For a moment I thought I heard something.
There... There it is again! Is it? Or just my imagination?
I look up, find myself sitting at an ancient oak desk, a tattered book in
front of me. It is open. The leather of the tome is flaking with age, its
yellowed pages exude a strong musty smell.
My hands rub the drowsiness out of my eyes, or at least try to. However,
vague remnants of what must have been a nightmare linger. I can't remember
the dream, and while its matter is elusive, the dread has remained: I
sense a gloomy, oppressive darkness hanging over me, like thick cobwebs
that occupy the recesses of my mind. A ghastly monstrous presence seems to
be lurking somewhere behind the monster-wrought fabric, like a spider
patiently waiting for its prey. Whatever fiend had beset me in my
nightmare, I don't want to remember.
The alley outside is mostly pitch black already and so is the hallway next
to the small room I'm sitting in, the study. It must be past midnight.
There's only some scarce moonlight shining through the milky window pane,
illuminating the study somewhat. And there's the candle of course which
still keeps me company. Half its original size, melted wax running down on
one side, it sits next to the book, the flame slowly dancing around the
wick. Judging by the big, bulky shaped lumps that have formed I must have
dozed off for a while.
Ah, there's that glass of red night wine, too. Which explains things.
It's all in the name, isn't it? Red night wine – an adult, strong and
powerful brew they use to describe it. First row ticket to the land of
dreams. Nightmares included… – Hmmm… Speaking about the "Land of Dreams"…
I catch a few paragraphs in the book in front of me, which talks about
"And so it is said that a creature from the Land of Dreams visits those
that have fulfilled their existence's purpose in the world.
It's the Kiivosh, the Soul-Gryph, which takes away the spark of life from
the dying, with all his memories, hopes and aspirations, cleansing it. It
thus prepares the deceased for final judgement in the world that lies
beyond. During the hour of death the Veil of the Kiivosh engulfs the
fallen, guarding the dead, until the soul is taken to its final destiny.
Some say that once separated from the body the spirit of the dead might
still be experienced in this world until his deeds are ready to be judged.
Be it as a draft of wind, a whispering out of nowhere or even a serious
haunting that offers the dead an opportunity to avenge, understand or
stuff... I shouldn't read too much of it that late. No wonder I fall prey to bad
dreams! Well, I better be –
A muffled howl. A moan. A disturbing distant scraping. All at once…
There! There it is again! That... that... eerie screech! Or is it just a
creaking door? But… creaking doors... – in the middle of the night? It seemed so
much closer now... – No, it isn't just my imagination, I HEARD it!
Two, three steps and I'm in the hallway.
Without a light source it is difficult to recognize anything properly this late
in the day, but it is the sudden silence setting in again that disturbs me even
more – almost as if the sound is afraid of revealing its source.
It came from the other end of the corridor… Right? Ha, and now I'm talking to
myself, as if I need to hear a trusted voice.
But… – What–? What’s that?
Something's not right here.
At the edge of the carpet a discarded object makes me reel. I take a step back.
Even in the half-light I can make out what it is: something long, shiny, sharp
I bend down to pick up the knife. The blade is red all over, red as the night
wine I've been drinking. Blood!
Someone must have... Someone might still be...
I whirl around.
Not a sound either. Dead silence engulfs me.
Only the moon and a lantern's distant shimmer seep through the open doorways
along the hallway to my left. Here and there spots are bathed in the faint light
coming in, darkness reigns the rest. Every nook and cranny the house has to
offer appears like the perfect shelter for shadows, mysterious and foreboding in
their blackness, harboring undeterminable secrets. When I look long enough into
any such corner I think I notice something… someone… rising, but the longer I
stare, the more it becomes clear that I'm hallucinating.
One step, another, along the paneled wall.
There are stains all over the carpet. They appear blacker than black in the
half-darkness. And they are blood stains I'm sure. Yes, blood stains: Blood
stains smeared on the wooden panels, blood stains it seems wherever the gloom is
interrupted by a mere hint of light... They're almost like a track, leading into
one of the adjacent rooms to my right.
I wait with bated breath, make another step towards that room, and wait again.
Nothing. Not the tiniest movement, no rustling, no scratching, no breathing.
Another step, uneasiness mounting. Still silence.
One last step.
Whoever is in there, I have his knife. But wounded animals are the most
dangerous. Whoever is in there, I...
