On the height of a lonely castle, rising up on a cliff above a storming sea. A graceful young woman with shimmering sable hair, stood at the foot of a vast unfinished tapestry. It hung looming over her from the rafters of her great hall. Her pale skin and milky pearlescent eyes shone in the light of the silhouetted moon behind the massive cloth. The moon watched her in silence, providing her a dim light she would never need.
Her empty gaze had only ever seen darkness, and yet her delicate fingers spun the threads and needles tirelessly, as if she had studied each scene in an all-mighty detail. What will be her greatest creation, hung in the form of a thousand twirling strings within a grand loom. Though unfinished, the loom was already decorated with ornate and graphic depictions of heroism, betrayal, and death.
A grey colored man in the act of devouring a long line of oddly shaped children. A smiling prince garbed in white, seated on a throne made of pure light, flowing from his feet, a river of red. An egg-moon falling from the black void above, smashing open and unleashing an army of bloody malformed infants, soaring down on stunted wings to blacken the world. A hundred other images flashed across the unfinished canvas. The blind woman's fingers fluttered daintily as she began the firstborn threads of a new tragedy. In the center of the great tapestry, the first of its strings were sewn with scarlet and gold.
* * *
He woke slowly as shards of sunlight cut through the grass cradling the shallow dirt he lay buried under. He tried to turn away from the morning, but his drowsy limbs were held still. A single weary eye fluttered open, gazing upwards past the rustling grasses. He saw the colors of the emerging sky, vibrant hues unfurling as the echoes of the night faded and were forgotten.
Winking his eye blearily, he again tried to move, urging his unfamiliar body to break free of its gault restraints. With a muffled grunt, the ground cracked, and bony fingers burst out of the clay, uprooting the plant bed. He pulled the caked muck from his face and threw it aside, gasping for air. He laid there a while, listening to the wind whistle through the glade. When he had caught his breath, he pulled the rest of his body out of the grounds' cold embrace. Clumps of dirt fell from his long blue-black hair as he stood over the hole, yanking his thin legs free. He dusted himself off as best he could, and looked out at the land before him.
The sky was aglow with a dim blue, reaching outwards and touching the land only in the far distance, where the lights of twin fraternal suns bounded over the green heights. A vast dream-like grassland swayed with the wind and shimmered with the dews of fresh spring rain. A soft gale carrying the sweet smell of blooming flowers swirled past, it cooled his skin and calmed the deafening thump in his chest.
Eyes wide, he brought shaking fingers to his forehead and took an unmeasured step backwards. He stumbled, and would have eaten a mouthful of mud, if he had not caught his balance. There at his feet, bulging out of the wet bog and tangled in roots, was the top of a wind scorched wooden board. He hesitated, before he reached down and yanked it out. It came free with a sharp wet sound, like a skinning knife sliding beneath hide.
He did his best to rub off the muck, and held his newfound treasure up in the air, bringing it closer to his face. There once had been legible writing carved into its grooves, but the wilderness had eroded it to the point that he could barely make out a few scattered letters. A cold wind rose up the height, and a chill fluttered down his spine. He stared at the board, and the drab grey of the rotted wood slowly began to swirl about him. He could not tear his eyes away from it.
His brow creased, as he put together what words he could make out. "Gresh—" The pain came immediately, punishing his recollection. A searing sensation scorched his crown, as if a molten vice clamped around his skull. He dropped the board and cried out. With both arms he grasped his head and doubled over, tumbling down. He hit the bottom hard, writhing and gasping until the burning slowly subsided. When it was over, he was trembling and his head pulsed, but still he got up to his feet and clambered up the hill. At the peak, he picked up the board again, careful this time to avoid a prolonged gaze. He turned back to his empty dirt bed, tightly gripping the board in his hands. He raised it above his head, and plunged it back into the cold mud.
He turned in a circle, scanning the empty plain. Until he spotted something in the far distance: Just beneath where the twin suns rose into the sky, he made out a tall shadowed structure, jutting awkwardly out of a patch of bare soil. He squinted, but it was too far for him to make up its details. He gave his empty bed one last longing glance, and then crept down the hillside.
