Author: Taxi

Mr Love in September

Mr Love stood up from his work at last. It was about time for his midday stroll. He shuffled softly across his little office, taking his hat and cane as he went. Doc Aloise had told him last year that she expected him to go walking daily – for his heart, you see. Of course, in his old age Mr Love did not mind the simple and quite public pleasure of a stroll through Hellhest’s Federal Grounds, regretting dearly the wasted years of his indoor youth.
Mr Love gently smiled as he passed Mrs Matilde Swann’s stately corner office which looked out over the pleasant morning on the Rue de Jun. Mrs Swann did not mind Mr Love’s daily walk so much, so long as his work was finished each day.
“And finished it will be,” thought Mr Love as he called for the elevator at the end of the hall. The operator, a young chap in a red jacket called Mr Garide, smiled knowingly as Mr love joined him in the carriage. “Going for your walk, Mr Love?” He asked. “Yes,” came the reply, “I think the Federal Grounds will do nicely today.” Mr Garide commented that he had heard of a Wizard visiting the city recently, and that he may be down by the yew tree if Mr Love would like to take a look.
Stepping out of the handsome foyer, Mr Love found himself on the Rue de June, the sky hemmed in by tall office buildings like his own. To his left, following the cobbles and trams, was the menacing Academie de Hellhest; Mr Love often enjoyed roaming the old campus in the atmosphere of its young cohorts – which was quite a bit smaller than at Academies in neighbouring cities. To his right, past the Federal Grounds, was the Hellhest old town with the Federal Castle at its centre. Just over its heavy wall one could make out the iconic dual spires of the Cathedrale du Santiago and the Tower of Smooth Colour.
Naturally, Mr Love turned right, proceeding slowly down the pavement accompanied by the careful and familiar click of the cane. He smiled as a well-to-do automobile lazed its way past, a soft jazz tune playing from the radio.
The Federal Grounds, a crescent-shaped park split in two by the Rue de June, was fairly busy for a weekday. As Mr Love strolled along the river, which cut through the Northern half of the park and entered the old city under a bridge, he took pleasure in the comely delights of the active citizens that lazed on the grass.
Here, a young girl giggled as her date chased off birds from their picnic. Further down the hill, some boys were setting up a ball game; one of them had taken the lead, directing the others on the establishment of the boundaries and the division into teams; as Mr Love passed by them, an argument broke out over who would join which team, and a small scuffle ensued. Meanwhile, some schoolgirls were dancing about the jasmines and playing make-believe; they seemed to be recreating a Biblical court scene in which the mages of Lord Ibex were in dispute with the senate; “we must be allowed to produce magic in the city,” one of the girls was saying to the assent of her allies, “who was it that drove off the dark plague? and who was it that put sleep in the devil Alinorax?” “—Valinorax” another corrected. The scene went on. Continuing on the path, Mr Love overheard two ladies in quite modern dresses saying, “… and that Mr Shaw! What a sophisticated piano player he is!” “Oh, no, Bettie. He only ever plays blocky jazz! It wouldn’t hut him to try a Nocturne once in a while.” “Don’t be silly, he played a very good…” Mr Love walked out of earshot. Now reaching a small, paved circle, a photographer was determining the best spot to erect his camera while two businessmen stood by impatiently, one clutching his wand with a nervous hesitation, the other pacing as he said, “this won’t do at all. I ought to be back in the office by now…” Now electing to stroll on the grass, Mr Love noticed a small group of Dal Xe martial artists, the teaching reciting a song in Korema as the students followed her motions striking swiftly at some indetectable quarry. Over there were three women with rapiers, the one refereeing while the two (one in blue, one in red) duelled with precise thrusts and parries; in a flash, the blue lady made a lunge for her opponent’s knee, the red lady cut nimbly into the blade’s path in a quick arc that threw the stab off line but as she rounded the cut to take control of blue’s blade, blue pushed deftly up with her momentum, closing the remaining distance and striking the red fencer in the abdomen. Mr Love reminisced fondly on his fencing days as he went down to sit by a fountain which flowed into the stream below.
