Literary Section X - Prometheus Goes to Print!

By now, I believe you know pretty well that I am always working on some project or another, be it for Ordre de Ciel, journalism, blogging, photography, or whatever. What I hadn't been able to accomplish so far, was to publish a piece of original fiction outside of my blogs(s). Well, that day is finally here. Remember when I had told you there have been some interesting development with Prometheus, a character you have read about here? Well, a detective story featuring him has gone print and is now finally published. Mind you, it takes place some 30 years after the stuff you have read here and no mention is made of his Wyrd nature. But rest assured, it is him alright!

Around Winter, I was asked to write a detective story that would somehow integrate an ecological theme into it. I thought it over, turned it around in my head and at first, I came up with just two simple elements that just HAD to be part of the story: a character that had been growing inside my head for the past 8 years, Prometheus, as well as something to do with radioactive waste. It was not much but it was a start (even more so because Prometheus has an extensive "biography" I could draw upon).

By April, I had my final text and I delivered it: my "Double Substitution Crime". After a number of back-and-forths between me and the corrections editor, it finally left my hands in late June. Ever since that day, I have lived with the silent anxiety of seeing my story published in this collection by Kedros Editions, "Ecocrimes". Until yesterday, besides the people in the editions proper, only my family and two other souls knew about this project, sworn to secrecy. Now that, as of today, it is out there for the world to see, I will live with the silent anxiety that people like it. There are a number of heavy literary names in this collection and being the junior of the bunch, I must try and live up to the standards they have set.

Well, that's that then. I feel exceptionally happy and I just wanted to share it with you. Should any of you like, there will be a presentation and reading from the stories of the book on the 3rd of December (12:30), at Ianos Bookstore, in Athens, 24, Stadiou St.

Cheers,

Speedgrapher

Literary Section VII

Here it is then, with some delay: the promised aftermath of Act I of Prometheus's story. There will not be new fiction for some time, as it has to be written first, although a series of refreshing updates have been scheduled, which will cover the much ignored "reviews" part of the Section, so look forward to it!

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Aftermath: Season’s End

As a young man, his innocence ripped away from him, starts the journey that will lead him to his future fate, as a member of the undead Tectus, miles and miles away, across the sea where rage the Kaze Kami, who shielded Japan from the Golden Horde, across the vast planes which were the ancient home of the Rus and hunting grounds of the Bear-Garou and Loup-Garou, across the Arabian Lands of the expatriate Jinn, beyond the Kingdoms of the Middle Sea, past Stonehenge and Kildare, at the outermost fortress of the Old World, an ancient horn blows its dirge. The common people off the coast of Ireland and perhaps in the Isle of Man, find it a strange wind indeed, that makes Ireland’s shores and mountains sing thus. However, across the Mighty Isles, the Old Places vibrate and rumble, some silent and others not; and the people at Glastonbury Tor, Wyrd and mundane alike, feel the need to light a candle and pray.

Deep inside Skellig Michael, far under the ancient cloisters of the monks, deep beneath the slowly fading home of the Dragons of Kildare, in a hall protected by some of the most ancient survivors of the Wyrd and Words known only to few and then some to only one, two voices are heard: one is old and a bit strained with emotion, the other unknowable, akin to a deep echo in a stone valley and riddled with sadness and tiredness.

“Have the children all left?” booms the darkened hall.

“Almost my friend; Bowen is seeing to the last, as the final remnants of the Sanctum finally fade, except those who will come with me.”

“Who?”

“Young Selina, Plato, Kali from McFallon’s bunch and Helena will rendezvous with us in Greece, along with Catherine.”

“What about Myrdryl?”

“He…has some issues to work through. Though he never had much love for Gilda, her betrayal shook him up quite a bit. He always expected some form of retaliation but nothing like what she did. I believe even you were surprised.”

“That a serpent such as Kachtchei would penetrate our little piece of Eden was inexcusably unexpected. However, it made very clear that this time was nigh.”

“It has been over six decades now, hasn’t it?”

“Not enough. Time was when we could last a few centuries, 150 years at the very least. The Wyrd is waning my friend and I fear for the future. What if I have erred horribly in my ways?”

“You have done well by us, old man. It’s been a very long way and time since brash and reckless Aidan of York, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, but two World Wars? Two? Every one of the lives lost weighs heavily on me. I cannot find it in myself to forgive me.”

“Yet you are your only accuser. Human nature is not yours to control; never has been. Only, you could alter the course of events more dramatically in the past, same as our enemies. It is not as if you have erred, only that humans display an amazing capability for self-destruction.”

“…and what of the boy? Can I wash myself of that too?” Ozymandias bit his lower lip. Rarely was he at a loss for words but this was one of those rare times. He thought about it, struggled a bit with his thoughts and then answered with conviction.

“Free will is a sword that cuts both ways. You know it; bloody hell, you have even felt it.”

“Aye, yet free is as free is allowed. I should have kept him here. I should never have sent him in that place of ancient reasoning, of blood dressed in silk. I thought the worst could be avoided, I though Sorakirin would suffice. I even had Kurai check on him; but he too is born and bred of the eastern Wyrd…” A deep sigh, like a breath coming from cavernous lungs. “He was made to hold enormous potential and yet I fear the harshness of his story will alter him, if not break him. He is so young…”

“As was another, as I recall, a much greater burden forced upon him so many centuries ago; and look what he has achieved. A champion cannot be shepherded, cannot grow in safety. If good is to come from the boy it must be as it always has: by the Trial of Tales. We came to accept that a long time ago.”

“But at what terrible, terrible cost. I remember every one of them: every face, every smile, every death.”

“Aye, you hold the bad along with the good, forever. There has been much good done by these old hands and time will come when it will be done again. Your words, not mine.”

“Aye and that is why I will split the Three again. Rama needs to go first. Both worlds need a healer, not another warlord. That is why I need you to do something for me, something you will find unthinkable and yet is equally necessary.”

“Tamar, is that it? You want me to place him out of phase. You talk to me about errors and then ask me to court disaster. Why?”

“Listen to me; there is not much time left. Tamar is the swift one: he will grow enormously once he awakens, while Rama needs to mature slowly, grow into the tree others can lean on. He must have time to appear first!”

“You will make another martyr, another saint? You realize what you risk…You realize what might happen to you… Can you face another Gwehwyfar?”

“I must! I must entrust myself to you and Hagane and hope for the best. Trust in the stories my friend! They have always been strong enough to forge us anew and so it must be now for if not, it means our time is past.”

“Very well, I shall try my best. Have you found them or will we entrust ourselves to the whims of Quantum Mechanics?” A smile, unseen, more of a feeling.

