He reels to me, his hair unkempt

and turns his heels aschew

in his two eyes an odd contempt

in his sharp smile a crooked bent

for in his mind he knew

{ just trying to do daily writing exercise this is unfinished, couldn't think how to continue it, also in the second line I want to use the word aschew, but its not a real word...just relates to askew, eschew, shoe...in my head. }

A life for a death, that was the judgement that had sent him here. A forest with great pillaring trees, that seemed to meet at infinity. Trees whose leaves would decay to gray dust before reaching the forest floor, breaking at a touch like the burnt pages of a book. There was much life here, but here at the beginnings of thinks it was forgotten, the fresh shoots of green far above. Rasmus moved carefully through the lifeless silt that in its descent had been through all the stages of decomposition, wading through it like dry snow, following the snakelike tracks.

He was carrying no steel weapons, to bear steel down here was to invite death. The dry dust could kindle and burn up in an instant, and the smallest spark could cause a sudden conflagration to rage up to a mile in all directions. Their previous passings were marked by black lines, that seemed to paint the trunks like high tide marks. From the viewing platforms far above it was common to see these 'flint fires', as they were known. The swirling mist that hugged the great trunks would briefly be outlined by flashes of red that cut through the fog like lightning.

It was one of the leading causes of death down here, and he had found many of his predecessors who might testify to that - if they were still alive. Those who had thought it smart to bring a blade of their own, or felt the cold too keenly and brought a flint. Their blackened bones, leaning against the great trunks, spoke to the wisdom of their decisions. Rasmus would not make the same mistake.

His face was caked white, painted like the cheapest whore in the poorest district of the Hanging City. He moved slowly, a cloth across his face stopping himself from breathing in the disturbed dust. His eyes were watering due to the continued irritation, crusting up, tears patterning his face like ploughshares. He gripped his knives resolutely, determined to make the day's effort count for something.

Vivid colours stained his vision, cracking patinas of impossible hues. He tried to keep his focus, swimming across a darkness that was neither water nor air. Sourceless winds blowing tendrelling mists that danced, spiralling infinitely, drilling down into this uncharted abyss.

Lifeless grit intermittently pings off his visor, and deep in the far reaches rolling thunder punctuates the roiling nebulae, vibrating through his weightless body.

The stars here were familiar, populating the vastness with the same relation as they were in reality. Great portals of light, beams spanning the emptiness like a draftsman’s lines, sketching a semblance of order - like lighthouses in a storm. It resisted their influence - this place between worlds. The ability to navigate was dependent upon them, but often they might be obscured, banking clouds sweeping in spitefully.

This was common, but their duration was unpredictable. The effects of this could be felt in the real world. The lights of these celestial bodies shone on all unseen, and their absence had tangible effects. This was more so true for travellers like him. If they were cut off, for even an instant, he would be trapped hurtling in the void. There was no finding them once they had been lost. He shook his head, his sight warping as his sensory organs fought with a flood of stimuli barely beyond his perception. To stay here too long was to tempt madness. It was like noticing the hidden planes of a square, once you noticed them you had to struggle to regain your sense of proportion. He gritted his teeth...

Kullervo leaned against one side of the great archway, starring into the swirling dark. Again he pulled out an ornate watch from his jacket and flicked it open, checking how much time had passed. A silver chain was unfurling slowly next to him, links spooling across the stone floor before disappearing into the ether. Five minutes late! Barking a curse he signalled his assistants. The two men began to walk counter-clockwise, the chain slowly winding up. The chain raised slowly, tautening, jolting as though the opposite end was being tugged by an unseen giant hand. Kullervo grimaced, the fool had already been in there for too long, and would likely to start attracting the wrong sort of attention. The entities that existed there were not able to pass through the portals, but the soul attached to the other end of the silver chain would be very appetising to them.

Authenticity in all things. This principle was the keystone of his profession, and Mr Ranke was a consummate professional. Not many actors could commit to the role with quite the same depth. And so, In the last two hundred years, he had become a theatre legend in what was referred to as the 'westernmost end'. The area was noted for its fecund cultural life; authors stalking back alleys, poets ambushing the unsuspecting in remote ginnels, and roaming gangs of actors accosting the unwary.

Indeed, Mr Ranke's career had begun as a member of one of those humble troupes. Two centuries ago, he and four others had painted the town - quite literally - red as a member of what was, at the time, known as 'The Five Othellos". However, the group's revolutionary acting method had eventually necessitated a tragic collective suicide. Ranke was first aware of his particular talents that night when, of the five, only he was unable to die. The everyman would view this as fortuitous, but to Ranke, this event marked the greatest failure.

