THE TERROR OF TZIUN

Tziun, City of Yezeeke, capital of the latter Dwarven people and land of their God, has been discounted as a place of myth by common folk. It is a holy land desecrated and left forgotten by the first settlers of the third continent, before even the kings of Rexbrigg; how then it travelled to the 9^th continent where I found it shall confuse me evermore.

Ask any persons of the realm about that damned city and they shall tell of tales of treasure and reward beyond comprehension, and yet they ignore willingly the fixated gaze Tziun casts over the simple folk of our world, hungry in restless silence as the predator watches prey.

There would be those who speak of spiritual treasure, of knowledge and power in the soul over one’s vices. There would be those who speak of gold and trinkets crafted by the Hill Dwarves and kept as keepsakes by the theocratic men of Tziun. There would be those who speak of treasure in power; the great golden city that lies beneath our feet with its sapphire thrones of myth ready to be reclaimed.

Some would say it lies where the mountains’ roots extend beyond the depths of their ancestors, whilst others point to the hallowed stars and place the city where the Ashri command from on high. There would even be those who insist the halls are a metaphorical covenant between man and god: a symbol of divinity. The truth, however, lies beyond fiction in the world I saw for myself.

I set out from home and left my wife with new-born on request of the prince-regent of Rexbrigg himself to discuss a parlance with the great leaders of the land. I was a scribesman - the courier you would call upon to note down important historical moments. Despite this, I conducted official business on behalf of the regent council in lieu of a ruler who was of age and of stable mind, were the council to be honest about the prince’s sanity. Travelling up from the Eastern lands where I had conducted a diplomatic inquiry with the Commerican folk over the tariff on common goods, I opted to take the scenic route and take the Kairion Ferry that transported folk to and from the northern shores of the Rexbrigg Strait. It is there where I came across Trolsby - a place that had not yet found it’s place on my map yet a town deserving of recognition.

It is there I found Tziun, a place best left of a any and all maps.

Tziun does not exist. At least, that is the mindset I travelled the land with. It is silly tales farmers covered in turf and smelling like manure traded in the inns of the Pitchfork Peaks to scare one another when the hearth ran low of fuel and the jolly warmth of ale sunk to veiled depression. Tziun was not to be found on the 9th continent, much as it were not to be found on the 8th, or the 7th for that matter. It had been lost to the ages and reduced to a tale. To the common folk of the nearby settlement of Trolsby which listed silently at the extent of the Cillesden Range, it is no tale: it is a forbidden place that breathes nightmarish whispers into foul moor airs about their homestead.

Trolsby is an idyllic place, I recall, despite damp and swampy surroundings about it’s hills. The folk were as you can expect of such a place - as rugged and as trodden as the dirt they ploughed through and profited from. Looking back now, I believe I looked down on the villagers. I believed myself to be superior to their simple meals of bread and mead and I believed myself better than the fools that traipsed about in mud instead of travelling the world. In truth, I believe even then I envied their quaintness, I looked down on their strange ways but found comfort in the thought of returning home and sitting about a hearth with ale and companionship in abundance after a long day. The men and women of Trolsby live by little code other than to honour one another and do no harm without cause; for the most part, I’d say this serves them well. They are a kind folk to those they deem worthy of such nicety, though perhaps this falls to their prying lifestyle as they thrive off rumours no matter how little or grand. Their auburn beards and hunched backs are perhaps strange to the outlanders, but as someone who has witnessed all manners of creatures across this realm they seemed like a normal folk. The nobility of Rexbrigg saw them as serfs with a duty to the land their lords owned, but shaking hands and sharing ale with the gentle men of that land reveals an honest mindset that cared little for politics or where their money funnelled - as long as there were enough at the end of the day for pie and ale.

Up along the central road, the Beaten Bard lie with rustic charm as mottled timber struggles upright across it’s daub exterior, a permanent odour of cow dung permeates the air. There are several houses here holding each of the twelve families that resided in the tiny settlement, each house octagonal with moss, thatch and grass cascading over like verdant waterfalls flowing down cliff-faces towards Stranded Loch. Across the pastures where Cillesden Blackface sheep graze, there’s flat patches of grass as if people had vanished overnight, packing everything including the very house they lived in and fleeing elsewhere, it seemed. Of course, had I known what terror lie below I would urge them to never drive a hoe into the ground and join the fliers, else they release something awfuller than what already awaited. There, in cursed and hallowed halls, horror lies sleepless - awaiting an opportunity to strike.