“I have: they have not yet met, I believe but already they dream strongly, in their own ways. All of 13 years old, spiraling through their differences to their inevitable meeting: the unseen and the seer, the mercurial and the steadfast.”

“You always did have a good eye for allegory, though still anchored in the past.”

“I will take that as a compliment. I must go now; the epilogue beckons” and the voice seems to fade like calming wind, as an unearthly cold fills the chamber and Ozymandias’s breath starts to come out in puffs of steam. He touches one last time the large, stone hand of his Lord, his brother, his friend and then steps back from the granite bed. First is a sudden gust of wind, like the roar of a great beast and sure enough, a huge wolf, white as snow blindness and three meters tall at the shoulder, enters majestically: the North Wind. In a rumbling voice that would make lesser men tremble with primal fear, he calls his greeting:

“Well met, Artificer. I have come to fulfill my ancient pledge to the Wordsmith.”

“Well met Jarl of the Winds: you have been expected and are gratefully welcomed.”

Then, man and wolf bowed to each other in respect. As they turned to the cave’s opening, myriads of crystal bells echoed all around them, approaching, as the cold started to make Ozymandias a bit uncomfortable. For all his Magic and creations, this was not something he would endeavor to contend with; among the highest of the high, in any world, royalty in all its terrible presence and beauty. Ice Sprites entered the chamber in the dozens, singing the praise and announcing the arrival of their mistress and mother: the Ice Queen. She came in on wings of pure cold, filling the air with her presence, her uncountable, harmonic tunes and a cold as only the Heart of Winter could summon. She smiled at Ozymandias and he, in turn, attempted to, through lips blue from cold and made a deep bow, before leaving the cave; soon, more than the air would be frozen. She was the Keeper of the Vaults of Eternity, where even memories, dreams and ideas froze, to be preserved for all time.

He entered the tunnel whence he had come, just before the cave was sealed with black ice, hard as steel – probably harder. He took a moment to let his body return to a normal temperature and rubbed himself vehemently. For all his resistances and stamina, unlike his friend, he had no love for the cold. After he felt the blood flowing in all the parts of his body again, he turned to the seemingly uninterrupted black wall that sealed the chamber behind him. He placed a hand on the icy surface:

“Sleep and dream well, my King, until next we meet” and a small tear escaped his aged eye. After a minute’s silence, he straightened up, his features and his resolve tightened: much and terrible work had still to be done and he quickly followed the path that would lead him to the surface of an empty, titanic rock, where once stood a home.

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.
Go to Part II.
Go to Part III.
Go to Part IV.
Go to Part V.
Go to Part VI.

Literary Section VI

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Part VI: Chess

Read Part I first! Right under the Dumbledore story.
Part II.
Part III.
Part IV.
Part V.
Aftermath.

The girl with the golden eyes looked at me ponderously:

“You are disappointed, desperate, disgusted at what you have become; am I right?”

“Is it that obvious?” I countered bitterly.

“Well then, why not do away with yourself? Now that you have come to your senses, you know the way. Shall I oblige?” she said as, once more, a flame formed above her index finger, this time bigger, brighter and – painfully obvious – hotter. It pained me greatly just to look at it, but I was not afraid, not in the slightest, for I felt I had nothing to lose. No, not entirely.

“I would very much like to accept such a gentle release but, firstly, I hate being made fun of and secondly, I have an oath to keep.”

She extinguished her flame:

“I know of your oath. Oaths are sacred.”

“Yes.”

“I would have burned you...”

“Of course…” said I, for indeed I believed her. It was beneath her to taunt me, for I was nothing; a fledgling Vampire, a Magus bereft of his Truth, lower than trash. Strangely I felt myself not quite smile; more of a smirk. I had come to understand that another game of chess had begun. The chessboard was the same; only the pieces had changed. I had to play my part and eventually, the piece that is Sorakirikn would kill me. Not yet though...

“What is your name?”

“They named me Prometheus.” In truth, it was the only name I knew, for I had not endeavored to seek my True Name.

“How exquisitely fitting...”

“And yours?”

“I am Yui, Sovereign Deity of Kanto.” In time, I learned that the Wyrd organization in the East (or, at the very least, Japan) was very different from the
West and I still only have a very superficial understanding of it. In a nutshell, it resembles an amalgam of Chinese Celestial Bureaucracy and Shinto mythology. I am not sure how the two “systems” become incorporated into the whole but, seeing as my Shigaasan (my “Mother in Death”) was among the eminent and powerful rulers and saw to my education in their ways, I would say the hazy parts are intentional.

It took me a long time to adjust to my new unlife. I did not enjoy my condition – nor do I do now – but I keep moving forward, until something (or hopefully, someone) stops me. Yui taught me a new kind of magic, quite different from my Magia, to make up for my lost powers. She called it “Gouka”, “Hell's Flames”, a similar but lesser form than what she had used on Sorakirin. Not that she was unwilling to teach me its more powerful form but, strange a sorcery as it was to me, I found it difficult, stiff and clumsy to use – not to mention that I did not stay long enough with her.

I also had to make up for my lost physical prowess, so she taught me how to talk my way out of trouble and even how to perceive the nature and intent of others, both psychological and supernatural –much like Sora’s skill. If that failed, she had taught me how to use the stolen blood in my undead veins in order to temporarily alter my physique, on last resort. She also complemented Sora’s work in teaching me martial arts by instructing me in the basics of Shikakuken, the “Assassin’s Fist”. It is a technique based on the knowledge and exploitation of pressure points, useful to those lacking in raw strength, against any enemy, human or not.

I lost all contact with anyone from my past existence, but there was no lack of opportunities for me to get myself killed. Occasionally I wondered what happened to that traitor, Long Kuei! For that matter, I was a little disappointed that not one of the Dragons of Kildare came to look for me. As a teenager and young Magus, I had always assumed there was nothing Master Rama could or would not do for one of his own. However, I remain a creature of logic and there was much I could not properly account for: my transformation, possible failure and even an oath of blood I swore willingly, which made me a creature hunted, unwanted to say the least. Indeed, there was a small measure of relief for not having to exhibit my shame in front of my teachers. Of course, escape was out of the question.

Even if my will had been my own – which was not and I was fettered by my Shigaasan’s blood to her – there was no way I could escape her companion. Whether Vampire, Katsuishin or something born of the dark dreams and terrible mythologies of the East, I never learned. Two things were certain: he was fiercely loyal, unnaturally handsome and shockingly skilled. Yui, on the other hand, would occasionally share my bed and through the power of blood, we could unite as man and woman. I know it must seem weird (it does to me), but she was actually more than 400 years old. The Demon, as I called him (a linguistic pun with Oni-san and “oniisan”, “older brother”), I had come to understand, had absolutely no say whatsoever in those matters. However, she took great care not to hurt his feelings – if he had any – on my account. The only feelings he had demonstrated were blind obedience to his Mistress and a deep love for her, far beyond whatever she did with me. They never exchanged voiced words in my presence and they did not seem to have need for sound. That, I accepted but it has forever troubled me how such a love could be. I still have no answer.