...almost leap into the library, brandishing my weapon.
Shelves upon shelves of books. A desk, a chair, pools of darkness.
Nothing happens. If I expected an attack, I'm proven wrong. No unbidden guest is
lying in wait. No club, no axe, no sword is being raised. Just more dark corners
that are staring back at me, pitch black and obscure as is their nature.
I shift uneasily. My fingertips tap over the books that lie scattered over a
small table nearby. Another bloodstain is on one of them. Some more on the
wooden floor. And on the door on the other side.
A door that is closed right now.
Who closed it? Have I… Did I… – I never...
I can't remember. As if by instinct I reach for the handle. The door rattles
violently, resists. It won't budge.
I press my ear against it, listen for a while. Not a sound. Squat down, listen
for some more. Nothing.
I don't understand...
I hesitate to raise my voice. The intruder might not be in there after all. I
don't want his attention if I can avoid it.
Why would he lock himself in?
Taking a few steps back, I end up in the hallway again, always one eye on the
locked bedroom door. My fingers curl around the knife.
I have to get out. If I can, I have to get out. That's the only way.
Senses fully alert, I continue to move along the hallway. I sneak towards the
dining area, waiting at the end of the corridor.
As I go I hit larger piece of furniture blocking my path: a chest. Realize it
has been opened. Glancing inside I see mostly garments, jumbled, thrown around.
Oh, and a jewelry case in between, turned upside down. Nothing in it. Not
A thief! He must have hurt himself while plundering my valuables. But is he
gone? Does he know I'm after him? What EXACTLY happened here?
A muffled howling. A moaning. A scraping. Again!
There! THERE! How could a human ever make such sounds? Unless…
The ongoing wailing keeps creeping along the walls towards me. I almost want to
turn around in panic and –
But then they trail off again, the various dissonant tones, dispersing
somewhere, somehow in the woodworks. As if chased away. Or maybe each single
sound has found its respective place to linger, like a flock of birds landing on
the boughs of a tree, about to rise again any time.
If only I could be sure about that sound... If only I could locate the
I leave the chest behind, crawl forward with my back pressed tightly against the
wall. Every time I pass another doorway I pause, draw up my knife, sidle past,
then freeze again. Stay that way for a couple of moments. Just to be sure. Maybe
I'll get a glimpse of something unusual happening behind that door, catch
something stirring in the corner of my eye. But the house doesn't want to reveal
table. Three chairs around it, a fruit bowl on top. The aroma of baked
bread and onion soup still hanging in the air. On the other end: the
fireplace, cold and empty. At midnight the joys the blazing flames
provided are long gone, the logs have crumbled into ashes by now. There's
a poker next to the mantelpiece and an armchair in front.
Not hungry, eh, thief? Where ARE you?
Again, I wait, observe. Once I'm sure I'm alone in the room I head over to
the other side on quiet soles, trying to make friends with the shadows. In
their shelter I hope I'll be the boat they'll carry to the rescuing
Ah, finally, the vestibule. Reeking of damp coats. Worn leather shoes. And
roses in a vase for a change. Only a few steps more...
Beneath the front door I see the gap through which spills a lantern's soft
light. Ah, a greeting full of warmth, a welcome from the other side. An
invitation. My anchor.
Quickly now... Out!
Furious I try once more...
Shut and locked tightly! I fumble for the keyhole... No key inside either!
I'm... trapped! I've been locked in! What IS he trying to do?
A ghoulish groan rises somewhere...
Like an ominous plea for help from a bottomless well, resounding by now in
bloodcurdling regularity. Almost... as if this warped yell does not
emanate from this world, is only passing by.
It's coming from the basement...
I turn on my heel, back I go. Back to the dining table, across the room,
this time in the opposite direction. A flight of stairs in the corner
leads down into the cellar. It's looking up at me like a gaping maw about
to devour its prey.
I pause before I move on, reconsider.
When I listen closely I can hear the sound emerge again. It's much fainter
now, but it's still there... actually, its intensity is rising, is
falling... it dies away at times entirely, lets the quiet settle, then
sets in again... with renewed force, louder, or maybe just because I'm
listening now, picking up every nuance of it...
Could it be just the moaning of the wind?
The noise is now transforming, changing into something different... It's
always altering itself, never quite the same... always another kind of...
of... lament... – a desperate kind of... lament..
Is that what it is?
The noise ebbs away.