As he set out across the expanse, the winds began to swirl around his feet, and a powerful gust descended and swept him along. He shuffled over hill upon hill, pushing deep into the high grasses, drawing closer to the looming shadow in the distance. Seated on its plateau throne, even the high hills and wild brush bent low to its dominion, the slopes growing milder with each step forth. It quickened his pace, and he soon arrived at the rear foot of the monolith.
It was a thin crooked tower made of crumbling black stone, tall enough for a second— maybe even third floor. Behind it, a narrow dirt road cut left and right, winding through the high grass, disappearing over the hills in either direction. The tower stood stalwart in its sovereignty. Beneath its sturdy walls, all but the will of the sky, cowered. The wind blew harsher now, and gray clouds quickly rose over the horizon, lurking low amongst the land. They would be upon him very soon.
Despite the coming storm, there was not a single sound, save for the black gravel that crunched softly beneath his bare feet. The wind had paused, and every blade of grass stood completely still. All that accompanied his approach was the drone of silence. He crept towards the tower crabwise, circling around to the front.
The gray wood slab that was the door hung half torn from its frame. He gave it a wide berth, rising from his crouch, his eyes never falling from the door. The black tower glowered, standing over him like a predator closing its jaws around the throat of its prey. His fingers closed around the pale bone door handle, and he wrenched it open, ducking beneath the stone doorframe.
As he stepped inside, he immediately felt the tower's warmth. The room was a wide circle, big enough that if he laid three of himself on the floor head to foot he could just barely reach the diameter of it. The center of the room was scorched black by the remains of a thousand fires. On the fringes of the far wall, a naked stone stairway jutted out and spiraled upwards leading to another gray door.
Lighting boomed and crackled along the ground behind him, and he swiveled his head at the field where he had emerged, watching as it disappeared behind a black curtain of heavy rainfall and thunder. The dark clouds gathered above the monolith, as if the storm lay siege to the crooked black tower itself.
"Stay with me."
Gresh whirled around. A lanky, wild looking, yellow eyed hermit, whose thin skin was stained the color of burnt umber, stood at the top of the steps.
"No need," Gresh said calmly, "I'm just passing through."
The hermit began to quickly limp down the steps, his left leg dragging behind him uselessly. "Hurry and close that door. There's nowhere to go out there."
Gresh watched the hermit shuffle his way past him. He grasped the handle with both hands, and yanked, tightly wedging the door in its frame. Then he motioned towards the blackened center of the floor.
"Sit down, I've food we can share." The hermit slowly shuffled back up the steps and entered into the gray door. Gresh sat beside the scorched circle. The storm was relentless outside, the rain's pounding like the beat of drums, and each strike of thunder lighting up the grim dark room. Gresh pushed himself up against the wall, cradling his knees in the nooks of his arms.
* * *
The cook fire made the shadows of the room dance and twirl along the walls. Gresh watched as the hermit sat on his stool, left clubbed leg splayed out to the side. He stirred the kettle with a charred wooden spoon. Bringing it up to his mouth, he slurped down some of the broth.
"Where are you coming from?" He asked, dipping the spoon back into the swirling stew.
"From out in the grasses." Gresh didn't look up at him.
"Is that so?" The hermit's eyebrow peaked, and he pointed the spoon at Gresh. "You some kinda monster then?"
"No." Gresh said, shaking his head.
"Then what are you?"
Gresh didn't answer. The hermit chuckled and tapped the spoon on the rim of the kettle, setting it aside. He capped the stew and allowed it to simmer. He scratched a few flakes from his scalp and pushed back his greasy hair. Then he leaned on his good leg and stared at Gresh in silence.
"What's on the second floor?" Gresh asked, nodding at the gray door.
"Nothing you need see." He said, crossing his arms. "What do they call you?"
Gresh watched the smoke from the fire rise, only to be carried out through the large gaping hole in the walls above. "Gresh," He said firmly, "my name is Gresh."
The hermit nodded silently, then he picked up the spoon and started to stir the pot again.
"What is this place?" Gresh asked him.
"The Landsea," The hermit said plainly, poking a few chunks of floating meat. "It's been ages since we've had a visitor."