Troubles began once more, as far back as the villagers remember, with a small Trolish boy who was said to have walked with a limp from birth and was teased by his older kinsfolk as he struggled to bale hay and feed even the smallest of goat: weak and elfish in stature, he served no use as a farmhand. According to the village elder whom I met, a stout and standoffish gentleman by the name of Finn Todt who protected the hamlet, the boy had never been of right mind. Finn was an old guard of the town during it’s prosperous days, one of those people who seems to have lived several hundred lifetimes and witnessed every Great Migration.

I’ve told ‘em a thousand times,” he reported in his thick Trolish twang, shaking his head and damning the children of the village who dared to venture near the entrance of Tziun, “no good can come o’ that place. E’erybody knows it, but it’s become a fairy story to th’ younguns, something ta git them to sleep well at night. Folks ha’e become lazy, forgetful o’ what lies there. That laddie wur no different. He wur slow at birth, but that’s what ye get when ye lie wi’ horses ‘n’ cattle like that family does.” I had travelled through on horseback and had made rest at the inn by the crossroads, supping on fresh milk harvested from local cows that morning.  Sitting about the bar, another man in his late sixties had overheard our conversation and joined in, eager to weigh in on the discussion, though I immediately noted his tepid demeanour.

“Rumour has it he was dared ta go by one o’ his brothers, teasing him and such.” I would later learn this man’s name was Cormag, younger brother to Finn by 15 years, who’s nights had been filled with tales of horror since he was a young boy. “He went up late at night after curfew ‘n’ put a single foot inside afore running back scared, say he. His maw, Anne who runs a market stall on Kinsday, found him in th’ mornin’.”
“Dead?”
“Worse.” Finn interjects.
“Nothing is worse than death.” I dismissed.
“His maw comes in, holdin’ a tray wi’ his medicine ‘n’ the like. She finds him lying there, out cold.” Finn leans in, looking anywhere but my eyes with a disgusted expression. He makes a gesture to his brother and he busies himself doing anything else. “First thing she notices is th’ reek. Flies had gathered as if he’d been that way fur weeks, rottin’ or sumethin’. Then, she sees th’ bugs. Woodlice in his lungs, our wise woman thinks, from th’ scarring on th’ tissue. Lik’ he’d been eaten… from the inside out, his gums were all chewed ‘n’ his lip puffy. They step outdoors ‘n’ the wise woman breaks th’ news to her that he’s gone, far gone, ‘n’ that he must have been that way fur weeks. Anne starts complaining that she only saw him yesterday. Course, wise woman thinks th’ woman mad or involved somehow considering circumstances ‘n’ the like.”
“Was she involved?”
“Couldn’t have been. Cause next minute they rush back in hearin’ screaming ‘n’ such. Boy’s eyes are shut closed ‘n’ his arms are violently shaking, as if he’s tryin’ everything to mak’ them move.”
“He were cursed,” Cormag interrupts, his composure somewhat regained but his hands shaking still slightly, “no good to th’ village ‘n’ no good to ‘imself either. So the wise woman did what were right and put a damp sheepskin o’er his face, giving him sleeping ‘erbs to make it… easier.” Cormag leans in, his arm shaking slightly and his breath faulty with fear. “Even now, ye can ‘ear screams from that farm, ‘cept they don’t sound lik’ they’re comin’ from any single place. Had it just been Anne, we wouldn’t have thought much o’ it other than th’ woman going mad,” Finn takes the rest of his drink in one, shaking his head, “but both o’ ‘em, and with that damned city nearby? Trolsby used to be full of families, trade was strong ‘n’ we made a lot of coinage off travellers. Now? We’re lucky to see a single one.”

