.
The wind is blowing or was it blowing.
Were those words he heard or was it his imagination?
Joseph tried to listen, but the he could not make out the words. They sounded so clear, but it sounded as if the speaker was so very far away. He looked ahead and saw a path snaking its way through the trees. He is unsure where it leads, but it should lead him somewhere where he could rest and find something to help him with the pain.
After some time the pain begins to fade as numbness sets in. Joseph weakly pushes himself off the ground with a great effort, and shakily stands himself up. He walks a few paces before leaning up against a nearby tree. The whispers seemed to grow louder, although no more coherent. He takes several heavy breaths and begins to notice an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He reaches into one of his pockets, but he does not find anything to wash away the putrid taste. He sighs. He looks back up at the path ahead of him. Joseph takes one more breath and on unsteady legs moves slowly towards the path. Step by step, one foot and then the other.

15

One of them steps forward.

The pawn.

The Understudy speaks of what may lay beyond the gate.

The pawn doesn’t know, so the Murmur will tell it.

A backwards kingdom with a backwards god.

They live in the light, of the cosmogone sun, and they would dilute, its glorious bright!

The Understudy holds no contempt for the race.

And the queen is frothing with ominous rage.

&quotWe can’t stand around here forever, even if we don’t know what’s beyond.&quot

What will be, will be, as they say down below.

The wooden gates creak. Light filters in. Somebody has opened the gates.