"How long have you been out here?" Gresh asked.
The hermit nodded again, unlatching a gourd hanging from his hip, and taking a deep swig. "Do you have a father?" he asked, handing the gourd to Gresh.
"I don't know." He brought the gourd beneath his nose, it smelled sour. He tilted his head back and gulped some down. He coughed and wiped his mouth, handing the gourd back to the hermit.
The hermit took it and dumped the rest down his gullet, "Every man has a father." he said, licking his lips.
The spoon spun in his fingers and two wooden bowls were filled with stew. "When I was a boy, I wanted to do sorcery. My brother and I would sneak out to the priory and watch the sisters draw their beautiful little signs. All I ever wanted was to help people like they did."
He offered Gresh a bowl. "You best enjoy that, food is difficult to come by around here," Gresh brought the bowl up to his mouth, staring at the floating chunks of meat. He gulped them down.
The hermit nodded. "One day as we walked home, I told my brother that I didn't want to be a livestock butcher. That I wanted to go work at the priory and heal folks with my hands. Once we got home, he told my father. I remember him grabbing me by the wrist, teeth bared. He dragged me inside and beat me bloody, and told me all sorcerers were damned, and all their followers were damned too. To make sure I wouldn't go out there and be tempted again, he picked up a mallet and smashed up my leg." He pulled his left leg forward, and rolled up his pant leg to show Gresh the scars.
"My father hadn't led me wrong before then, and he was a man who'd always been so sure of everything, so I listened. He was tall, strong, and most of all prideful about what he did for his coin. He set the prices for his services and products real high, and still the people used to flock around him. Just like all the livestock he raised and butchered. For a long while, I thought what he did was right. I was too young to understand what was going on, and I was embarrassed for even thinking of sorcery at all. Especially because he wanted to give me his very lucrative butcher shop when he died. These hands simply had no time to spin any magical hexes!" the hermit wiggled his fingers, and they ate in silence for a little while.
"When he lay dying a few years later, afflicted by some soul rending disease, I saw him for what he really was. In the end he couldn't even open his eyes to look at me. When I held his hand in mine, and felt how brittle it was, I felt— vindicated. After he died I left home and headed eastward, my brother tried to stop me, but I was dead set to prove them wrong—"
Gresh looked up from his empty bowl and picked up the wooden spoon himself, scooping in another serving of the stew. "What is this? It's really good." He said.
The man stared into the fire. "Turns out my father was right about it all. I wasn't very good at magic. No matter how much I studied, I couldn't figure out how to do anything more than for a few parlor tricks," he stared at Gresh eating his food, then reached out and wrapped a hand around Gresh's wrist. He froze. The hermit pulled down his hands, his yellow eyes bore deep.
In a hushed tone, he said: "You should be grateful to have never known your father. At the very least you can die as your own man." He let go of Gresh's wrist but his eyes still shone with intensity. He stared straight through him, speaking low and ritualistic as if he were in an oratory trance.
"All fathers, whether it be through admiration or scorn, fill their sons' heads with visions of the men they must be. Cursed forever with the lasting whispers of his almighty judgements, that echo ever louder in the midst of failures. For in the mind of the son, a father is not a man, but a god. He does not see the small ways in which the world has tempered the father, the ways in which his own mistakes guided him to his failures. And so, a son should grant no sympathy for the flaws of his sire, for it is in his image that nurture these false promises of greatness. Charging him to surpass the man he never was, and never will be. And on and on. In their worship, he has damned them all to lives of inadequacy and disappointment. It is the fate of all sons to toil at the feet of these false gods. Do you believe it so?"
Gresh was breathing hard. "I— I don't know. . ." His voice trailed off.
"Believe it so." the hermit said solemnly, sitting back on his stool and staring into the fire. "Of what value is an heir's life, if the butcher's was ended by a small sprinkle of bitter powder in his stew?"
Gresh fought to keep conscious but the hermit's yellow swirling eyes let his mind drift easily. "Are you . . . a father?" Gresh struggled to say. In the long silence that followed, he fell asleep to the sounds of the crackling fire.