I could see what he means - when I had travelled in earlier that day, every bystander along the road with riven carts and cattle on leashes stopped and stared as if my presence were a thing of magic. It was Finn who stepped outside and greeted me first, offering me a drink and a place in the inn free of charge, short of begging me to stay. The folk in the village were queer I noted. Sure, with such a thing as Tzuin nearby and townsfolk being as they are with stretching the truth, it wasn’t too strange to imagine why they would be of such a nature. Yet, something more resided here - an innate distrust of the unfamiliar. Weekly, there were hunts of hags practising Khem in far off cottages deep within the swamps. Often, of course, this would simply not be true it seemed and acted only as a way for upset fathers and frustrated suitors to carry out self-indulgent vengeance on those who loved other men, women and those who saw themselves outside that confine. I sympathised with the people of Trolsby, yet the stagnant and barbaric practices of a few painted an upsetting image in those accustomed to the people.

Regardless, I wish now I had stayed there, cosy about the inn. But my curiosity had gotten the better of me and, truth be as it is, I worried my curiosity would be deemed different and I would befall a similar state to those in the forgotten homesteads outside of town. My legs, try as I may, refused to remain still and I found myself pacing the quaint inn room within minutes of sitting. That childlike wander once had gotten a hold of my spirit. I forgot my duty to Rexbrigg and I gathered a satchel with parchment, ink and several days worth of rations with intent to document what lie in Tziun and made my way from the warm embrace of a decent nights sleep out into blistering winds and harsh storm. Truly, the weather that night is worse than anything I have yet to see in my life - it were as if Tziun were expecting me and wanted to make my short trek as miserable as possible. Willows and oaks sprayed about like loose thread in the winds, their trunks needles into the hills. The canvas that hung over the merchant stalls had all but flown northwards as I watched with edged glee them fly away from cold candlelight. Had I possessed foresight and perhaps a modicum of reason over bravado, I’d have spent longer preparing for an expedition - but that childlike wonder had never truly left me.

Through rain and mist and shadow that descended on Trolsby that night I made my way down the central road, turning off before Finn’s house. Outside, it had remained illuminated by the soft glow of a flittering lantern that spun about in the gale, the inviting odour of bannock wafting about with flittering steam. Across rising hilltops that blocked the star’s lights and through muddied paths I trekked. And more I trekked. And then, to the Gods surprise, I trekked evermore. That rugged hell-scape that my boots trudged that night was unlike any land I’ve ever walked prior. Mud and grunge congealed about my toes, nestling the dirt beneath the nails and rising above my calves so that no bath or remedy may cure me of the filth. After a time, I began to count the slopes and descents - less out of boredom and more so out of a curiosity as something plagued my mind: why would a child trek this far just on a dare? The way the townsfolk had described it I imagined it on their doorstep but this was perhaps as far as a good hours travel by foot. I considered for a moment that the child had simply lied about reaching the city but looked to my quaking self still marching onwards, struck by my audacity to believe myself better than a child with wanderlust.

 Then I happened across it, nestled about a cliff face with creeping foliage concealing it’s deeds, hidden from prying eyes that hunted it: the door of Tziun. The Earth beneath began to shake as if the very heart of the city were roaring to shiver the surrounding torrent, the curtain of rain before me parting as it did so. Lightning crashed, alighting a nearby elm a few hilltops over. The door’s very structure groaned and spoke of it’s elderly being with every grain of rubble that cascaded, it’s ornate arch that housed the heavy timber door a gasping mouth searching to let forth a mighty shout of anguish - emancipation from silenced cries. And the words that it spoke, with it’s testament apparent in a derivative of Trolish script across it’s frame:

Bow to Tziun, haven of Yezeeke.

Marbl’d palace housed in deep.

Malice lie entombed under our ward,

in alabaster embrace, enshrined by our Lord.