Since then, death had become an obsession to him, but to others, he was a freakish curiosity. He began small, with a dockyard performance of "The man who made sausages out of his own intestines", a play of his own design. Before moving onto more ambitious projects like "The man who had his head violently caved in, over and over, and his sons." He focused on the weakest element of his repertoire, dying; wishing to perfect it before moving on to the other areas of his craft.

Curiously, his industry seemed to have a gentrifying effect on the district. Acting like a lodestone for violence, every malefactor and troubled youth either exorcised his troubles on Mr Ranke or, having viewed one of his daily performances, decided to himself he didn't actually have the stomach for crime. Many were the 'prodigal son' stories that Ranke heard of an estranged child returning home after a particularly compelling performance of his magnum opus, "Man has fingernails and teeth swapped in place, and is then forced to eat pork scratchings".

Ranke was viewed as a man who had a genius for dying. Noone could approach his ingenuity. He had a vast array of patterns for various machines that an actor could employ. The great 'Brain clobbering device', and the infamous 'portable sausage maker', had both helped to cement his reputation. However, no matter how perfect his death throes were, the actuality of death remained a mystery to him. In the back alley that served as an impromptu changing room Ranke sighed; looking at himself for a long moment in the mirror before standing and walking towards his audience.

After a century of reading, even the very spirit shall stink. Me, a reading idler, sitting and scratching meaning out of these well-worn words. Festering in my own cloister, that I might imitate the man whose madness spoke of a spirit that seemed to step between mountains. I see this same man's eyes staring at me from the darkness, sat at the end of my bed - a night terror. Eyes like red guttering candles. That he might haunt me, a sickly spirit, he who despised the despisers of life! Where is the man who contrived the flame from which the phantom's fled? Who is this ghoul, whose soul is so benighted? I must feel guilt as I look at upon his works with corpselike hands, and see that he reflects only what I give him. So for me, this last man, he must appear as the soul embodying poverty, and pollution and wretched self-complacency.

I sit up from my sweat-stained sheets, resolute to confront this phantom. "What means this? That you might haunt me, the man of changing spirits? What change brought this? That you might despise those that invented heavenly paths and yet find yourself here? You who spoke of the despisers of life, is it now that you despise death?"

The benighted soul spoke with a hollow spirit, for he had breathed all of his into his works. And so, now in death his voice was a scratching pen, and a dry parchment.

"You speak to me in my own fashion, and it is well you do so. For my spirit is bound by these words and sustained by them. Yet, as time has passed these words have spread, and so has my spirit, stretched taut across a million pages. So it is you see me now, a jacko-lantern, a wanderer's shadow."

At this the shade seemed to grow, an ink stain bleeding wide across the walls, the spirit's eyes dimming into pinpricks of light. I turned the pages of his book and read, “Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It is the highest time!’". The darkness receded and the spirit sat forward into itself, eyes kindling. "It is required of every man" the ghost said, "that they that despised the next life should walk abroad amongst his fellow men in death, and travel as far and wide as his words are read; to witness the paltry life he knew in the knowledge of that he knew not, and now shall never know." At this his skin seemed to sallow, his skin tautening over his sharp bony features.

"Why do you trouble me with this, spirit? what need have you of one reading idler?". The ghost laughed, and its laughter was rustling pages. "You might pity me", it said, " but it would be misplaced. If you could but see your fate as I see it clearly now!". "What do you mean?", I asked, "Speak plainly!". "You write idle words, empty vessels, and cast them out into the world, with overweening pride. Likewise, in the hereafter, you will be cast out into the world, doomed to walk the earth as I. A solitary spirit without even a word whispered in your name". At this, he stood, and, with a noise like a great book slamming shut, the lights of his eyes went out, and he disappeared with the darkness that came after.

I sat in that darkness for a long time afterwards. Me, the reading idler, rereading these words I have written. Idle words, without meaning or merit, and signifying nothing.

The workshop had many places that even old Nicholas was unaware of. Such oversight had always been the cost of his overweening pride. The man, if indeed he could still be considered such, knew nothing of the series of underground grottos that riddled the ice beneath him. This was to Aelle’s benefit. The old man didn’t think to question where his people had long lived before he had decided to build his temple here. For his people were old - as old as the heartfrost lying in the deepest levels of these caves -and they remembered.