In the midst of the storm, long after the fire had gone out, Gresh woke in the cold darkness of the tower. He felt the man stroking his body, talking to himself. "I had no choice—" he whispered, his expression grew soft as he drew him closer. "Please understand, Forgive me. Forgive me!" he moaned. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you—"
The hermit gasped, his whispering abruptly cut short. He slowly looked up in surprise, and met Gresh's eyes. Neither said a word. The old man crawled away, breathing like an overworked plow beast. Gresh's raw bleeding heart thundered in his open chest, and amidst the flashes of the howling storm, they stared at each other for a very long while.
The next morning when Gresh woke up, the tower was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the walls, and beyond them he glimpsed the blue sky. The wet of the night before had completely dried, so that it seemed it hadn't even rained at all. The cooking materials had been cleaned away, and even the blackened circle seemed a bit smaller. Any evidence of the hermit had vanished alongside him. He touched his chest, sewn shut by twisted thorny vines. The storm had subsided into a gentle rain, and a breeze wafted in from the holes in the walls. Gresh shivered, staring at the naked black stairs and the grey door at the top. One by one he climbed the steps, he reached out and rattled the door handle. Locked. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, holding them tightly at his sides. He raised a foot and kicked the door, it bent off its hinges. He kicked it again, and the fragile door splintered. He squatted, reaching through the smashed hole and unlocked it.
The second floor was very similar to the first, but here there were no stairs. The ceiling was dome vaulted, at its center was a circle that hung a broken chain. In times past a chandelier might've hung there. The room itself contained very little else. A single wardrobe flanked by two straw beds. He threw open the wardrobe. Strewn on the floor was a pair of hemp trousers and a long sleeved tunic, both stained in swarthy colored mud. There was also a long coat hung up on a hook, and a pair of dirty boots leaned against the far back. He plucked up the trousers and tunic and slipped them over his bare body. They were both overlarge, but the trousers had a crude drawstring, and he cinched them as best he could. The long coat and boots were far too small for him to wear. He tore off the coat's sleeves and draped the rest of it over his shoulders, making a makeshift rain slicker. He left the boots inside the wardrobe, and turned to leave the tower for good.
When he was outside the rain had stopped and a mist had fallen over the land. He stuffed his feet inside the torn away sleeves of the coat and wrapped the extra fabric around his ankles. He tested them, walking around on the damp gravel. They worked well enough. He looked left, and then right, down the spindly road in front of the tower. Both of the ways were heavily obscured by the fog. He took the right road, quickly walking across the crackling gravel. A little ways off he looked back at the shadow tower still looming over him. He turned back to the right road and stared down the misty path for a long while. Sighing, he walked back towards the tower and went on past it. He took the left road. The lonely tower watched him disappear over the distant horizon.
He traveled for many days on the empty grass path. The hills had returned to their natures, rising high in the sky and falling just as low. The road wound and swirled, growing ever wilder the longer he went. He traveled for seven whole days and a night, and in that time, he saw no animal, no bird, nor any signs of life, just the wind and the whispering grass. He staved his hunger by eating waterlogged mushrooms and moss that grew along the scattered trees near the roadside. Despite the storm he had slept under a night ago, he found no ponds, lakes, rivers, not even a puddle here. The only liquid he had to drink were the muddy brown slivers of wet that ran through the dirt. On the third day, a gentle rain pattered the country. He wandered a distant way from the road, and somewhere off in the shifting landscape, he found an outcrop of cracked boulders leaning against each other. He crawled under and slept there draped in his soaked makeshift rain slick. He woke the next morning to the sound of thunder, as another raging storm moved over him. He sat in the mouth, watching the lightning flash gracefully across the sky. On the fifth day he woke to a pair of dirty boots gingerly placed at the mouth of his shelter. Immediately, he gathered his things, stepped over them, and quickly made his way back to the road.