I theorised the Trolsby people to be decedents of the Dwarven folk, judging from the likeness of script between the peoples. Though the migrations had circled us back around to the third isle, it seems their temperament and acclamation to the sordid surroundings had festered in their souls and they found themselves drawn to the same housings as their grand ancestors, though there were changes over the centuries, of course. To the faith of latter Cave Dwarves who resided in Tziun, they preferred a monotheistic worship, though we of the modern world would look down on such practices. They rejected the teachings of their ancestor’s gods in place of their own theories of easier morals - good and evil is an easier story to keep children in line when the outside world allures those ridden with intrigue such as I. The mere idea of evil - of “malice” - were a devil to the Dwarves, their creator the strict opposite that opposed such a thought; infallible and omnipresent in all his might. You might think this metaphorical, but the very concept of sin was manifest in some hellish prison somewhere beneath the rocky tomb that encapsulated Tziun, reportedly. The city is little more than a bogeyman, as though the deep halls had a heart to feel sorrow yet here it breathes, as real and palpable as mine own heart, and here it stands with meaning behind every word. As though it understands the sentiment of death and joy of life. As if the very bricks that form it’s foundations were as skin holding gore from flooding and filling your lungs. As if it were, to this day, alive.
A man more sensible than I would turn now and make back for warmer climates and friendlier hospitality - but I was and am not that man. I struggled against the wind and made for the door. True to Finn’s word, the door was ajar, wide enough as if someone small had left with haste. I reached inside and felt a great heat, like a furnace bellowing embers into my face. Frustrated now and wanting to prove the superstitious villagers wrong that mere stone could curse a man, I pushed forward regardless, wishing with every ounce to be dry once more. A sconce holds a torch with a faint citrus-like smell emanating - limes were used by the Dwarves as to stop dampness extinguishing the flame, a method that grants their halls an eternally fresh scent. I bring it forth and hold it in front of me, revealing the famed hallway of Tziun as I step through, letting the heavy door fall shut behind in unwanted embrace.

I stood in awe for a countless time, amazed by the beauty of the artwork that adorned the marble ceiling and taking notes to pass forward to the prince-reagent when I greeted him. The ceiling felt close, the stomach of a pregnant mountain pressing against me as I suckled the desire for knowledge. The walls stretched hands outwards, their ashen pillars fingers that closed in around me in divine protection. Despite neglect, all here was perfect - no crack or fault would be found in the stone, preservation paramount to it’s inhabitants’ dedication. Even the detailed, parquet flooring with it’s pattern of chrysanthemum-like petals seemed to me freshly waxed and varnished. I tapped a loose petal with my foot to test the make and several others cracked in response, their interlocking structure so secure and well-made that it felt equivalent to a mausoleum built for the grandest of emperors. From front to back for several hundred meters, the continuous painting that regaled the arched ceiling depicted the story of the dwarves, and I noted the story as a descended the sloped hall deeper in the hill’s stomach:

As the Mountain Dwarves lie sacked and raped, a prophet who named himself Yezeeke Clan-Father led companions and those he thought equal to northern lands in the swamps and marshes along the coast. To the followers who built his city and moulded the ornate marbled halls and the decorated birch that supported the high ceilings, it is a holy city in both symbol and status: a turn from the gods of craft their ancestors paid tribute, to Yezeeke who granted them life when all others turned their eyes to exploitation in pursuit of wealth. To Yezeeke, building a city in the hills allowed his followers safety; he was a suspicious man, and his concern seems to have found it’s way to be rooted in his decedents.

And so he began his sordid reign from within moss’d hills, terrorizing the locals for their produce believing themselves more worthy of the bounty. All until a mysterious figure arrived at Tzuin’s door uninvited sometime during the 3rd migration when the Hill Dwarves forsook the rite of emigration: a woman clad in black robes bearing ill omen. The painting stops here at this great centrepiece and the beautiful pigments and detailed flourishes fall to barren stone with no story to tell.
Ahead in the distance, I see now a solemn table with the isolated clank of quill tapping ink pot. Trepidatiously, I approached and witnessed a great gold roof made of perhaps a million bricks that stretched upwards as far as they eye could see. The figure sitting patiently behind the desk laid out bare in the centre gave a polite cough, but I was much too in love to care. There, behind the desk, lie the melancholic Sapphire Throne, “The Blacken’d Cosmos” in Dwarven script, as referenced in Yezeeke’s sermons. It were said to eclipse the sun and lie never dormant. For sure, it were grand and towered high into the room, much too large for a single man, and the sapphire’s that encrusted the throne were of a strange dark blue. I stared longingly into the jewels and saw what seemed to be the very nebula’s above the northern sky incarnate.