As I look down the narrow stairs I notice a peculiar glimmer from below.
The darkness down there seems suppressed, subdued.
One more mystery…
Foot upon foot descend the stairs. I feel as if a reluctant me is just
following, in wake, unable to object, drawn towards the unknown, my
odyssey being dictated by something that lies beyond my control.
An abrupt, aggressive draft charges as I proceed. It shakes my every bone,
pierces my very being. I can see quite clearly now in this unexplainable
half-darkness, but I don't know what to make of it.
The missing jewelry, the blood, the sounds, locked doors…
I'm not sure anymore what to expect down here.
I stumble through rooms oozing with dampness. There's firewood on one
side, barrels, crates, wine racks, on the other, whatever one puts in
places like these; most things look like they have remained untouched for
ages, stored for good perhaps, never again to see the light of day. A
layer of dust covers a row of lined up bottles on a table nearby.
A scraping sound...
Glass bursts. There's a wild explosion.
I jerk back, thunderstruck. Thousands of tiny shards scatter on the
ground, their delicate clinking forming a mosaicish, undirected noise.
Wine is pouring everywhere.
I step back, notice that a bottle has just hit the floor. I must have
rubbed against a barrel, with the bottle on it.
There goes the Winter Ice, along with the attempt to catch an intruder
Once again, I stand stock still, listen for a reaction of my unseen
opponent. Any reaction.
Peeking around the corner I spot more crates and barrels covered with
cloths. A tiny, oblong window set into the upper part of the wall permits
some more light spilling in, emanating from a lantern that holds vigil
outside, a couple of feet above. Somewhere from the ceiling water is
dripping. In their unhurried rhythm drops keep on pattering away: bigger
and smaller splashes alternate. They repeat their monotonous pattern again
and again with unerring precision, like a pocket watch’s ticking. With
every drop that hits the floor I feel like my despair is being recorded.
... – What was that?
I spin around. Fresh sounds mix with the dripping water, very different
sounds, sounds of... – yes, now that I focus on them I can discern what it
must be, indeed... – someone's talking!
I move closer to the building's outer wall, as that’s where the muffled
noise seems to originate. And while I have difficulties with understanding
at first, the longer I listen the more pieces of a conversation I manage
to pick up:
"If I tell you, captain!" It’s a man's tremulous voice. "It cannot be
undone now!" He's whining, speaking in a quiet tone. He says more, but the
rest is unintelligible.
"It's been taken care of then, you say?" answers someone else, his words
booming in contrast.
"Oh yes, yes. I fear it has been! But what will happen now? I can't, I
can't... I just can’t..."
"Well, scum to scum, right?" The other says flatly.
They must be out in the street, right in front of the house. Guards!
A memory hits me like a flash. I recall the afternoon. Remember the
hanging of the murderer from Craeywock Alley. Right there on the square.
The big crowd… Hundreds watching, cheering. Celebrating when that
dastardly beast finally lost the ground under his feet, left dangling from
the beam, flailing with his arms for a few moments before being robbed of
his life forever.
They're talking about him...
For a moment I consider finding a way of getting their attention, but I
think better of it. The thief can't be very far anymore. If he hasn't
noticed me yet, he'd for sure hear my hammering on the walls and my
shouting for help.
I have to confront him myself. There is no other choice.
The footsteps already walk away on the cobblestone.
"First things first," are the last words I can still understand.
Then I'm alone with myself again.
But the moment I try to make another step I falter, sink back.
I'm overwhelmed by a powerful, inexplicable sensation: a dreary melancholy
grips me, so intense is it, so bitter I feel its pain, that I almost
crumble under the weight. I've never felt anything like it. I have
difficulties staying on my feet.
Somehow it's as if I'm suddenly confronted with the prospect of
inescapable doom. Like a prisoner who understands that the four walls he
finds himself in will be all he'll ever see for the rest of his life.
I don’t know where all this is coming from.
Then, within an instant, a hazy phantom, a shadow, or a shapeless vague
mass, whatever it is, peels itself out of the semi-darkness – like a hole
that suddenly appears, stays there, hanging in the air. It is lacking any
outlines though, is pure blackness of immeasurable depth. The specter
wafts past me, plunging whatever it touches into obscurity... It drifts...
shifts... moves... skirts the barely visible objects in front of me, as if
keen on devouring them...
I shrink back. An icy shiver runs down my spine.