The sixth and seventh days, he did not stop to rest. He walked through a heavy fog so thick, he could hardly see his wrapped feet in front of him. The night of the seventh, he trudged along in the dark hills, absent from the chirping of insects. His only discernible companion was the rustling of the tall grass, though he dared not draw near them. Suddenly, the ground below him began to rumble. He whirled around. A pair of crimson lights, like the eyes of the devil's true form, galloped towards him, barrelling down the road. Breathing hard, he glanced nervously at the walls of grass on either side of him. He ran down the road opposite from the swirling eyes. It drew closer and closer, the rumbling growing violent. His breath grew ragged, and his makeshift shoes were in tatters.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw a pair of hulking, heavily muscled reptilian beasts with long dumb sloping horns storming through the fog and leaping over the hills, two lanterns swung wildly on either of their protruding forked crowns. Both were strapped in thick leather harness, and behind them they pulled a worn blocky stage coach. Two figures sat at the reins, urging the beasts faster. Gresh slipped into a halt, and began to hoot and holler, waving his arms and jumping in the air. He saw one of the figures stand and make a gesture at him and he stopped hollering. The figure sat back down and braced. They whipped the beasts again, who roared and howled in anger, rapidly accelerating down the hills. Gresh started to run, but the beasts were already upon him, he screamed, and under their feet he heard the snapping of bone. His limp body rolled beneath the wheels of the stagecoach.
* * *
The bounding hills began to chirp as the twin mornings rose over the horizon. Clumps of trees burst out of the brush and little creatures leapt across the gaps, disappearing into hidden burrows. A travel worn stagecoach, shaped like a large iron brick, slumped on the side of the road. It was wrapped in chains, where bags chock full of supplies dangled on huge hooks. The roof was a small flat area where they slept, rode, and kept their personals in small chests. Chained to the front of the coach, were two monstrous reptilian beasts sat unharnessed and breathing heavily, red lanterns drooping from their horns. In the cart's shadow, two men grunted with effort as they pushed a brittle wooden wheel back into place.
Oggin dropped the weight of the coach and leaned an arm against the cart. He was huge, standing close to seven feet, head to heel, with hands so large each of his fingers could wrap around a man's throat. Long, wispy hair feIl past his shoulders and he swept the dark strands from his face. Not so long ago, he would have been considered quite handsome. He confirmed this during his prolonged stay in the distant city of Footfallen, waist deep in her lively brothels. No one could say he wasn't pleasant to look at, that is if the girls could see past his ugly scowl and rough wandering hands, a flash of gold always helped that along, though. But, now his scowl was in two pieces, split near perfectly vertical from scalp to chin, and the wound was not healing well. The flesh of his split lips trembled as he stared at the body they had just run down. "What is that?" Oggin murmured.
"Another Agathion. A strange lookin' one at that." Gile replied, he was leaning on the front wheel, craning his neck for a better look. Gile was older and stocky, short and bald save for the rough thick beard he had never cut. The brothel girls treated him much the same as his companion— but for two gold pieces instead. He was dwarfed as he knelt beside Oggin's massive frame.
Gile crouched down and spat. "Never seen one of these before. But whatever the hell it is, it's damn ugly."
Oggin dropped to a knee and pointed, "Did we do that to him?"
"Probably. Don't see the other half round here do you?" They both looked around.
"No— what the hell happened to it?"
"Same thing that happened to you. Only a little worse."
"Shut up. Is it dead?"
"Far from it. It's movin, look—"
Gile pointed at its fingers. The creature's pallid hands were blue at the fingertips, and they began to twitch. Immediately the men got to their feet, they both stepped back from the stagecoach and readied themselves for a fight. Even the duo of poor monsters chained to the coach, raised their heavy heads and chafed nervously in their constraints.
From Gile's mouth a black fog seeped, and slipped through the tangles of his beard. The strands flickered as if each were alive with a coal colored fire. "Hoo boy this ones resilient, our guy is gonna love this!" Gile whooped.
Oggin said nothing, his massive body was set firmly in front of Gile, and from the tips of his huge fingers, thick silver chains with heavy anchored hooks at the ends emerged from nothing. They clattered in the dirt, sending billows of dust flitting up into the air.
Either man stared the beast down.
The thing pushed itself off the floor, and began to crawl out from beneath the stagecoach, dragging its face out of the ground. It looked up and from the pits of its sunken eyes, two red circles pierced the dusty veil. The pair of scarlet sunsets darkened the world, and the real suns fell lower in the sky.