There is one last incident worthy of recall, during my time in Japan. A year and a half had passed since my death, spring was fast approaching and I was in a real gloomy mood, still unable to cope with the fact that I could never again feel the spring warmth or see May's first dawn. I was beginning to think Sorakirin had long gone back to China, forgetting about the oath and everything. I do him injustice just in saying this. However, I was wrong.

At the time, my favorite haunt was an amusement park in Harajuku, where a particularly wicked urban Sennyo (the nuances between different eastern Fae escape me) had given me free leave to come and go, feed or do anything I pleased as long as I didn’t bore her and no disturbance was evident. The House of Mirrors was my favorite attraction. Romantic, terrible and enchanting: perfect feeding ground.

As I entered the House one night, a cute female student clinging from my arm, I thought I felt a presence near there, but I dismissed it as the Hunger. My usual tactics involved leaving my “girlfriend” a bit behind, just to keep her anxious and scared, then suddenly appearing to tease her, then all-over again, until she were ripe for the taking. I have never been forced to kill my prey and pray it never comes to that, for then I have forfeited myself. So then, I started to play my game and all the while she was either giggling or letting little frightened screams. Suddenly, she turned a corner and there was silence. A silence so deep and foreboding, that it almost scared me. “Nonsense”, I thought to myself and went towards the corner.

“I'm going to caaatch yououou...” and I turned the corner, only to find her handkerchief lying on the floor. Still there was silence, except for a small shuffle I heard overhead. I turned my head towards the ceiling; just my reflection.

“Playing hard to get, are we sugar plum?”

“Not at all, my friend” said a voice I would have recognized anywhere “not at all.” Sora, always clad in his black biker clothes, staff in hand and scar evident, appeared; the girl was nowhere to be seen.

“Sorakirin”, I managed to whisper in dumb surprise.

“Yes, Prometheus, it is truly I” he said, and smiled bitterly. I moved to clasp his hand but found the staff pointed an inch from my neck. His sole eye was soaked in tears as he looked at me.

“Sora, I...”

“So this is what you have become. I am sorry, I am so very sorry I could not keep the promise that night. I was recalled by my Order to report and temporarily lost track of you. Thank the witch for that! But my debt is now due, my friend. I have come to release you”, he said with a sob. He pulled back his staff and started chanting, focusing his Magia.

“I will not fall without a battle, my friend. Do not think I will stand and watch you vaporize me.”

“...I kind of expected that, but it is sad that I have to fight you this way.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

For 3 seconds, our eyes communicated our trust, our friendship, our loyalty and then, much faster than I could anticipate, let alone dodge, he struck me mightily with his staff that crackled with Prima Materia. Had the Demon – who had followed me all the way undetected, but had not intervened – not interfered, I would have been peacefully destroyed. Instead, the spike on the great ring of his staff neatly carved a vertical line from my forehead, over my left eye, took my eye and stopped just below my cheekbone. I fell back in agony, as the sacred energy burned through my eye cavity and into my head, to stop there. Two centimeters more and that would have been it. Instead, Sora was fighting furiously to fend off the Demon’s attacks and was wounded. At the spur of an unlucky moment, Demon found an opening and would have sliced my friend in half. He screamed my name, I screamed his and Demon’s blade-claw cleanly sliced off my hand, only to maim Sora and leave him unconscious.

I restored my hand and caressed my friend’s face after bandaging him. He would live. I had Demon neatly slice my hair, up to my neck and after braiding it, I placed it in Sora’s hand. Now he knew how to find me once I left Japan. Yes, that was it; I had to leave Japan and try to either survive or perish at the hands of my friend or anyone else, willing and cunning enough. I had to leave Yui’s and Demon’s shelter.

We returned to Yui that night and I informed her of my wishes, since it had to be her decision. She agreed and said that she had already arranged where I would go and that I could serve her better there, as an insider. I would be completely beyond her protection though; completely on my own. That was my wish.

Two days later, I took the plane to Singapore, then Germany and finally Basel, in Switzerland, where I would be introduced to an elder Vampire of a sect known only as the Tectus (the “Secretive”; I had heard a little about these guys from Miss Kensington and they were supposedly sorcerers) and presented as his progeny. Yui said that this Vampire “had not the option of displeasing her”. Thus, I stepped into a new chessboard altogether where, for the time being, I am just a pawn.

End of Act I

...and so, our young and promising Magus became a Vampire and was sent to join the Tectus, to fulfill his own wish and do the unknowable bidding of his mysterious killer, reanimator and briefly, lover: Yui, Sovereign Deity of Kanto. It was chiefly many of these events and a few others, happening miles away, that would shape his choices, his path and make him a legend amongst the Wyrd. However, these events are still decades away and our lonely, melancholic pawn is only now entering the terrible game of chess played by the masters of the night.

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.
Go to Part II.
Go to Part III.
Go to Part IV.
Go to Part V.

Literary Section V

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Part V: Good Intentions…

Read Part I first! Right under the Dumbledore story.
Part II.
Part III.
Part IV.
Part VI.
Aftermath.

Time had gone by and we had produced no results, despite our best efforts. Two days before New Year's Eve, while trailing a pair of Onijimiru (the equivalent of demon-possession) Loup-Garou, we found ourselves in Tokyo's underbelly. Following the beasts, we ended up in a small coven of Yomi acolytes. Thankfully, they had an extremely limited ability in Ars Venefica (a lower form of Magic, mainly to do with curses and hexes, strictly ritualized), so they did not prove all that difficult opponents. After neither limb, nor tail was moving, we freed the poor soul they were trying to sacrifice; he rabidly drank the blood from every single last one of them, much to our horrid surprise, before he calmed down.

“Now I can thank you properly”, he said in a well-mannered, if coarse, voice. “You must excuse my condition, but I have been down here for many months, until they made sure they had ‘prepared’ me for this ceremony.” He was on his guard. After all, we were Magi and he was but one lone and weakened Katsuishin.

“We bear no ill will against those who mean us no harm”, said I. “Your name sir? For, you seem a gentleman who has been forcefully degraded into his current state.”