The region had never been settled successfully by men, his people had seen to it. People went missing, children in particular. Such was their way, they had always culled the invasive species. Folk soon gave up, despairing of the blighted land, speaking of the blue-faced demons that stole their babies and the sharp-faced elves with coal-black eyes. For a time they were left in peace, none would dare trespass. “That land is touched!”, they would say, “Only a fool would go there! Nothing, there for a Godfearing man!”.

Only one day, a fool did come. A young prince and his retinue had heard of the giant herds that were to be found, in the absence of men. That the land was cursed only added appeal to the idea, in the eyes of the youths. Despite his father’s pleas, the prince was resolute, and so the King reluctantly blessed the hunt. However, he asked his wisest sage, a man of great virtue and beloved of God, to guard his son against the evils that might assail him. Nicholas agreed...

Unseen eyes were on the company the moment they crossed the border. Black ice was a window to his people, and also a door. So it was that they tracked their journey, as they came closer and closer to the heartfrost. His companions were foolhardy, and easily waylaid. For many days they wandered the forests, stark white trees imprinting patterns on their weary eyes, unable to progress. Each night the men would get more restless and, as they drank, more violent. Nicholas sat apart from them, away from their fire. He never slept, and watched the darkness as though it held no secrets from him. The next night he led the party, and no trick or illusion impeded him.

So his people called upon the beasts of the forest, whose fealty was long ago sworn. There was no illusion in the teeth and claws that prowled their campfires. Grinning wolves snapped at their heels, wearing them down, seeming to feed on their exhaustion. The howling was continuous, and they were unable to sleep. After several nights, one of the Princes closest friends, bleary-eyed and on the edge of madness, ran out into the dark to silence the creatures. The Prince tried to follow, but Nicholas stopped him, pressing his hand against the young man’s chest. “Outside of the circle of this fire, I cannot protect you!”. The sage’s eyes were a cold blue that cut through to the Prince with their intensity. He turned, and went back to sit by the fire. After a minute they heard their friend’s screams, which were soon cut off like a gutted flame.

Despite this, they grew closer to the heartfrost. No man had been so close before, and Nicholas seemed to sense it like a bloodhound, and would not be swayed from his path. So his people decided to treat with these outsiders. Aella was the obvious choice, and as a lord amongst his people he had a duty to see these intruders off. That night a great storm hit, and under its cover Aella came before the Prince and his men, coming towards the fire’s light from the howling darkness beyond. He paused on the threshold, as he could step no nearer. Nicholas knew he was there but said nothing, and so when Aella’s sharp reedy voice cut across the screaming winds, the Prince and his retinue stumbled and drew their swords.

“Prince!” Aella said ” you are not welcome in these lands! Why do you trouble us?”

The Prince, wide-eyed, summoned up a reply. But, before he could, Nicholas, cape swirling, entered the circle of the fire. “Do not answer Sire! To speak with this creature would be an invitation.” Nicholas rounded on Aella, who lingered at the dark edges of the light, and pressed towards him, staff raised. The light seemed to follow him, clinging to him like rain on blade of grass. Aella moved back, through old instinct, wary of this man. “It is right that a creature like you should fear the light, even as you are drawn towards it!”. Aella turned to run, but the light drained him, sapping his strength like a lapping flame.

Nicholas grew closer, leaning over Aella, looking into him with his sharp blue eyes. “I see you wear a crown, but you are no king.” He said this without any anger, but a cold certainty. Reaching down he took Aella’s crown.“This is an old work, and not of men.” he said inspecting its runes with a practised eye. “Do you know what I can do with this?” a smile cracked the old man’s cold features, and Aella’s icy heart suddenly knew fear. He ran, Nicholas let him, where could he go?

Deep underground, the workshop had many places that even old Nicholas was unaware of. In these grottos, Aella had dwelt for millennia, but soon it would be time to take back this land. The heartfrost groaned, its deep movement slow and inexorable as the ages. Ice was the most pernicious of the elements, the smallest gap in a tower might be worked away over a time, with slow incessant weathering. Until at last, one night, the whole edifice collapses. This time, in the deep darkness, it was Aella’s turn to smile.

He winced internally as the man handled the vase rather too familiarly. The official held it up in the dry air of the open market, trying to read the inscriptions around the rim. Externally, however, Malthus' face was a mask of obsequiousness.

After a long moment, the man lowered it down onto the stall.  He signalled his entourage, and within a moment a stool that seemed too small to bear his prodigious weight appeared beneath him. Lowering himself, he emitted a self-satisfied sigh, like a bellows in ill repair.