It pleased the old heart of Mr Love to see so many young people out in the park during the day. At the height of Queen Valentina’s tyranny – well before the city-states confederated – common folk were on a strict curfew, only allowed to go home, work, church, or the market. Mr Love’s natal city of Vunie was not a free state like Hellhest in the 1850s, and young Love spent most of his time play-fighting in the yard with his brother. By the time the city was free in 1867, Mr Love had no interest in the outer world which was forgotten to many. Besides, by the time he’d moved to Hellhest, he had no time for anything at all.
Now meandering down to the river, Mr Love enjoyed the sights of handsome men and women on bicycles (their wheels jumbled and clattered pleasantly along the cobbles), of charming couples giggling (they perched comfortably on the stone wall by the river), and of cheeky tourists on river boats (their raucous laughter leapt down the length of the stream). Mr Love cross slowly over the stone bridge now, glad for the old hat which shielded him against the pleasant sunlight that congregated in jovial spirits along the river’s surface. At the apex of the bridge’s arc, Mr Love halted, resting on the low metal fence with his free hand. From here, he had a perfect view of the majestic Federal Castle, its simple, medieval structures providing a pleasant relief from the sights of the modern city. Right now, Mr Love figured, its courts and corridors would be busy with officials and assistants hurrying between the offices and chambers which were shared by politician and odd magic alike. Mr Palenx once explained that the entire building’s ink supply came from a single “ink spirit” enclosed in a large brass vat in the basement – though this seemed too ridiculous to be true.
Now on the other side of the river, Mr Love strolled down to the old stone amphitheatre which often served its purpose well for the young artists of the city. The approach to the ancient structure revealed (between equally ancient firs that is) the more well-to-do estates of the city just north of the park and conveniently adjacent to the city centre. The maroon and blue and lemon roofs of these eloquent buildings lorded gently over the edge of the park, their authority known and accounted for. Sure enough, Mr Garide had been correct – at the base of the amphitheatre, kneeling under the shade of the yew tree was a Wizard, speaking softly to a small crowd of children encircling him in the dusty arches of the theatre. He wore a green pinstriped four-piece Wizard’s suit (that is to say, with a matching pinstriped robe) and his simple wooden staff was resting on his knees as he spoke., Mr Love watched silently from the top row of seats as the children nodded along with an air of wisdom that they must have felt becoming of a Wizard’s audience. Occasionally, the Wizard would let out a vibrant burst of magic, its colourful mists dissipating into the open air, and the children would chitter like birds before falling silent as the man began to speak again.
After some time, Mr Love decided to walk back, satisfied with the nourishment of the city’s moments.
As he followed the pavement by the river, Mr Love spotted his old friend Mr Barro, the gardener alongside a younger fella in the same khaki uniform with the deep blue cap. The two men seemed to be watering the concrete base of a lamppost, and Mr Love immediately remarked: “Water it as much as you like, gentlemen, it won’t grow any taller.”
“Well,” Mr. Barro turned, smiling, “Maybe not, but the water keeps the lights on!”
“Hm?” Was all Mr Love could manage in his confusion.
“Oh yes, Council just installed new charms on the lights in the park. Apparently, some new initiative with the Academy to involve its students in public infrastructure.”
“What a waste!” Mr Love responded.
“Aye, mate. Of time and resources!”
“I reckon it’s a brilliant idea,” piped up the gardener’s apprentice.
Introductions were made, and Mr Love resolved to return often in the name of old friends.
Now, our old stroller began to retreat to his office. As he passed by the trafficked streets and stoic facades, he dwelled on the pleasant sights of the city he had seen. What a delightful day! What a delightful city! The old man practically licked his lips at the sweetness which his walk had brought upon him, nourishing and exhilarating him with bountiful floral blessings. Mr Love smiled brilliantly at the traffic controller in his grey uniform as he shuffled now back across the Rue de June, to which he received a small tip of the cap in response. The cars chuckled in wait as Love reached the pavement before his office, and they honked in a musical orchestra as they bobbed along with the permission of the controller. And Mr Love returned to his desk and the day carried on with a serene bliss.