“Shin…– Long Kuei” he said finally, struggling to control his words. After 2 years of turning Japan inside out, we had found him; there, of all places. After we took him to a hostel where he could return to a more humane, if unliving, state, I explained the situation and my mission, finally relaying my Master’s message. He was pensive for a while and pain shot across his face, now the face of a truly noble man.

“I would gladly accept, for I know what it is the honored Wordmaster refers to...” I raised an eyebrow at the epithet, but said nothing “...but I cannot follow you until I have recovered an item of great importance.”

Then he began to tell us how his most valuable possession, a Goshintai Kodachi, not unlike Sora’s metallic staff in power, had to be recovered at any cost. He would then gladly go to Skellig Michael without further delay. He said to be given a week to track down the current wielder; so we waited. Come to think of it, he never explained how he ended up in the Yomi coven as a sacrificial offering. Now, it is a moot point.

Indeed, only 5 days had passed when he returned, announcing he had located the sword and asked for our help in getting it back. We were enthusiastic and confident fools. Of course, it made perfect sense that a Katsuishin, with the contacts in his society, could locate something like that easily, but we did not stand to wonder if he had ulterior motives; after all, we had saved him and Sora, who was adept at such things, could not detect any untruthfulness in his words. Neither could I, though I had been ignoring the chills up my spine, since the day we found that guy. It never even occurred to me to wonder: where had his Ajisai friends been when he vanished? Sure, one easily makes the wrong assumptions about a culture foreign to them but still, I should have known better and remembered what Dmitri the Vampire had said: certain assumptions can be deadly.

He led us to an abandoned Shinto shrine in the suburbs of Tokyo. When we reached the site, our hair almost stood on end from the qlipothic emanations of the place. “Oh yes, this place had been the domicile of a big, undead thing for a looong time” was what we thought.

“Keep perfectly quiet now”, he ordered us; and so we did. He had not taken seven steps, when we heard an eerie flute, playing a ghostly tune. There was a slender form, dressed in a festive kimono, embroidered with sakura leaves, a half-undone obi waving in the cold breeze, up on the temple’s roof; next to her was another, taller, darker figure, clad in a crimson, hooded cloak seemingly made of red mist and wearing what looked like an intricate kabuki mask. I went for the periapt I used as my Instrumentum Oris (a tool through which one focuses their Magia) but found I could not move a muscle; Sora seemed to be still struggling against the magic of the mysterious pied piper.

“So, you have indeed delivered... Long Kuei” said an ironic, female voice, calm as ice (even colder than Dmitri’s on the day of my Opus), clear as crystal and belonging to a girl of no more that 15 years old; or so it seemed. While she stopped playing, I sought to break her hold on me, but in vain. Then she pointed her finger forwards and the cloaked figure suddenly appeared in front of us, left a package on the ground and lifted me in its arms with surprising strength and blinding speed. Kuei lifted the package and without even looking back, turned to leave. I did not need Magic to feel my friend’s wrath and anguish, for Primus Ignem was leaping from his immobilized form, erupting in a crown of energy and he growled:

“Why... you... traitor!” as he broke free of the flute’s spell.

“I have not betrayed you. I will indeed now go to Skellig Michael, but there was no other way for me to get the...”

“Shineeeee!” screamed my friend and shot a blast of Prima Materia at the long gone – through some Katsuishin magic – Kuei. Then, I heard the female say in a terrible, yet calm voice:

“Koi, Daigouka! Uchiagete!” and a great flame formed above her extended finger. I tried to shout to Sorakirin, but even my mouth had been immobilized and the creature holding me screwed up my focus. The flame left her and hit him full force. It was better that I could not speak; else my scream would have torn out my vocal cords. Yet nothing could keep the tears from running down my cheeks. As I dared look to see my friend’s charred remains, to my surprise, Sorakirin was standing firm, if naked and his sole eye blazed with the fires of either Heaven or Hell. His voice came out clear, unlike before, but it was as if one of the Kami themselves was speaking:

“I am a Ryuumajin Enjutsushi (Ryuumajin Fire Master), you witch and anything less than the flames of Yomi’s Lords is no match for me!” he said as his metallic staff once again appeared out of nowhere, and began glowing with Primus Ignem. The cloaked stranger set me, rigid, beside his mistress, truly resembling a 15-year-old girl, with hair black as night and eyes gold as the sun. There was no malice in these eyes, only determination, I could tell.

“Finish this”, she said unemotionally. Her vassal’s fingers grew into silvery, razor-edged claws, as long as kitchen knives and he attacked my friend with the precision of a machine and the technique of a master. It was indeed a scary sight and before long, Sorakirin was covered in his own blood; while his opponent had sustained some damage, he was basically unharmed. He raised his blades and crossed them high above his head. Sora looked at me desperately. I knew, I truly knew what he was thinking: “Forgive me for not keeping our oath.” At that moment, all my being screamed for the righteousness of one small phrase and I answered mentally, as I sent a searing lightning at his opponent, with every last ounce of my will:

“It’s alright my friend. Right now, it’s alright...” and I fainted from the mental strain.

When I woke up, I felt cold; very, very, deathly cold. Someone forced a metallic tasting liquid down my throat and passed a slender hand over my eyes. I closed them again and felt much better, as unsettling warmth washed over me.

“You are awake”, she said in the same crystal voice. I tried to stand up as quickly as I could but my limbs failed me. I opened my eyes and saw that same girl watching over me, her golden eyes wide and almost curious.

“Why can't I move?”

“It takes time for your body to adjust again; that is all.”

“Where’s my friend?” I asked, suddenly terrified, remembering Sora soaked in blood from his wounds. “Where’s that freak of yours?” I demanded.

“Hardly a freak”, said a male whisper. “Only different from you.” I turned to see the cloaked man, for a man he was without the mask, and saw that the crimson – now looking very much like common fabric – cloak and his mask had been generously charred.

“Heh, guess I gotcha.”

“You did. It was your valiant effort that saved your friend, giving him time to summon and ride a thunderbolt to safety.” I looked at him curiously. Of course, the weird Code of theirs. Come to think of it, it was me they wanted. I relaxed, knowing Sorakirin was safe:

“What are you to do with me?” I asked.

“Most of it has been done” said the girl. Not having the slightest suspicion about what had transpired, I asked:

“Could I have some of that weird-tasting liquid? It made me feel a lot better.” The girl smiled softly:

“Help him up” and the cloaked one helped me sit up. I assumed I was inside the shrine, for the interior certainly did look the part. Though abandoned, it seemed the sorceress had made it her sanctum and in doing so, preserved it. She came with a tea tray and very ceremoniously placed the teacup with a red-tinged liquid in my hands. I smelled it: jasmine, lotus and what was that metallic tint? I swallowed it, uneasiness washing over me again. Out of habit, after I gobbled it, I looked at my hands in awkwardness, which immediately transformed into outright terror. Where once had been strong, wide palms, now were slender, thin fingers and instead of my thick forearms and taut biceps, a pale parody of a freshly killed man. I dropped the teacup and the small amount that remained inside spilled on the white sheets, spreading like...