Many great people have sat in that throne: Yezeeke’s daughter, Rivari, in her short-lived rule as Tziun’s lord; Calis Pluta of the first siege of Tziun during the migratory wars was said to have proclaimed the Plutan Empire whilst sitting in the throne; Emperor Zaidar II of the Elven conquest of the 3rd continent stole the throne’s main jewel and was said to have burnt the temple to the ground, yet here only the stone remain. Of course, nothing sits now in that seat and it has remained vacant, the stories have become more valuable than that seat of power. Regardless, to look upon it now were something I had never thought possible.

“You’re always doing your best to look somewhere else, scribesman.” The figure sat with her hands in a box form, resting her chin and staring with a motherly gaze. “I envy that.”
I noted her ashen and sunken skin, with disturbed figure and unholy eyes that sought hunger in a form beyond my reasoning. Beyond her pale lips, I sensed yearning in her soul. Despite this ghastly impression, her figure was that of matured lady with wide hip and slender frame. She wore no cloth about her torso, her peeling bosom devoid of skin and revealing gangrene and the rancid smell of spoilt milk. There was a beauty about her, despite the fading flesh; a serenity hidden behind the veil.
“The halls of Tziun are deserted,” I laughed, swallowing my fear and burying it deep within my stomach, “I do not know why I am hallucinating but perhaps the grandeur of the city has lent way to mischief of the mind.”
“You speak with such a strange eloquence, a fascinating pretension. Are you trying to impress me, or do you just wish to make yourself seem interesting?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it to be rude, my apologies. I’m simply observing, as is the nature of my job.” She stood now and I saw her long cloak that traipsed the floor. A scythe of black metal at her back, the ornate handle spiralled with gold and capped with a ruby skull.
“Who are you?” I took a step back and felt something close to me, but I ignored the sensation out of fear this woman might be my death.
“Many would ask that first, scribesman. Speaking as though you were someone above your station gets dull and dreary awfully quick - I’d wish you would simply get to the point more often.” She looked about the hall, walking with one foot in front of the other towards me now. “I have delivered this tale a million times before, but I love the theatrics of my job so do spare me the opportunity to dramatise the answer. In this world, I have many names and many faces: the Inuqq people of the north think me a dead tree with a single, rotten apple hanging that is said to give eternal life. That apple is said to call about the end of the world when a bite is taken. The Pyodo and Ungyuri believe their ancestors roam the streets at night and I am queen of them all, a revered and respected monarch of the damned that holds the hand of their loved ones as they pass. The Rexians arrogantly believe I am a tamed beast that their gods have vanquished, that which has been renounced to a fiery pit beneath us now. I could go on, but I think you get the point.” She leaned against her table now, looking up at the Sapphire Throne.

“Well, who’s right?” I looked her in the eyes and found she looked shocked, pleased even. She chuckled briefly before flipping through a stack of parchment on her desk.
“You’re a strange man, scribesman. I tell you I am quite literally death incarnate and you’re still more interested in the facts rather than fearing for your life. Well, if you must know, none of them are wrong if that is what they believe. You see, I do help those who are about to die into the afterlife. I hold their hand, metaphorically speaking, and take them along a spiritual road to my kingdom in the depths.”
She motioned behind me and I turned my head, confused, to find eternal oblivion staring at me through a vacuous void that lie in still motion. Although I stood there with fear and trepidation rampant over my judgement, I do not think even in my best state I would have recalled the knowledge of what this creature was: Aracnie.

It is a writhing and convulsing mass of bristly legs said to be countless to any being unfortunate enough to witness one in it’s true form. With a plump body, it’s numerous eyes witness and follow the movements of what it stalks ready to pounce. They make their home in damp conditions and reproduce by themselves, killing their victim and laying their eggs inside so that the offspring may harvest the flesh and bone while they age, their bodies taking the form of the being they eat. Convulsing in form and oozing in manner as it scuttled; few anatomical drawings exist and what we know comes from campfire stories used to haunt travellers in the Pitchfork Peaks.
Strangely, though I was admittedly afraid and I vomit at the back of my throat, I remained calm and calculated - if this were my fate, why fight it now? I was a lowly scribesman, no man of combat.
“So, I’m dead?”
“Not quite yet, no. I’ve kept the guard dog at bay for a second, so to speak.” She mockingly petted the disgusting creature, smirking at my chagrin. “I like to give those who die in these halls a chance to learn something.” She pointed down a corridor to her left, beyond the Sapphire throne. I could not see far but I saw a crimson hue and the nostalgic sound of metalworking. “My home and kingdom lies underground where brimstone lie ever raging. Unfortunately for Yezeeke and the dwarves, they decided to build their kingdom outside my front door.”
“So you killed them.” I stared her down accusingly, frowning in upset at the desecration of history.
“No, “she directed her quill at me as she jotted something, never meeting my eye “they did that themselves. They got so caught up in themselves that when they found out malice and all things evil or whatever wasn’t quite as contained as they once thought, they tore each other to pieces. Well, that, and your friend there kind of helped the process along.”

