The Story So Far

you see them out where no man goes their eyes a pool of seeping black making way with limbs of death below the dirt they walk the world

I come before thee, to ask for leading. Since I found the pearls of the flower, I want my flesh no more. My bones do not know me. My skin sits tight. The world I walk, whispering and false. Here is no home for me. Raasyn blooms within my bowels. Its sight, too much. I pray thee, Great Voltur, lead me to thy pasture.

Night drinks day, for young and for older. Close your lids, when darkness seeps over. Dream until the morning, for if you stay awake. He'll notice your eyes. And harvest his prize. So let your mind slumber, deep and without frown. For if you are lying, he'll add you to his crown.

Those who never sheathe their sword has no other option than to become it.

Yesterday I saw it again, out on the mire. My doubts are all but quelled. Its sheen is unyielding. the dirt and flora cradle its likeness, my skin feels its warmth. I dug a hole where its glow sprouts from the ground and found it to keep going, deep into the earth, just as it soars without mercy through the sky. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And I believe it's trying to tell me something.

Weary traveller, dust off your cloth. Suffering, purged by might. Behind the fog and fallings of man, beyond the sun, the kingdom of light. Hope resides over the brow, watch for shimmers and shine. Tire you may, but not into sleep. Your wounds will mend with grace of time. Golden feasts, riches and wine, bartizans kissing the sky. Evergreen gardens, blossoms undying. Tears and woe must also cry. Your heart with rigor must carry on. The trek must yield at end of day. Your place awaits at Lysa's keep, the setting sun will guide the way.

Every night I visit my friend in the garret. He has no skin, but he has many tricks. He can hide all the doors in the house in his pocket. He can also make new rooms with the doors. We sometimes walk through them together. The rooms always look so sad though. He tells me about this place where stars go to sleep and says he'll take me there one day.

Oh, the lightning taps! Oh, the rumble pours! Lend me Nokan's ladder! I need some more! Oh, the clouds they foam! Oh, the earth it drinks! Lend me Nokan's ladder! I need much more! Oh, the view it fogs! Oh, the stories sing! Lend me Nokan's ladder! I need far more!

There is a gape in these grasslands that does not relinquish its hold. To glimpse it is to be within its grasp already. Once seen, you are bound for it.

stars grow old on the darkened moor when they fall he sweeps his hand he sows anew with fortunes kept and keeps the sky alive with light

Hear me when I say it: when the Grith visits your dreams, know that it's hungry. The Grith does not love you. It hears no prayer. It sees no pain. It feels one thing only, and that is your belief, and on belief it feeds. Let faith wither, and the Grith withers with it, and from the core it keeps sealed, calamity comes spewing forth.

Mother, offer me your disguise. The wicked deep has many limbs, and many disks from which it sees. Teeth for a crown, as you dry and bend, retain my thought. Open the eye behind my own. Distance the seeping pull. Feed me your hymns, and guide me through the old halls.

My skin thinned to nothing that night. Gartua, with its worm's tongue, finally whispered my name. Through the hollow earth, and down Heather's Crown. The reek of its breath, burnt loam. Inside my long Maw, beneath the lake, there is a locked room. Black shores and silver shimmer. The dame from the Sun, under a boulder of wax. My skull, wroth and numb from the flower. Another draught. The stars have their faith in me.