“Good Heavens and merciful God up in the sky... What has...?”

“So, you realized”, she said simply.

“How, how could you...?” said I, in a barely audible whisper.

“That was my purpose all along”, she said as she kneeled beside me and caressed my long hair. I immediately bit my tongue hard and cut it off, hoping that, maybe, the transformation was not yet completed, and maybe I could still bleed to death but... I hardly ever felt the dead flesh leave my mouth and regrow at a terrifying rate. She picked it up and neatly folded it in a silk napkin, then tucked it away.

“That was foolish. You were a Magus; you know you cannot die that way.”

“How long?”

“I have kept you in a trance for three days, while I made you my Ketsuen, my blood relative, my new son. You may take it upon you that you tired me. Your will is formidable, as was that of your Kami.” I could not even begin to contemplate the fact that Klymene was silent; so very silent… I felt that madness lay that way, so I turned to the reality outside myself.

“Why have I deteriorated? Am I to live on as a walking corpse?”

“Actually, it seems that when I turned you, the muscles of your body lost much volume but have now stabilized. I know not why.”

You are your choices and only as strong as your heart of hearts.

“So that was what Master Rama meant”, I said flatly. I had already started to be unable to feel what I used to: pain, anger, loss. No, the loss was there. The loss is always there.

[To be continued…]

Late, late, oh so VERY late! However, you DID get it though it is 6:37 in the morning here...

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.
Go to Part II.
Go to Part III.
Go to Part IV.

Literary Section IV

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Part IV: Brothers

Read Part I first! Right under the Dumbledore story.
Part II.
Part III.
Part V.
Part VI.
Aftermath.

We crossed over to Japan without incident. I was surprised to find my bike – an old Indian that Master Ozymandias had tooled around and given to me as a present for passing my Opus – waiting for me at the airport. Surely enough, Master Rama read me like an open book: I loved and still love that bike. It kinda reminds me of happier days now… So we rode from the airport all the way to Kyoto, Long Kuei’ s oldest and most probable haunt, according to my Master. Needless to say, trouble invited us – not the other way around – almost immediately and that was the beginning of a deep friendship.

During the first 6 months, we were unable to get a lead whatsoever. That was of no real consequence, since Master Rama had given us as much time as we needed, but it frustrated me; I blamed it on my own incompetence. Meanwhile, Sorakirin and I had a great deal of interesting and dangerous adventures, not the least of which was an almost deadly encounter with Katsuishin assassins of the Ajisai Sect. We had been digging around; for five and a half months we had been sticking (mostly I did) our noses in all the wrong places and had gotten into all sorts of trouble. Someone finally noticed and was irritated. We were in Tokyo at the time and I was walking in Harajuku district, on to a meeting with a supposed Technomagus who could possibly pull some strings and point us to our target. Well, he was a Technomagus all right, but he was pulling our legs and the strings for others. Sorakirin had said that he was engaged otherwise and so it was up to me to walk straight into a trap!

I am not ashamed to say that, though I had a good enough command of the two Scientiae most feared by those collectively – and simplistically – called “undead”, I was easy prey for them. Their powers were astounding and deadly. With one down and two to go, I had already been exhausted, though I fought one at a time with no intervention from the others (they have a peculiar code of engagement). I was expecting to go down impressively (there was no way I would be able to elude them, due to an ability known as Onisokudou), even if that incurred a tremendous Nemesis on me. As it started to rain, announcing my fall, I thought, I gathered my wits and the last of my strength to summon a Sacrum Fulmen, a sacred lightning in the middle of friggin’ Tokyo; the reality backlash would be deadly in that area.

Well, I never had the chance, as a lightning bolt from the storm above struck between my assailants and me. There, in the midst of dust and steam, a sprawled form lay apparently unconscious; I recognized Sorakirin’ s blue mohawk and stopped in the middle of my Magia. One of the Ajisai approached, determined to end this quickly, before police and firemen gathered at the scene. As he reached a distance roughly 2 meters away from Sorakirin, quick as lightning, what seemed like a metallic staff hit him and bluish energy crackled, turning him into dust within seconds. The other assassin wisely thought better of it and started calling upon one of his frightening powers, akin to an Elemental Fire effect but much more devastating. I knew my friend could not counter it in time, so I threw myself between them, taking most of the blast. Only the skin thick Elemental Barrier I had summoned prevented me from burning to a crisp. Nevertheless, I lost all consciousness.

When I woke up, I was someplace dark and damp but I could feel the bandages, in the parts of my body I actually could feel. I could not make out anything though, either because of the blast or the place. I struggled to focus my sight. Then I saw Sorakirin but I believed that I was too seriously injured, since it seemed as if his skin had peeled off to reveal... I felt intense pain and coughed up blood.

“Kang-Lin, please tell me he'll live! You have the power to...” I heard my frantic friend.

“It takes a while for the damage to mend, even by Magic. It is a wonder you could bring him here in time” said a firm female voice that brought chills up my burnt back.

“...”

“Worry not. Your friend should be dead, but he resisted the Tengu Kaen (as that power was evidently called). Impressive, for a mortal; even one of his kind. It is up to his will to live now. I must be gone; I have already tarried enough”, she said coldly but with a hint of anxiety.

“Wait, I...”

“What?”

“Thank you” he said honestly, more seriously than I had ever heard him talk before.

“You know I would do anything for you” she said before leaving. Was that a hint of tenderness? I was in too much pain to remain awake, but I decided not to die that night.

I woke up, completely healed, 3 days later but stiff as a stick. I was in our room and very, very hungry. Then, Sorakirin entered and yelled out of joy that I was awake. It was the first time his face was not eternally smiling and tears of joy trickled down his cheeks.

“You dumb bastard”, he said to me “eat up so I can yell at you for scaring me like that, with my conscience resting easy. Are you nuts? The Ajisai almost fried you like cheap tofu. What were you thinking?”

“Well”, I said weakly, “I thought I at least owed that to your ugly mug, for blasting in at the right moment. If not for you, I'd be… Well, wherever you end up when reality spits you out… It’s a one-way ticket, whatever the case.”

He said no more; he just smiled, relieved, and helped me eat. When I was done and he was doing the dishes, I asked him:

“Who was that woman?”

“A healer... of sorts.”

“I asked you who she was.”