"Malthus, dear boy" he pronounced with a deliberate wetting of his lips "you do know that this" pointing at the offending vase " is illegal for you to possess? let alone to sell!" .  Malthus, who had dug the item out of a grave yesterday evening, was indeed aware; and he suspected the reason for the Quaerit's presence here wasn't merely a routine check. His face barely changed, perhaps a momentary grimace, as he moved to pour the Quaerit a glass of water - customary as it was to offer an official of the court hospitality.

"I am afraid" Malthus stumbled out " that I do not know much about that particular items sir. I am not able to read letters, as such education has not been afforded me". This was a lie, as a merchant's son Malthus could read perfectly in various scripts. Though that of the higher courts were seen as a waste of time by his father. However, this, by the Quaerit's standards , made him illiterate; and people of his rank often assumed much ignorance in those outside of their class. Malthus wanted the man to judge him stupid rather than a knowing transgressor of the law.

The Quaerit smirked to himself, as though he had just confirmed something to him. Malthus' became more strained as he rapidly tried to catalogue how the vase had come to him. Where had he slipped up? Who had told the Quaestor's office?  Behind the man's shoulder the market stall opposite slid into focus. Olev was staring at him with a vicious smile on his face. The bastard!, Malthus thought as he watched him distractedly. A snap of the fingers in front of his face jolted him back to his present predicament. The Quaester was looking at him as though expecting an answer to some question he hadn't heard. "I'm sorry!" Malthus said " what did you ask?".

He looked at Malthus as though he couldn't believe someone of his status could have been ignored. Incredulous, as though not getting his full attention had been a sort of slap in the face. "I asked" he said with deliberate slowness " where did you get that vase?".  Malthus feigned ignorance again, "I can't rightly remember sir. Were you wanting to purchase it?". The man's distaste became evident in a curling of his lip, "I don't need to buy it, it is my families property! Can't you read the inscription on the stem?" he paused in his tracks and looked abashed, as though commenting on Malthus' inability to read the high script was a social impoliteness akin to pointing out an unpleasant burn or deformity.  "Well" he said, collecting himself " this came from my family's cairn and it being here is a result of criminal actions. So you had best tell me where you got it!"...

Olev was brimming over with energy. His leathery frame hummed with a vibrating glee as he watched the Quaester arrive at the stall his longtime rival Malthus. The idea, like many of his best, had come to him halfway through a bottle of strong spirits. All it had taken was an anonymous tip in the confessions box outside the Quaestor district's temple and the events had been set in motion. Selling grave-goods was a common enough thing down here, indeed he had a dozen similar items in his own possession hidden under the stall; but the act of violating a grave was unthinkable to those of the walled city. They were walled off from the lower district, and the necessities required of living here.

So, telling them that Malthus had palmed one of their ancestor's vases had been a perfect way to finally get rid of the man who had been hogging the space closest to the city gate - prized for the quantity of foot traffic that went past it. He had discussed taking turns with Malthus, and even paying him to move for a day, but the stubborn idiot hadn't listened. Well, he can have plenty of time to think about that in the cells tonight, Olev thought to himself and a vicious smile carved up his lips.

An oblate's robes hid as much as they revealed. Those that saw him knew him by his habit, a puer novus of the local mission church. It was a role that was accorded much respect, for a youth to devote himself to the orders, and sacrifice what the Magisters often called the 'wastrel years', was a worthy thing. Not that he had much of a choice, bundled under layers of itching wool and his placid contemplative gaze, was festering resentment. As the third son of a noble house, he was something of a liability , and - given that - he was more than liable to have his throat slit if he stayed around for too long. This prospect had become more tangible since the last harvest celebrations, when he had caught his elder brother's eyes. He carved the Hero's Portion rather too suggestively, cutting bone and flesh without any apparent design. Thus, he had decided - against the wishes of his mother and sisters - to partake in the tradition of mission work. This particular mission was established last year thanks to  the reluctant benefaction of  one of the Brego's recalcitrant sons.  Having  been barred from hunting in the Wealde  by local officials, the aetheling had instead taken to hunting neighbouring peasantry. Such scandals were dealt with through a public apology and a hefty donation to one of the Church's many missions abroad.

He had been on the island for almost four months now.  It was one of many,  the archipelago had only recently been discovered, stretching endlessly to the east. Lifeless rocks,for the most part, patterning the  cold seas haphazardly. These lands had previously been hidden to sailors,  the great fog wall  shielding all inquiry. Since its dissipation the Church had been in chaos, an ant's nest kicked up. The theological implications of the sudden loss of what had been a geological feature of divine ordinance . For a almost a decade the Arch-hierophant had forbidden all to sail that way , and the coastal lords had set patrols to prevent any boats  from feeling overly curious.  The first sign of  change came soon after.