Elegy of a Wasteland Migrant

I left off from Agios Stefanos today in search of a new life. 

I pulled on my wool socks and squeezed into my wool jumper. It was hardly enough to stave off the cold bite of the morning. I could only have left in the morning. Victor Maianou would have talked me out of leaving. The village only has him now. Victor and a thousand sheep to graze on dust and groundwater.

I breached the horizon of our broken vale long before the sun. Beyond the limits of the town’s sunken pit, the flat expanse of Thel’s ‘holy’ wasteland receded like lonely aeons. I knew that somewhere, on the edge of the ancient continent, the Florian sea roiled with turgid winds that even now blasts me against the sallow plains. There is no escape from its gusts. Except in pits of wallowing poverty or at Canon City, the World City, the Windy City, God’s City. That is what awaits me. I made the sign of the cross and set off northwestbound.

When at last the Great War for Canon City’s sovereignty ended, Agios Stefanos was a decimated husk of its prior population. We had huddled meekly in our hovel as the biplanes scuttled overscalp, spitting miasma across the already barren landscape. Between the greys of the smog and the terrain, it was almost impossible to see the legions which feasted and died on our doorsteps, our brothers and sisters slain over a city that belonged neither to us nor our enemy. 

It had to be today. One more day surrounded by sheepsfilth and dull vicissitudes would have rotted me, transformed me into the same soulless husk of a man that Victor now is. It had to be this morning. One more hour and Victor would have caught me, pleaded with me to stay. This way, Victor will wake up, have his stale coffee, tend to the sheep, and probably forget I even existed. He will survive on his own until the chill takes him or until the wolves which have plagued our flock catch on to his helplessness. Then, Agios Stefanos will be a dilapidating ruin, another landmark in the shimmering marsh.

Now, I trudge through slovenly puddles alongside unfaltering boulders. A mass of rubble seems to roll by as I transgress the otherwise unchanging open landscape. The horizon is unerringly flat and glistens with the light of flittering pools of water carried on distant winds from the unabideable sea. I pass by a low cairn which warns of another sinkhole. As I pass by, circumventing the edge of the pit, its abandoned structures bleat at me in helplessness. Another town lost to modernity.

After the war, Barbara Distinis had been the first of us to make a heading for Canoniç. She rode off with some cavalrymen passing through town after hearing about the great urban sprawl of the city. Apparently, the city was bigger than anything we would ever see, and the buildings were tall enough to block the sun. None of us had seen anything taller than the willow tree which shuddered softly in a nearby grove. When her letter returned a year later in 1917 smelling of paper cash and telling of opportunity and prosperity in the big city, almost every household in the village sent a representative to earn his way in Canoniç. Soon enough, our urbanised cousins were paying for their families to join them in the City of the World. By 1923, only a few villagers were left in Agios Stefanos. 

Two days ago, Magda Boskova died. Her body had had to be stored in my house, being the closer to the surface of our two houses. (That is, between the two living residents of the hole we called a village). With only a table and a bed to my name, I spent the night trying desperately and vainly to avoid looking at the dreadful corpse of the only woman I had ever loved. Was it too late to tell her then, how I felt? From the discomfort of my bed, I watched her still silhouette spread across my table in the dim morning light as I waited for Victor to wake so we could bury her.  

Eventually, the knock came. “Grigorias? Wake up you sack of stones,” he called, already grating me with his inhospitable personality before the day could even start. I opened the door to the familiar sight of Victor’s wrinkled and pitted visage shaded by his faded green shepherd’s hat.

“Hello, uncle,” was all I managed to say.

We loaded Magda into the hearse and drew the dark box by hand up the slope of the town to the surface. We spent most of the morning digging the hole, which neither of us had any experience in. Despite there being a crematorium in the chapel at the base of our sinkhole at Agios Stefanos, Boskova had expressed to us that she wished to be buried in the marsh — the first to be buried there since centuries. Once it was deep enough (as far as Victor could tell at least), we gently set her down in it. I had no strength nor desire to speak, so Victor simply said, “Born in the earth, die in the earth. Welcome to your bothros, sister.” 

It was when Victor left to tend to the sheep and while I filled in Magda Boskova’s grave that I decided to leave today. There is nothing left for me in Agios Stefanos. I erected a small epitaph of dark stone and went to my early slumber.

Here I shuffle, condemned by my own ineptitude to roam nigh-on aimlessly toward the greatest city in the world. The wind is strong and it snatches at my ankles through my thin trousers. I pull my coat in close to stop it flapping against my face. The leaves of a willow rustle wildly nearby. The occasional spray of muddy water or stinging dust causes me to shield my eyes, and I have to look around after to regain my bearings. The horizon continues to glide into eternity with scintillating pools, marked only by dead trees and cracked boulders. I scramble over a mass of drying rubble and moss. At the zenith of my climb, I spot a short cairn in the distance marking another sinkhole.

As I march toward it, ever northwestbound, I trip over a stone of black onyx on a mound. I am reminded of Magda Boskova, and I weep for her and for Victor as I take my lunch on the edge of the sinkhole which contains only rubble.