“You are susceptible enough to death, without me burdening you with such knowledge.”

“Fair enough. There is one other thing though...”

“Yes?”

“It's probably just my imagination, but... there, in that place, I had the impression that your face had… peeled?”

“...”

“Yeah, I know, probably too much heat on the old gray cells.”

“Actually, no.”

“What do you…?”

I then heard the sound of something ripped apart, like paper, and Sora turned to look at me with his right eye permanently closed; a set of nasty claw scars had sealed it shut. He explained to me how the scars and the blue hair had to do with his violent crossing of the Threshold, involving a Loup-Garou and a blast of Prima Materia. I never learned about the healer, but I didn't mind anyway.

That night, at midnight precisely, we took an oath: one would always be the other's shield and blade, true, honorable, brother. Should one succumb to Darkness, the other would use any and all means to bring him back to the Light. If all hope was forfeit, he would see to his death, no matter how long it took or how much the other pleaded or resisted. We sealed the oath with our blood and from that day on, we became Consanguinei, “Blood Brothers”.

Together we spent one and a half year searching, investigating, fighting side by side, drinking and teaching each other the secrets of our Scientiae.

[To be continued…]

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.
Go to Part II.
Go to Part III.

Literary Section III

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Part III: Flying Solo

Read Part I first! Right under the Dumbledore story.
Part II.
Part IV.
Part V.
Part VI.
Aftermath.

Master Rama the Gentle was true to his name: he called me Magus the moment I crossed the Threshold, the moment I first joined with Klymene. In the world of Wyrd, “Magus” refers to one who can access reality’s building blocks and rearrange them, so as to produce miraculous – magical, as it were – effects. Of course, it is as much a talent and a birthright as it is a skill; a skill achieved and practiced at some cost. Usually, the cost is one’s spiritual and mental reserves, limited to a degree by the strength of their Alma Magica. In extraordinary – and might I add, dangerous – circumstances, the cost can be much, much higher.

This is a story told to me by an ancient Vampire knight, as a parable for the limitations and risks of my then-newfound power: “The Graumannwelt – an old, German term meaning “World of Grey People”, the non-Wyrd reality) is akin to a titanic stone giant, upon whom the world of Wyrd rests as its regalia. The giant now slumbers, as it has for many centuries, dreaming our existence. Once, it thrived on these dreams, marveled at the beauty of the Wyrd enveloping him and encouraged them to play out. With the onset of the ages, the slumbering giant’s body hardened and it started to forget its regal garb, small details at first, then whole sections. As it forgets about them, these pieces fall to ruin, unless the giant’s dreams burn intense to remake them. But memory of what has been lost is harsh, thereby sealing away all desire to reclaim it. Therefore, whenever we act on our birthrights with reckless might, we stir the giant’s dreams and as one tries to resist and wake from a displeasing dream, especially if it is intense, thus does the giant push us back until we stop reminding it its former glory; and if we persist, it might elect to not see this dream ever again… So long as the giant sleeps soundly and content, so may we.”

And there you have it: the Wyrd and the Graumannwelt must brush against each other gently, risking terrible consequences if one vulgarly trespasses into the other. Therefore humans would do well to remain at the safe, dreamy, poetic fringe of the Wyrd and the Wyrd should avoid altering reality in flashy, dramatic ways which interact with Graumannwelt –which is called Hubris – or risk failure, at the very least, expunction from reality, at the very worse – which is called Nemesis. The only exception to this rule (at least, the Nemesis part), are the Kyuuketsuki, Blutsauger, Nosferatu and called much else, commonly known as… Vampires. Dead, yet not dead, devoid of soul but possessed of immortality, they are the Zwischenweltenmenschen, the “People Between Worlds”, who hide from the light of the Sun and the perception of the giant. But I am getting ahead of myself…

After the prospective Magus’s (usually) intense tutoring, for all the above reasons, they have to be tested and judged by three Wyrd, regarded as Masters, Wise Men and Women, Luminaries or what-have you, among their kin. This committee, of sorts, is called Opus Elementum. Now, usually, this is a matter between Magi but there have been rare exceptions, where another Wyrd has acted as member of the Opus on a given circumstance. Thus, a month before my testing, Master Rama asked me how bad I wanted to be recognized “officially” as a Magus for, as he said, in his eyes I was Magus enough (not in small part thanks to Klymene). Of course I wanted to be recognized! Though his approval was enough for me, I wanted to wear it proudly, as a badge of honor.

“Well then, as you know, Bowen is not a Magus but he is a respected elder to most Wyrd and Ozymandias and I could fill in the rest of the Opus positions. Would you like that?”

“I would be honored beyond words sir! However… if it is alright with you, I would rather the Opus Elementum were chosen for me in the usual way… whatever it is.”

“Oh? And why is that? I am telling you right now, this is not a test. Should you agree, it is all said done. I swear it by the Standing Stones” which, of course, was an oath so outrageous as only he could take. Indeed I had believed it a test but not of my integrity; in fact, I had no idea why he would pose such a dilemma before me but I felt I should answer as I did.

“Sir, you three are well-renowned Masters, respected by many, if not all. Already I have to live up to studying under you, much less being publicly approved by you.” It was the first thing that came to mind and I blurted it. I had found that with Master Rama, your first thought was your best one.

“Very well. It is your right to ask this but let me tell you a secret: no matter what you see, who you talk to and what you do in your life, there is something you must remember; along with what I told you when first we met and as ancient as the Law of Tales… There are no Masters in the world of Wyrd. All are students, until they elect to stop, whereupon they simply don’t study and learn no longer. The only Master one has, is the one they accept.” Words that made me shake with excitement and tingle with joy. Words I cannot fathom, for Rama the Gentle, whom I had accepted as my Master, is sure to have said this, knowing of the dreadful things that lurk in our world.

Christmas was a favorite period for facing the Opus Elementum, for the testing took place just before the festivities. Should you fail, there was ale, warm honey-wine and apple cider to console you. Should you pass, all the more reason for the ensuing merriment. I will not dwell on the events of that night in 1992, for their memory brings me such pain as my death could never inflict. Save to say, it was recorded as one of the most unusual Opus to ever test a Magus, consisting of the Maga Helena, a spindly Lon Dubh Fae (the Fae keepers of secrets) by the name of Walter Braniggan and a Vampire, nearly 3 meters tall, named Dmitri. That last one was mostly silent, with the eyes of a wolf and after he tested me: “I shall acknowledge you young fokoosnik (which, I think, is Russian for “sorcerer”) but it matters not. You will die very soon, if your mind is not set on killing your enemy because your heart forbids it” he said with his level, deadly serious and almost uncaring voice. How right he was, I could have never imagined…

This is Prometheus exactly at the end of Act I,

(yes, he is 22 years old, believe it or not)
while the drawing featured in Part I is the more
manga version, many years after the events of Act I.
This is - in my opinion - an extraordinary piece by
Lockie and reminiscent of Gary Chalk's and Brian Williams's
style in the Lone Wolf series.