In the ports and harbours, new schools of fish appeared. In colours and patterns unknown to local fishermen, they populated the shallows. There was chaos in the resorts towns as  high ladies, screaming, fled the beaches. Giant tentacled fish began to  claim new rocky homes in what was, unknown to them, one of the most desirable locations in the land.  Though these creatures turned out to be harmless, it caused enough of a stir for the status quo of 'Splendid Isolation' to be reassessed.  Under the banner of the Church, the Brego decided to fund a great Crusade eastwards. The martial aspect to the endeavour was due to the religious conviction that behind the fog wall the creator  had  sealed off the adversary and his vassals. So it was that this last year, The 'great armada' sailed east, with the King's eldest son as commander.  So far the force had only managed to conquer  scuddy outcrops of rock and islands whose only inhabitants were bizarre varieties of bird.  This  did not play well  to those reading  at home. So the ministers had decided to shift the focus from a physical to a spiritual war. Thus the  church had  been receiving generous grants from patriotic sorts to fund various missions. To evangalise the rocks  I presume.

The thought  amused him as he walked past the dull eyed laymen who had been  sent to this rock to aid the church's efforts.  Some were  volunteers, the sort whose eyes  seemed to bulge out with their attempts to convey the depths of their faith.  Others were just unfortunate enough to have lost whatever farms they had to the strange disease that had swept the lowlands the last three years. It was unknown where it had come from, but many said it blown in from the west after a great storm. Regardless, the men who were desperate enough to take up the offer of work in these godless lands could attest to the diseases virulence.  These lands truly were god forsaken, and not even the church could change that.

Water congregated along his helmet's visor as he stood in the dark cobbled street, buffeted from the side by the rain and winds. He wasn't supposed to block the doorway, but he huddled in its protective stone arch as he watched the streetlamp above him weakly vie with the elements - the old wooden sign doing somersaults. The 'Blind Olyphant' was an appropriate name for a place whose sign had been painted by a man who had obviously never seen one. Indeed, the creatures were rarely seen this side of the mother's sea and only the bones remained of one in the kings bestiary. The poor creature had died - having been a gift from the arch-hierophant - as no-one had known that they didn't eat meat.

The wind seemed to blow darkness with it, fronts of mist briefly defining the structures opposite him before dispersing into a formless inky blackness. The patterns captured his attention, like dancing flames, a sense of order in the chaotic weather , confirmed by the semi-regular dripping of water from the eaves above. If this was a story, he thought to himself, a strange man in a cloak might appear and offer him a bargain...or a woman might be heard screaming in the darkness and I would run to find nothing, only the next day to find a loved one has died mysteriously ... or ...

Such thoughts often were indulged to pass the times during the boring guard duty. When he first took up the graveyard shift, he assumed it would come accompanied with the gothic intrigue the name implied. He was only later informed the name referred to an absence of activity, not that the shift would be accompanied with supernatural occurrences. However, his inclination was always thus - the sort of person to walk purposefully through a graveyard at night, to leave a book on a ledge, to tempt fate - hoping to have the existence of such things confirmed to him through the terrible encounter described in so many of the folktales. So far, the dead had remained resolute in their silence.

He sighed and leaned into the alcove, resting lightly on the wooden door behind him. The door was not of the best quality, and as much light tended to leak out of building as water in. He believed the only reason they required his services on nights like this was as an involuntary windguard, than of any other sort. The place was empty, with the only people inside being those unfortunate enough to be trapped here for the night. It was too late, and the weather too dangerous for people to be wandering to their homesteads if they lived more than a mile from the village. It was about the time for his break, the old man who ran the place, Jaakob, usually knocked the door behind him around now to let him know his lunch was ready. He would enjoy a soup by the fire inside and listen to the simple conversations around him as usual. Except, the usual knock hadn't come ... in fact he hadn't heard much of anything come from inside the building. No roaring laughter, or mumbled curse, or screeching stool legs against a stone slab floor.

He frowned to himself and uncrossed his arms as he stood up straight. He knocked on the door and waited...he knocked again, "Mr Jaakob, is it time for my break now?" ... no response. He reached for the door handle, but instinctively he stopped himself, he didn't want to go inside, he didn't want to know - it would be better not to know. But he was on the graveyard shift for a reason, and his curiosity got the better of him. Sucking in a breath, he opened the door and stepped inside in one bold movement.