The thing surges towards me, and as sudden as it has come into existence,
is swallowed again by the half-darkness, or simply seeps into its
surroundings, dissolves, falls back into oblivion.
In its trail a muted, unreal sounding whimpering.
I must be delirious, imagining things. I’m so tired. And probably still
drunk. I’ve had a nightmare, read too many weird tales. Can’t think
straight. I... I...
I brush my
contradicting thoughts aside. The rogue has only one more room to hide in.
Bracing myself I walk towards it.
Boards, and more boards leaning against the wall. A crate, large and
makeshift, and a rusty bird's cage. That's all I can detect as I enter.
I shove the cage aside, move towards the crate. Something rustles
Got you! Now come and show yourself!
My knife is ready to charge.
Out with you! OUT!
The crate cracks as I hit it with all the force I can muster.
A rat scurries away.
One... single... rat.
Grain spills all over the floor, the sole contents of the crate I just
I hack at the wood once more as if it had wantonly failed me. Hit it again
and again, with increasing desperation. More grain spills out until half
of the crate’s contents cover the whole place. I rifle through what’s
Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?
No thief hiding here. The whole basement – empty.
I reel in agony.
As I turn around I’m struck by another dizzy spell. The full impact of my
futile efforts comes down on me.
My feet are wobbling, I can barely stand, have to hold on to something.
Listlessly I totter back to where I’ve come from, feel like falling,
sinking, as if I’m floating, or try to, out somewhere on a turbulent
ocean, far away from any land, any boat, anything I could hold onto; I’m
out there on a murky sea of fear surrounding me, with waves about to cover
the drifting, helpless, lost creature with their wet embrace... The depths
beneath are dragging me down, the black abyss has opened.
I try to compose myself, clear my thoughts. Get back on my feet.
Rats don't steal, bleed over your carpet and lock doors! And thieves
don’t just disappear! If only I could think straight and get rid of those
Bit by bit the gloom that befell me retreats, and allows me to scuffle
I press on. Past the shards of the bottle I broke, the wine racks and the
logs stacked in a corner, past... –
Another unsettling feeling steals over me.
The corners of the room come alive. Voices... unintelligible voices
everywhere: whispering gibberish, talking over each other as if they are
only intent on speaking, don't have to listen, solely concerned with
themselves; but what they have in common is a vehemence, a forcefulness, a
torturing frenzy that they make my hair stand on end. There's nobody here
of course, just...
...ever droning on in their relentless monologues, relating nothing in
particular, but repeating it over and over again.
I need to get out! Out of this cellar, this house! Out of this –
whatever it is...
It's my own voice I now hear screaming amongst all the others, drowning
everything else out. What remains is a strange awareness of being pursued,
played with, threatened by something superior. It’s as though the thief
and the voices conspire against me and the walls are closing in on me.
I pound up the stairs. Rest for a moment, breathe deeply.
Which is when I hear it loud and clear, as clear as a sound can be, right
The sound of splintering, wood breaking… And there, once more! Followed by
a dull, solid thump... Then a scraping and scratching...
He’s up there! Up in the attic!
back along the hallway, past the library, the study and its guttering
candle, clutch the rungs of the ladder leading up: one step, two steps,
three... creak... creak... creak... two more to go... creak...
I don’t care whether he hears me. I have a knife, he’s wounded. Simple
I emerge on top, blade gleaming.
If he hasn’t moved, he must be further back...
I sneak past beams, boxes, barrels, sacks smelling of dust. There are
paintings covered with linen, a rocking horse, a broken bed... Carefully I
place one foot in front of the other.
This time there will be no escape!
One step, another. One more.
I stop dead in my tracks.
I KNEW IT!
A large hole in the roof greets me, almost half a man’s size. Through it
moonlight pours in: The thief's work! Pieces of burst wooden planks lie
around everywhere. The traces are still fresh...
Quickly I scurry towards the hole and peer out into the cold night.
Where is the intruder? Has he just escaped again through the hole he
came in? Am I too late already?
I hope to get just one glimpse of a shadow retreating somewhere, a fellow
stricken with panic trying desperately to climb down, hurt as he is,
trying to get away from me.... How I long to finally spot him, grab him,
confront him, and satisfy my hunter’s pride!
But there’s no so strange shape. Not a single sound either that would hint
at the villain’s flight. Looking down I consider how the thief must have
got up here: on a stack of crates, holding on to a ledge here and there,
My eyes narrowed I search the alleyways I can see from my position. The
square is empty too, with its gallows still conveying a gruesome warning.