“So if I’m dead, why are we talking?” I rested against a marble slab that had fallen, the beast’s drooling jaws between her and I.
“If someone comes to your house and knocks on your front door, it’d be rude not to invite them in first and talk, don’t you think? Besides, between all the crying and screaming I deal with, it’s nice just to have a talk with someone for once.
I just helped out this girl in Khem-ia by giving her a little nudge in the right direction, and it’s made me realise people are a lot more interesting than I give them credit for.” She put her quill down and looked about, thinking for a second. “No, I do this from time to time whenever someone comes in searching for what happened to the Dwarves, but I like to offer people the chance to play a game.”

A game? I did not expect death incarnate to be interested in such childish things. Then again, my father once told me that those who indulge in the most frivolous things are the most intellectual.” The first rule of intelligence is to let others feel like they have the upper hand; or so my father said.
“Death incarnate? I’m afraid you’ve been misled, scribesman. I’m no more than a courier of sorts myself, a messenger who travels with those who perish to my halls to ensure safe passage not tempered with by any dark forces.”
“Why the game, courier?” I felt a strange rush, mocking a being more celestial than I could ever fathom. I felt a great deal of respect for the woman, as though we were equal in ways: one who records the past, and one who preserves it. We seemed both, in some strange way, to deal in the same field in some way.

“I’ve got all this omnipotence and no-one to share it with. Yet, over the years, I have grown weary - I’ve begun to understand that omnipotence is not truly all-knowing, as even the smallest of creatures yet surprise me. 
The game is as follows: I shall ask you a question and I grant you, my knowledge. In return, you must answer a question of my own.
There was a time when I would grant 3 questions to those in this hall - but I grew to find the questions dull, with people asking me when their loved ones were going to die and whatnot - mortal men do not comprehend the hassle of having to search through all these papers for that kind of information.” She flicked quickly through the stack and began slouching. Despite her grandiose and delicate demeanour, I quickly had begun to detect an urchin-like quality in her; like that of a teenage girl born in the slums with wanderlust. “You strike me as a man of control, scribesman. A control unlike that which any noble or king may possess. I wish to test you, truth be told. As such, this time only, you will begin. Ask me a question.”

Put yourself now in my shoes, as difficult as that may feel to accomplish: you have been given the chance to ask one question about anything that has ever transpired moments before death. Do you ask about yourself, or is your life too pathetic in comparison to everything? Do you ask about the secrets and hidden backroom dealings of the world, or is politics meaningless moments before death? Do you ask a more spiritual question, or do you keep it to yourself knowing those questions may soon be answered?
It seems to me now evermore to be an impossible task; the ultimate rhetorical question. Though the question I chose was, in hindsight, frivolous in nature it was the questions that burned in my skull, and I feel ease knowing I asked, regardless of what the woman before me thought of my selection. I prodded first with my initial question, a waste to some but a valuable test to I:
“What is my legacy?”

