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FOIP for Lana background, mindset and some parts of Pantheon. Nothing serious.
Passing Through the Maelstrom
I never thought I would feel this ill. Huddled in this dark cabin which smells of salt and old fish. I slouch down into my greatcoat and offer prayers to the Teacher: promises to do His work, to be more pious, to write a great tome in His name if only He will let this horror end.
Clutch for pen and paper. Hold them close. Inhale. Calm.
The girl in the other hammock sleeps through it all. Drunk. Malathian. I watch the red feather in her hat sway with the ship and hold the parchment closer. So this is Hell…
Demons
“I wasn’t going to go in there. I’m not stupid.”
“I won’t bother saving you next time then.”
“You didn’t SAVE me; I wasn’t going to go in there!”
Oh, but you would have done. You would have followed her tempting voice all the way into the dark. Where would you be then? Not here, complaining on her behalf. Didn’t you see the hunger in her face as she poured words into your ear? She is a demon. She has nothing to give and everything to take. I will not let her take you, even if you want her to.
A smell that makes you think of home
It is dark in here. The scribe huddles close to the candles for light and warmth and writes as fast as the words run past. The scent of ink on paper wafts around her. Though the wind blows strong and hell grows dark and cold, she is home. The dusty smell of parchment surrounds her. She is not aware of her hand moving, only the ink flowing across the page. Her concentration is the same as that of a priest in a shrine. Nothing else matters but the words she is writing, for the act itself is holy to Him.
Parents
Winter is here. The body is frozen to the ground and has to be dug out using picks. It was a woman once. Someone remembers that she had a child. They search the hovel and find a bundle of rags. She’s alive, barely. Where is her father? No one knows. No one needed to find out when the mother was alive. No family then. What to do with her? She cannot stay here. A man in red and black with scars on his face takes her away. The mother is buried, the hovel burnt. Nobody cares to remember her name.
A haybarn
Gorski is in here somewhere. I know he is. There’s nowhere else for someone like him to go. I can hear giggling. Oh fuck. It’ll be that pretty farmer’s daughter, with the letters. Only she wasn’t interested in learning letters…
Bits of straw drift down from the top of the bales and the giggling starts again. Damn. I don’t want to do this. Not here, not in front of her. Gorski, you bastard. I can feel my face burning. Straighten my hat, brush off my coat, deep breath.
“PRIVATE GORSKI! Get your arse out of her and back to camp!”
Chains
Footsteps march through the cloisters. One set pads quietly and quickly, the other rattles with each step. Armour shines in the sunlight as they pass into the Council Chamber. “Are you aware why we have brought you here?”
“You want me gone.”
An uncomfortable murmur passes around. They do not want to admit it, nor can they deny it.
“We are bound by oath and cannot travel as you can. You are…experienced in identifying such things as we seek.”
“So are many of the others, let them run errands for you instead.”
The quiet footsteps pad out into the sunlight.
Sunrise
She stands on the rooftop in an old grey coat that’s far too big for her. For once her head is uncovered outside the Scriptorium. It’s not as if a hat would stay on in this wind. The sky grows grey on the horizon and the dawn bell tolls beneath her feet. Bright red hair escapes from the braids which circle her head, blowing freely in the breeze. The tiles are cold as she kneels and offers her prayers to the Teacher. As the sky goes from grey to pink to yellow, she looks out on the world and sighs.
Passing Through the Maelstrom
I never thought I would feel this ill. Huddled in this dark cabin which smells of salt and old fish. I slouch down into my greatcoat and offer prayers to the Teacher: promises to do His work, to be more pious, to write a great tome in His name if only He will let this horror end.
Clutch for pen and paper. Hold them close. Inhale. Calm.
The girl in the other hammock sleeps through it all. Drunk. Malathian. I watch the red feather in her hat sway with the ship and hold the parchment closer. So this is Hell…
Demons
“I wasn’t going to go in there. I’m not stupid.”
“I won’t bother saving you next time then.”
“You didn’t SAVE me; I wasn’t going to go in there!”
Oh, but you would have done. You would have followed her tempting voice all the way into the dark. Where would you be then? Not here, complaining on her behalf. Didn’t you see the hunger in her face as she poured words into your ear? She is a demon. She has nothing to give and everything to take. I will not let her take you, even if you want her to.
A smell that makes you think of home
It is dark in here. The scribe huddles close to the candles for light and warmth and writes as fast as the words run past. The scent of ink on paper wafts around her. Though the wind blows strong and hell grows dark and cold, she is home. The dusty smell of parchment surrounds her. She is not aware of her hand moving, only the ink flowing across the page. Her concentration is the same as that of a priest in a shrine. Nothing else matters but the words she is writing, for the act itself is holy to Him.
Parents
Winter is here. The body is frozen to the ground and has to be dug out using picks. It was a woman once. Someone remembers that she had a child. They search the hovel and find a bundle of rags. She’s alive, barely. Where is her father? No one knows. No one needed to find out when the mother was alive. No family then. What to do with her? She cannot stay here. A man in red and black with scars on his face takes her away. The mother is buried, the hovel burnt. Nobody cares to remember her name.
A haybarn
Gorski is in here somewhere. I know he is. There’s nowhere else for someone like him to go. I can hear giggling. Oh fuck. It’ll be that pretty farmer’s daughter, with the letters. Only she wasn’t interested in learning letters…
Bits of straw drift down from the top of the bales and the giggling starts again. Damn. I don’t want to do this. Not here, not in front of her. Gorski, you bastard. I can feel my face burning. Straighten my hat, brush off my coat, deep breath.
“PRIVATE GORSKI! Get your arse out of her and back to camp!”
Chains
Footsteps march through the cloisters. One set pads quietly and quickly, the other rattles with each step. Armour shines in the sunlight as they pass into the Council Chamber. “Are you aware why we have brought you here?”
“You want me gone.”
An uncomfortable murmur passes around. They do not want to admit it, nor can they deny it.
“We are bound by oath and cannot travel as you can. You are…experienced in identifying such things as we seek.”
“So are many of the others, let them run errands for you instead.”
The quiet footsteps pad out into the sunlight.
Sunrise
She stands on the rooftop in an old grey coat that’s far too big for her. For once her head is uncovered outside the Scriptorium. It’s not as if a hat would stay on in this wind. The sky grows grey on the horizon and the dawn bell tolls beneath her feet. Bright red hair escapes from the braids which circle her head, blowing freely in the breeze. The tiles are cold as she kneels and offers her prayers to the Teacher. As the sky goes from grey to pink to yellow, she looks out on the world and sighs.
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