The body they hung this afternoon is gone by now, but they’ve left the
But... why... – I begin to think – why isn’t there any blood
around when the thief escaped through the hole he came in? By the
Twelve... He might be still up here!
I get back in the attic, pull some cloths to the side, but...
More noises! This time from below!
Will this chase ever end? Someone is... fumbling at the door! Would you
I rush towards the hatch where I came from, listen some more.
A key is turning, a lock snaps open...
It’s the front door! How could he fool me AGAIN!? I...
But as I’m about to climb down and rush after the man, I freeze,
Footsteps! Footsteps of someone coming IN!
Someone is walking towards me! Moving around as if he's searching for
And there's another pair of boots joining in now!
I withdraw from the hatch with bated breath, hiding in the shadows. Only
after a while I dare peeking down again.
“See?” I hear someone talking. “All that blood...” And after a while:
“Here: That’s where he must have come in!” I can’t see the one who spoke,
but whoever he is, he’s probably pointing towards the hatch.
How... What–? Is that accursed thief now trying to frame me?
“Let me see,” a deep voice answers.
Heavy boots clacking on the floorboards quickly draw nearer. Someone’s
playing with a sword: I can distinguish the sounds of a weapon being
pulled partly out of its sheath and then let go again. Ready to draw and
strike if need be.
Then I see him: The city guard appears just a few handspans below the
hatch, inspecting the floor.
Instinctively I withdraw further, cowering in the shadows.
Should I reveal myself? Talk to them? I... I need to sort my thoughts.
What fabrication has that dratted thief told them? I have no idea what’s
guard looks up.
I’m in the shadows, I'm in the shadows, I tell myself. He cannot
possibly see me...
I don’t dare to breathe.
The guard addresses the other man, probably a guard too, asks a few
questions. However, I don’t catch what he’s saying, all tense that he
might spot me any moment and make use of his weapon.
The second man calls the first away. He follows, the footsteps depart.
Relieved, I exhale, look down. The spot beneath the hatch is empty again.
Further back another lock snaps open: It must be the bedroom door...
How come the guards have my keys?
They continue talking, but there’s no way I can understand a
single word from up here. So I wait, crouched in my corner, all kinds of
confusing thoughts running through my mind.
After what seems like an eternity the two pairs of boots get in motion
again, exiting the house, their owners still talking. At least now I can
pick up a few things:
“Go, fetch yourself a drink then, you’ve gone through enough for a day!”
one of them says. “I’ll take care of the rest. The coroner will be here
I gasp. Then the front door closes and I’m alone again. Alone with nothing
but my questions.
I climb down the ladder. Dash through the corridor.
I need answers. Who was murdered? How? Why?
As I pass the study I catch something in the corner of my eye: It’s a
shiny object, lying on the floor. I stop to look at it, only to discover
that it’s a knife: a blood covered knife. Glancing at my hand, I realize
it is empty now, though I could have sworn holding this very knife just
Something's not right here.
For the Gods' sakes, I’ve held that knife all the while I’ve been
pursing the intruder!
I pick up the blade, again as I’m sure, then stagger along the hallway.
Upon reaching the library, an uncanny sensation sneaks up on me, almost
demanding me to turn around. As I do, I see the knife still on the floor,
My skin prickles as I look at my hand: empty.
I storm into the library and into the now unlocked bedroom...
Whispers assault me as I enter, wailing, whimpering whispers, incessantly
muttering, lamenting, moaning and groaning. They reverberate once, twice,
multiple times, begin anew with whatever they have to say or rather fail
to say, starting again while their echoes still haven’t ceased, again and
again, in circles... It’s as if all these voices are murmuring inside
myself now, deep down inside, trapped, trying to break out of their
prison, with their unrelenting forcefulness determined to remind me of
their existence, their pain, their torment... There are other sounds too
amongst them, familiar ones, sounds I can recognize, though they all seem
to be coming from within: the rustling I’ve heard down at the cellar, the
splintering of wood in the attic, and another one I can’t put somewhere: a
hoarse voice of a man yelling in agony...
I step closer to the bed. As I move around the bedpost and lower my gaze I
discover someone lying on the floor. Blood is on the clothes, on the
carpete, bathed in an eerie light owing to a greasy oil lamp at the
The body is not moving.
shudder. Inside of me the torturing voices are welling up, their torment
turns more intense, ever more urgent as I approach.