After passing my Opus Elementum, I started being an active member of our Order, under the orders and guidance of the three men the Dragons of Kildare considered Masters. However, though at 22 years of age I was quite adept at Channeling and Kineticism – a definitively combat-oriented combination when coupled with the Elemental Technique – and had proven my resourcefulness on numerous occasions, still something ate me. Though many, who had been tutored at the same time as I, had already taken posts and long-term missions appropriate to their abilities, around the world, Master Rama kept me close at home – so to speak and even had me tutor a few new arrivals. I was proud of his trust but still, it gnawed at me that I never flew solo. Even if it had not been obvious to the untrained eye (which it was), he could see it, clear as daylight. So he decided to indulge me, as well as make use of my love for Japan and my rudimentary mastery of the tongue:

I was to go to Kyoto and locate a certain individual by the name of Long Kuei; a pseudonym of course, but using his actual name would either result in nothing or serious trouble for me, since he belonged to the Ajisai Sect of the Eastern Vampires, also known as “The Heartless”. He informed me that this guy had been in his prime during the rise of the Meiji Government and had died quite a violent death, shortly after his marriage. He had returned to the Land of the Living to avenge his killer and comfort his young widow, in the form of a Katsuishin (karada de tsuihou-sareta seishin, “an exiled soul with a body”, a person cast off from the Karmic Wheel in order to atone for their inefficiencies in life), as they are called. Those things he did, but having led a less than virtuous life in certain respects, the Karmic Wheel expected him to go the distance and attain inner peace and balance before returning whence he came.

He was a dangerous opponent, my Master told me, and coming from a man like him, it bore serious weight. But Long Kuei was also very, very honorable, following a strict code of morals that made him stand apart from a mindless or even devious Katsuishin. I was to locate him and relay him the following message: “...that the merciful blade that may be a step towards your goal, is in the hands of a friend of a grudgingly accepted friend and equal”. If he accepted the message, I was to take him to Skellig Michael. If not, I was to try and convince him, using strictly words, for I was no match for his skills, plainly said. That, I fully accepted, if a little stubbornly.

Though, among other things, I was chosen for my command of the Japanese tongue and my knowledge on the eastern culture, still I was unexposed to the subtle nuances of a Katsuishin-driven society; not to mention the exotic power brokers and resident horrors of the East. Thus, I was to make a brief stop in Singapore, where I would meet with a trusted contact of the Dragons, a Ryuumajin, by the name of Sorakirin (which, at the time, felt like a really silly name), who would help my endeavors and guide me through the new kind of wonder and darkness.

So it came to pass, that two and a half years ago, at a Singapore Buddhist temple, I met the young man who was destined to become my most trusted friend and my most persistent hunter. I don't know, maybe it was the atmosphere of Singapore, maybe the fact that he was Chinese or just the place of the meeting, but I half-expected a Houshin Mystic with his ring-topped staff and traditional garb and everything. Silent, mysterious and wise; was I ever more wrong? Sure, he turned out to be both mysterious and wise during the events that followed our acquaintance, but... Suffice to say that when a Kawasaki Ninja-riding guy appeared, with a Mohawk painted bright, light blue, wearing black biker's clothes, it never occurred to me it might be him. If not for the fact that in Singapore I was hard to miss (thick, copper-red hair worn long and a trimmed beard the same color, in westerner's clothes outside a Buddhist Temple, for example), we may have never made contact. Anyhow, he parked the bike and came to greet me, all smiles and good humor. I once prided myself on my sense of humor, so getting along was really none too difficult. I was being made uncomfortable by his persistent smile and cat-like face, but it was not until later that I understood the true nature of this uneasiness.

[To be continued…]

And check back during the weekend, for a new drawing by my friend Lockie.

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.
Go to Part II.

Literary Section II

Gothic Fantasy: The Memoirs of Prometheus
Act I: The Name of the Game
Part II: The World of Wyrd

Read Part I first! Right under the Dumbledore story.
Part III.
Part IV.
Part V.
Part VI.
Aftermath.

At first, I was puzzled; I knew what “Magus” meant: it was derived from the Greek “Magos”, which means “Miracle” and by association, “Magus” is equivalent to “Miracle-Worker” and “Thaumaturgist”…or “Wizard”. Then, my first thought was that this peculiar man, whoever he was, must be a total nutjob. Well, it is hard to believe someone who tells you you’re a mini-Gandalf, especially when he is wearing ordinary doctor’s apparel. It seems he was aware of my thoughts (literally or judging by my expression – I never really found out) and he smiled condescendingly.

“You are skeptical; that is good in this world – to a degree; means you don’t have your head constantly in the clouds – but you must also be open to the wildly improbable, for it is the foundation of your very existence – and ours. Why are you unharmed? How did you even survive the disaster? The casual observer would say it was impossible – and he would be wrong, for it was merely improbable, highly, if you like but still, merely improbable. Therein lies your power, within the realm of improbability anchored to the core of your being; your soul, if you like. She should be stirring soon enough and with her, your grasp on our world.”

I suddenly raised my hand to stop the torrent of his words and shook my head as if my ears were full of water.

“Whoa! Wait, stop. What are you talking about? What improbability, what… Who’s ‘she?’”

I was confused beyond words: those surreal people – the people I came to hold so dear in my now dead heart – were talking of Magic, probabilities, a soul who was female and was inside me and would grant me power and… then I heard it for the first time: the gentle and powerful stretching of large wings, coming from somewhere deep inside me. It was not as if I would burst open, in true lovecraftian fashion, but as if I somehow grew in size while losing mass, something projecting out of me, becoming me, kissing my eyes open.

“Hello my young cub…” she purred, like a great cat. No, “cat” is probably not right. More like an ancient, female, feline megatherion, who had devoured the most sensuous woman on Earth and now used her voice. Even in my degraded state, I still remember the moment clearly – yes, memory has been my greatest blessing… and curse – as if it were yesterday: I felt perfectly, wonderfully helpless, indeed just like a cub in his lioness mother’s jaws, or a man surrendering unconditionally to an incredible woman. I was rigid – in every sense.

“Who… who are you?” I realized I wasn’t speaking but it seemed our inner voice carried over, because Cynthia and the almost-stranger were looking at me – us? – intently.