When my cousin, Ionas Ascanius, left for the city, he left behind his flock of sheep — the best and largest in the region. He entrusted it to me, and I thought I had inherited the livestock of the gods. My wool won best yarn that year in the town hall farmer’s competition. Next year over, his cousin, Gabriela Mazdic, who had herself come into possession of a great plethora of inheritances left behind by the emigrants of Agios Stefanos, left to become a window washer in Canon City. Once again, I was entrusted with her property — by then, there was hardly anybody left to take it on. By ’22, these inheritances were meaningless to me. I had been gifted, left in charge of, or entrusted with so many homes, sheep, clothes, and sundries that I neither could manage it, nor did I care to any longer. The food sat mildewing in the storehouses; the clothes were chewed by moths; the sheep became sickly and gaunt. I chose to move into Ioanna Ioaninou’s house — the small one on the ridge — to minimise the work for myself and to move closer to Magda (what good that means for me now…). Well, Victor will care for it all now. He is officially the richest man in Agios Stefanos! Victor Maianou, Prince of Rot!

A yellow haze settles over the spoilt plain now, likely winds from the desert in the north. I am surely drawing close to the main road, where I can flag a truck or a coach to ferry me to the city. According to their letters, this was the way the others travelled to reach Canoniç. 

What opportunity must await me there! Perhaps I could open a cafe? or work in a hotel fetching cars for the high-rolling customers? or try my hand at poetry? I wonder how receptive the citizens of the world city would be to a shepherd’s goat-song. Ionas Ascanius wrote to me that his home is a coffin, and his work is a prison, and this is the way things are in the great city. Still, I imagine his pockets must be full and his mind at peace, which is more than I can say for living in Agios Stefanos. 

So, still I proceed along the dark dust and frigid puddles which stain my socks like a smoker’s fingers. The lingering sun dances on the skyline, piercing through smog and wind. I rub my hands desperately against the lances of the wasteland gales. I cross under an arch of rubble where sheep play and graze, and I spot a cairn in the distance which marks a warning for travellers against falling into a sinkhole. When I reach it, I look down into its depths and spy a stranger in a shepherd’s hat among empty buildings. I press on. 

At the edge of town, I stumble on a dark rock next to a heap of soil. I feel inspired to mark my journey, to be remembered. I kneel down and scratch off whatever inscription was on the surface of the rock to write my own:

Here walked Grigorias Stefanios. Find him on the road to Canon City!

The Final Report of the AA Sylvania

I am making this record of events in the hopes that anyone who might find our crash site will know to leave this place and never return.

My name is Pablo Maria Abajar, renowned pilot and first mate of the Arcane Airship Sylvania. I and the remaining members of my crew have found ourselves crashed here in this icy waste with no means of escape. What was once a complement of fifty men was reduced to twelve by the crash. Now, only three remain. The beast will come for us too, in time.

We first left off from Cape Nabar eighteen days ago on the 18^th of September 1922 with fair weather and a south-eastern destination. Our captain, the Wizard Juan Moreno the Emerald-Eyed, was shipping hundreds of charged mana crystals from the mines on the Isle of Montes. The Sylvania was perfectly suited to this job, since we could fly direct over the Poljari mountains, rather than sail Cape Sul.

After sailing for a day in order to leave Federation airspace, which is reserved for Federal ships, we took to the skies. Captain Moreno fired up the arcane engine, leaving me at the helm as he kept the machine in check with his advanced knowledge. Unlike the arcane engines in a locomotive or an energy plant, the one on the Sylvania was much more complicated and volatile, requiring constant attention and communication with the helm in order to maintain lift, velocity, torque, etc. With the unnerving thrum of the engine pulling the arcane tethers that surrounded the ship to life, I took the ship’s wheel, watching and responding to the captain’s movements as he took control of the machine on the main deck.

We passed over the rest of the Federal waters with ease, making quick time of the journey over the mountains too.

It was there, within eyesight of the Yersine coast, that our journey faltered.

Marius, the lookout, came to me on the morning of the 21^st with tidings of storms. Naturally, I reported immediately to the captain, whose stately office was situated at the stern of the ship. Knocking on the yellow pane of the door, I heard Moreno call me in. “Captain? A storm is on approach sir.” “So?” came the reply. I recommended that we take harbour.

The Wizard captain gave a gruff snort, his black curls shaking as he surveyed his dark office. A cube of black stone was whirring mysteriously on his desk, and he seemed to contemplate for a moment. Having passed over the mountains now, the Sylvania was cruising on its lift-sails, maintaining a steady altitude without the captain’s attention to the engine.