I kneel down, bend over to peer at the face.
The eyes are still open, staring back at me.
An unforeseen flood of sensations hits, an onslaught of once buried
impressions coming back. Rampant, raging in their immediacy, everything
washes over me: deeds and thoughts that seem distant, strange at first,
like stories one hears but considers to be nothing more than that, yet
they bob up here and there and remind of details, details that link to
other details, forming a whole, and the once distant, strange impressions
become trusted, and, eventually, real.
Images rush by...
There’s an alleyway, derelict buildings in Voldar’s poorest quarter. Night
time. A bridge. Guards patrolling. Keys jingling with every step they
make. An aura of danger...
Then other images, other sensations...
Of a house, a dark corner. Someone perched in there, waiting. Peeking out.
The motion of shrinking back, diving into the shadows, as footsteps are
passing by. The beats on the cobbles again fading in the distance.
Rustling in the shadows. A hand touching a garbage can, a foot testing the
sturdiness a crate. Crates upon crates. A foot, another, climbing those
Inside an old house. Pushing broken wood aside. Sneaking past beams,
boxes, barrels, sacks smelling of dust. Past paintings covered with linen,
a rocking horse, a broken bed... Tiptoeing, tiptoeing.
Comprehension dawns on me that I know the hatch that is now being pulled
open. And I know the hand opening it...
I realize that I see visions of... myself. No, not visions...
rather, it become clears now to me, memories...
I remember descending down the hatch, looking around. I remember that I
was convinced having found an empty cottage. That I opened chests and
drawers, that I took coins and gems and jewelry. That I entered the
library, the bedroom, picked up more gold there. The fool hid most his
stuff under his bed!
Until... the fool suddenly showed up himself! But it wasn't the jester on
the king's court...
I hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him as I came in through the hatch, but he
was there when I wanted to head back. Standing inside the doorframe,
unsure what to do with me. He was as afraid as I was. But his being there
was enough to thwart my plans of easy escape. Greed makes a man blind,
they say. And deaf too perhaps. I had made a terrible mistake.
remember drawing my dagger.
The man shouted, begged for his life as I approached. I didn’t want to do
this. He left me no choice. My hand trembled, but I had to follow through.
“Help!” he yelled in that hoarse voice of his. “Help me!” Making it only
worse. Forcing my hand to silence his tongue.
“Don’t! Let me be... I give you everything!” Well, I already had
everything. “Please!” Sounds of sheer fright. The palpable fear of death.
A blade to do the terrible deed...
I remember how he lunged at me in his desperation, his final attempt to
escape his fate. I remember how he tried to wrangle the dagger out of my
hands, but it was to no avail.
He was doomed. The dagger struck. Hard and deep.
He didn’t deserve to die that way. By the hands of a negligent thief like
me. But he had to, he just had to... He might have had a life to envy him
for, a life I never managed to lead myself.
Why is all this coming back to me now, so fresh, so clear? How come I have
forgotten? Why is it returning? In fragments, in memories, like a...
haunting? Something... doesn’t make sense.
I gaze at the blood on the floor. A chorus of discordant voices
reverberates in my mind. Something hidden behind the fabric of existence
is screaming at me. As if it’s... yes, as if it’s beckoning me...
I look up, at the mirror above the dresser.
there’s no reflection of someone standing in front of it. Only of a body
lying there, in his own blood.
And I remember: the cold steel in my side when the man was fighting for
his life. The cold, icy steel that put an end to my thievery, when the
trembling hand turned the knife against the attacker.
That body... it is mine.
Everything blurs and for a fleeting moment I catch the sight of a strange,
otherworldly creature gliding by, and yet it’s a moment that will stay
forever with me: There’s that tentacled, faintly glowing kind of bird,
iridescent with sparkling purples, lush greens, and shimmering golds.
Gently, majestically it sails through space carried by its gigantic,
almost endless veil-like wings, which with the beat of each flap are
dancing elegantly alongside the creature, swirling like languid, spiraling
fumes and filling the enormity of the void with their august beauty.
In passing the bird’s magic engulfs me, enwraps me, and finally drags me
away on its flight... It all lasts just a moment for the mortals, but for
everyone else it’s... eternity.
The Soul-Gryph... So it is true...
And then... I'm gone.
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