Gile let out a rumbling laugh and billows of black smoke rose in the air. "God-damn, that thing could be your twin!"
"Shut up, Gile!" Oggin growled, raising his hands in the direction of the monster. The chains shot out towards it, wrapping around its limbs and yanking it out from beneath the cart. With the savage spark of metal on metal, the chains swirled and picked the thing up in the air.
It flailed desperately, but when Oggin yanked its arms and legs apart, it screamed out in pain. "Wouldn't do that, you ugly bastard." He said.
"Bring it closer, Ogg," Gile stepped out casually from behind him, "Careful though, this one looks like it bites."
The chains contracted and brought it closer. "You one of the talkin' ones?" Gile asked.
The dark red eyes bore into Gile, "Release me— beasts!" It gasped, dead eyed and angry.
In response, Oggin tightened the chains around its body.
"Seems you are," Gile chuckled, and the black fog spread past his beard and wafted through the air.
"We ain't lettin you go nowhere, agathion." The fog swirled around the things' mouth, and slipped into its breath, Gile invaded its nose and its eye bulged. "You're ours now ugly," go ahead and take a looong nap," he said, and the thing went limp.
Oggin beheld its twitching body in the air. "God damn, ain't all agathions supposed to be angel kin?"
"Yup, they're supposed to be." Gile pulled a water skin from his belt, threw his head back and drank deeply, his mouth hissed and bellowed with hot vapor. He wiped the liquid from his beard and cleared his throat. "But, God weren't so merciful with how that holy union made some of 'em turn out."
Oggin stared dumb eyed at the beast. He was a seasoned hunter with a hundred-more trips beneath his quite large belt. To him and many others he knew, the creatures beyond the Scarred Valleys had always been utterly strange, many terrified him beyond his understanding, and yet he found great excitement in their unknowing. It made it all the more satisfying when the weight of his chains crushed them into submission. But in all his adventures within the valleys and beyond, he had never seen a beast that distorted the mirror of a man's shape so well, save for the agathionhe now held in his chains. He shifted uncomfortably, It was an agathionright?
"This'un don't look too angelic." he murmured.
Gile scratched his beard. "No, it doesn't. But what the hell are we gonna do? leave a perfectly good payout out here? This weird lookin fella might be worth a goddamn fortune!"
"Are you sure our guy will buy him? It's given me nightmares just holdin it."
Gile grinned and tilted his head, "Those nightmarish looks are exactly what our guy is lookin for, now throw 'em in with the other two!"
Both sides of Oggin's split face scowled. "I told you, I ain't goin near 'em. Look at what that small one did to me," He pointed angrily at his brutal scar, "Now my face is uglier than yours!"
"Watch yer mouth, or i'll make it a bit uglier. Besides, if you asked me, I'd say it's an improvement."
"Improvement? My damn nose is gone!"
Gile shook his head, "You're thinking about this all wrong. When we get back into the valleys, everybody will be scared to death of you. We can hike up the prices."
"Fuck the prices, My face looks like a cut up piece of redberry pie."
"Quit squealin honey, how about we get a real pretty mask for you, would that make you feel better—"
"Fuck you, Gile." Oggin stomped toward the older man.
Gile coughed, and a cloud of black smoke shot out of his mouth, and stopped just beneath Oggin's nostrils. Gile had drawn a knife and placed the point beneath his chin, a thin trickle of blood flowed in rivulets down his throat and beneath the collar of his leather tunic.
"I think yer forgettin' what you are. I told you to watch that mouth. Now you put that ugly son-of-a-bitch in the coach, or I'll go ahead and make you do it, and then I'll lock you in there with 'em for a reminder."
The two men glared at each other, jaws clenched. Oggin broke first, waving the smoke away and grumbling beneath his breath. He turned and brought the thing towards the back of the coach. "Fine. But, you better shoot yer shit breath in there before I go in. Keep 'em all nice and still for me." When Ogg reached the thick door of the coach, The reptilian work-beasts spotted him, and they cowered in his return.
Gile popped up over Oggin's shoulder, the tension on his face had already disappeared. "'Shit Breath' I like that. Maybe that's what I'll start callin' it." He chuckled and sent black fog through a small slat in the door.