“No need to fear me my young one, indeed no need to even bask in my presence, however I enjoy it. I am your Truth. Good men and women, even evil ones, will label me Alma Magica, the “Miracle Soul”, the “Soul of Magic”, a Daemon akin to that of Socrates. Heed their words for they hold truth but I am your Truth. Yours and yours alone, I am what completes you, as you are what makes me.”

“What are you called?” for, if anything I had read while seeking the wondrous in a world of bleakness, stood true, you never asked one’s Name. It was tantamount to insulting them and if anything, this creature commanded an instinctive respect. She laughed, booming, deep, satisfied and amused.

“Good call, for one thinking with his brain. Touch me with your heart and know me, for there is nothing of me that does not belong to you, until death do us part. I am Klymene, the Black Sphinx and I am yours.” And the words seemed to flow naturally, secreted away since forever, in some unknown recess of my self.

“I am Prometheus, the Rememberer and I am yours.” Like a wedding of body and spirit, we were joined, Magus and Sphinx, the whole greater than the sum of its parts. I regained conscious control of my body and looked at Cynthia and the old man. They had bowed slightly and the old man was looking at me with silvery eyes, a satisfied smile on his face.

“I bid you and the Lady Klymene welcome to the World of Wyrd, Magus Prometheus” and he spoke in a language I did not recognize, yet mysteriously understood. My instinctive response stuck halfway from my brain to my mouth.

“He is Rama the Gentle and there is much that is unknown and unknowable about him, save his kindness and wisdom. None but he and you may understand this conversation, for he and I know each other of old.”

“I extend my gratitude to you Master Rama and put myself in your care, to be taught the ways of our world.” At that, he raised an amused eyebrow. He extended his hand and I took it and he clasped my shoulder with his other one.

“There is much potential in you my young friend, much more than meets any eye, human or otherwise and I vow to try and teach you how to bring it forth. Above and beyond any and all lessons, always remember: you are your choices and only as strong as your heart of hearts.” I started to ask but he raised a wide hand and stopped me. ”What meaning these words hold, is for you and you alone, to discover, as well as keep. Come now, there is much to be done and your family awaits.”

Thus did I cross the Threshold into the World of Wyrd. It is by no means easy to describe what this actually means or entails: the easiest explanation is that you realize man is the dominant species only by convention and retains that place due to historic events and circumstances completely unknown to him. I know that “The Truth Is Out There” got coined for that – for the most part – silly TV series but it’s true: the common person does not even suspect that there is a whole other community, indeed a whole other world of races found mostly in fiction and fairy tales (and even more usually, nightmares), living and dying just beyond the edge of his perception. A more complicated – and difficult to put into words – view, is that by crossing the Threshold, whether simply a human believer or otherwise, one gains a near-supernatural awareness of the strangeness of the Wyrd people, as opposed to unremarkable humans. However, this description is inadequate and only part of my fruitless effort to remember how it was when Klymene was still with me or indeed, when I simply lived and dreamed and hoped. What is definitely true, is that when you see us for what we are, not only do we see you, as always but an unwritten law states that we may freely interact with you – and that is especially true for the sort of dark creature I have become. Our kind, bereft of the warmth of life, is better equipped for and more prone to breaking the Law of Tales. In any event, the World of Wyrd is much like the everyday world, existing right beside it, only much more affected by all things supernatural and emotional, as well as colored by them. A favorite playground may be a small Fae Court and an abandoned building may be a pocket Nightmare Realm and anything else you can think of.

But I digress. That is how I met my Master in the mystic arts, known as Rama the Gentle. He, along with two other Wyrd, the Artificer-Magus Ozymandias Clendathum and the mysterious Bowen Dragonfriend, was the leader of a Society – or perhaps Order is more appropriate, though it did not follow such a structure – that was comprised of many Wyrd, a surprising majority not Magi and many Fae namely among them. It seems that the High Council – also known as the Well of Wyrd, after the well guarded by Mimir and whose waters supposedly gave Odin ultimate knowledge – had a very healthy respect of the Dragons of Kildare (as the Order was called) and let the three gentlemen act with much free leave. Though the World of Wyrd does not have global politics per se, except within each race – with a few notable exceptions – the Well is sort of the Wyrd UN, convening rarely and enforcing its rare decisions with absolute authority – and power. The Well has 8 Seats and each race is represented by its chosen Mimir (a term of honor, relating to the same myth). To give an example of the Mimirs’ power, the Vampire Seat was once filled by none other than Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, Count Dracula himself.

After the initial shock of my true nature, I welcomed it as the realization of my dreams and stories. Cynthia of course, was Fae, a Panther Fauve, offshoot of the shapechanging Pwca family. She admitted to having been ordered to keep an eye on me, because my "eccentricity" made me a perfect candidate to be Wyrd or a human ally, at the very least. She thanked me for "providing her with the necessary essence" for as long as we had known each other, though I never quite understood what she meant by that and Rama’s explanation of the "mechanics of Dreamsence" did not exactly enlighten me. She also admitted to "finding me interesting", but that was as far as she was willing to take it. To say I was disappointed would be a gross understatement (so young, so clean of blood), but my understanding of this Fae (if that can ever be said) made me capable of accepting it.

Life went on... I was allowed to graduate high school, while simultaneously studying the Hermetic Principles of Magic. My first assigned mentor, before I studied under Rama, was a British Dragon (meaning, member of the Order, not an actual Dragon) by the name of Annie Kensington. She was calm, methodical and tolerant most of the time, but memory of her punishments is one of the few things that make me smile even now. Thinking back, I learned my Magia (method of harnessing reality itself to perform what is commonly referred to as Magic, a.k.a. “spellcasting” but that is so cartoonish) exclusively from Annie, while Master Rama somehow, guided me into unlocking capabilities and producing effects on a whole different level, beyond the actual formulas. I am not even sure he was a Magus and those hints I have of something far above and beyond, I will keep to myself, in case this journal ever falls into the wrong hands.

On the pretext of attending an Irish College for Physics and Mechanical Engineering, it was arranged that I went to live with the rest of the Dragons of Kildare, at their concealed Sanctum Sanctorum and home, in the southwestern island (more of a titanic rock sticking out of the Irish Sea actually) of Skellig Michael (it’s not as if someone simply learning of the location can actually do much about it). There, I spent some of the happiest years of my mortal (Magus) life. I met many kinds of people, of many different races, both human and Wyrd and made some good friends. Describing them and my years there, as well as the missions we went on at the behest of the Masters, will make me deviate from the purpose of this manuscript. Only the last mission I went on matters now: the one that put me on this dark, lonely road…

[To be continued…]

Speedgrapher

Not making any sense?

Go to Part I. Right under the Dumbledore story.