She leaned back on the desk, staring at the endless ceiling as though she were stargazing.
“I give you access to my infinite wisdom, and you ask only what you leave behind?” There was a scathing anger in her voice, a distrusting disappointment. “You have a child, yet you care not for his well-being but instead in the stories he will tell of you?”
“My reasoning is my own.”
“Don’t take my curiosity as an insult, scribesman. I think it’s… revealing, in a way. The answer I wish I could give would be that the future isn’t set and your son’s choice of how to remember his father is his own. But I’d be lying, honestly,” She picks up the stack of parchments, “It says right here, in gory detail. Your son will tell those who ask that he never knew his father. His father travelled and left his son and ill mother alone at home. He will repeat what his mother tells him: his father was an unfaithful man and probably ended up with some whore in some distant land. Your king, however, will say a prayer in your name in several days’ time when he hears the news of your death. He will lament for a small time before moving on to the matters of the realm. Your papers will be published posthumously and will be used as a footnote in some great writers work. Does that satisfy?” She puts the papers down and places both her hands in her lap, looking about my eyes with her soulless pupils for some reaction.
“In some ways.” Hearing a harsh truth is a truth nonetheless, my father once told me.
“Then-”
“Then I must repay your kindness, lady. As promised.” I smirked, flicking the canines of the beast before me. I had come to terms with death, strangely. It’s strange how quickly it washes over you, once the initial fear has subsided.
“I grow uneasy at your comfort, scribesman,” she stood much taller than I now, lording above me, “do not outgrow your position.”
“What are you going to do, kill me?”
“No, I shall render the sinew from your bone and make it ooze through your scalp like the cold sweat of a lethal fever. I shall pluck the hairs from their place one by one so that you lie in agony with no respite to be found and I shall plunge your limbs one by one into hellfire so that to walk is to plunge a thousand swords and spears through your muscles and leave them searing crimson with blood. There are things worse than death, scribesman, do not allow me to elaborate.”
The very air around her darkened, and their seemed to be a palpable crackling about the volatile air, as though the breath I took were to ignite at the slightest touch. Though I, of course, was terrified at this sudden shift in demeanour, I believe her to be motherlier on reflection- like a concerned parent warning against playing a prank with the town’s jesters.
“Apologies.” I had naught more to say, following a crack of the voice.
“It matters not. As you say, you will be dead soon. I am short on time so I must ask my question else I never have the chance. My question, scribesman, is the same question I have given to each visitor who I speak to. Why do the people of this world migrate? My existence beyond faith is unknown, there is no true force holding you in one place beyond tradition.”

Though the expectation may be that this question would play heavy on my mind, the truth remains that the answer flowed from me as though a smooth vermouth from cloudy wine bottles:
“Your answer lies in your reasoning, there is no true force holding us in one place. The reason we migrate is the same as to why I entered Tziun when I could have continued onwards to Rexbrigg. Even the Dwarves, despite their later idiocies, held this truth in a high regard, they blindly followed a prophet because they held hope in their hearts that their efforts would be rewarded.”
“Yet their faith was misguided. Their skeletons line these halls, like the rest of history rests in mine.”
“Faith is easily manipulated, having the courage to place it firstly is a miracle in of itself. I had hoped to find fortune and answers to questions I never held in these halls, as did the Dwarves. That is why we migrate; to stay idle in one place despite your heart yelling otherwise is to admit defeat without fighting a battle.

Even the folks of Trolsby, so content in their homesteads and in each other’s mead’d tales need that same mantra. To have faith is fear itself, more fearful than I standing before the jaws of a beast I know will mean my death. To place trust in your own hope is fear itself.”
That is why I respect the people of Trolsby so; they could stare the executioner’s soulless eyes with vigour and march onwards with their companions towards his axe, content in the hope.
I felt slightly embarrassed about my outburst. I had left behind a child and my wife to go gallivanting around ruins in search of a lost innocence, it was far beyond me to give any sort of speech on the morals of humanity, but I could only speak for myself.

“In that case, scribesman,” the woman stood, her face revealing nothing - I know not even now whether my answer truly was content, “I am satisfied, for now. It is your turn to ask a question.”
“There is no need,” I stared at the vile maw before me with that same hope as I found outside Tziun, the throat timber doors to a new adventure, “I am satisfied also. I’m content to say it’s time.”
“Very well, scribesman.” She began to pick up her items, clumsily dropping some papers to the floor, “I cannot take you with me, I’m afraid. There is no special treatment for my visitors, you still must face your death.”
“I understand. I’m ready, I think.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll see you soon, I suppose?”
“Indeed. One last thing though, scribesman.” She turned about her feet, and I began to feel tears stream down my face - tears of joy as I saw in that heel turn my loving wife and my darling son, who I knew would fare much better without me. My face fell into perplexity, thinking the game over. “This might hurt.”

She snapped her fingers.
The world went quiet, and I saw nothing more.