“No,” he said at last.

“??”

“Prepare the arcane engine for my guidance and fetch my apprentice. This cargo is too valuable and dangerous for delays. Thank you, Pablo.”

Hesitantly, I agreed, “Yes, sir.” Then, I went to fetch Fernando Colchas, the Captain’s apprentice of arcane engineering. He kept his quarters in a large black ring about the size of a truck’s wheel. A button on the side notified him of a visitor, and he opened the portal, stooping to exit on account of his muscular frame. His dark suit and apprentice’s cap were completely out of place as he stood there aloof, the rest of the crew hurrying about him.

“Well?”

“The captain has need of you.” I simply said. He would learn the details on his own.

Back on the top deck, I observed the storm was approaching rapidly now. The same winds which ferried its dark and powerful clouds were currently overpowering the warding buffers, lifting some of the ship’s lighter cargo directly into the air as some of the deckhands struggled to maintain control of the situation. I immediately took command, gripping firmly the wheel and bellowing orders to the men on the rigging.

We hauled in the lift sails once we got word that the engines were running and began to raise the specialised storm sheets that Fernando had designed to keep the engine protected. All the while, we sang, Oh Dear Fellow, partly to keep rhythm, but also to steel our nerves against the impending danger.

Then, just as the storm’s first shadow breached upon the prow, two disastrous moments converged. First, Marius called out from on high, “Thundermists!” just as he was mulched into juice by a speeding miasma of grey mist, his dark blood spraying into the atmosphere. There was hardly a moment to lose as a dozen such swirling thundermists flashed across the deck with violent accuracy, and a menacing rustle. Secondly, from deep below our boots came a piercing whistle which seemed to carry out across the black sky and into the mountains. It seemed to build in intensity, a perfect symphony with the frenzied assault occurring above. I sent a deckhand down to the cargo bay to investigate, later discovering that he was annihilated instantly upon breaching the hold, torn to mere atoms by the charged mana crystals we had been hired to ferry. Lucky chap received the better fate of us all. Within a minute, anyone on the main deck had been mutilated, their flesh blitzed by the razor-sharp mists of our assailants so that the storm became a gruesome admixture of sleet and gore in the chaotic winds. Anyone near the cargo was similarly annihilated, their bodies apparently supercharged with lances of unimpeded cosmic energy. I remained at the wheel, firing silvered bullets at any thundering clouds that blew my way. Unfortunately, it was not enough. By this time, the storm had full control of the Sylvania, bludgeoning her through the canyons of storming clouds. With most of the crew slaughtered and the rigging sundered, I could no longer keep the ship upright. We began to plummet dramatically. Most of the surviving crew report blacking out as the arcane airship nosedived. Those of us that survived the crash into the frigid Antarctic waters (by some miracle) were promptly reunited with consciousness. We managed to swim for shore as the AA Sylvania sank with its valuable and dangerous cargo.

Twelve of us reached the beach twelve days ago. The survivors included Pedro the chef, Talia the quartermaster, Antonio the carpenter, and Fernando the arcane apprentice, who reported the captain was slain almost immediately by a bolt of lightning that connected with the engine’s sensitive mechanisms. Between us, we were able to take stock of the few provisions we were able to salvage and set up a camp near the beach. Most of us have survival experience from the Great War, so we were able to fairly easily establish traps and go fishing and hunting in the lush surrounds. Fernando, for his own part, said he could prepare a fairly measly message spell, but that it would take several days before anyone would receive it, since he was essentially inventing the spell from scratch from what he had seen others do. Unclear of the specifics of arcane practice, we simply chose to trust him, leaving the apprentice mage to his studies while the rest of us worked to stay alive. The Sylvania never had a two-way radio, Captain Moreno always insisting upon the superiority of magic. Now, we were left stranded on two accounts of magic’s failings. Still, we felt confident that we could rescue ourselves. Three of the crew members were severely injured, so we resolved to hold position until they were recovered (or the alternative, as Talia supplied), then head North in search of civilisation.

It was the evening of the 23^rd that the beast first made itself known. All through the night, an inhuman screeching was heard. In the morning, all our traps were found empty – bloodied claw marks having rendered the iron parts of each with inhuman strength.

“We cannot stay here,” Ana, one of the cannoneers, announced. “Whatever that thing is, it will come for us next…”

“We have a duty to our companions,” I returned strongly. With the Captain dead, I was automatically the one to take charge, although I knew it would not last.

“Even if they are on a sure path to death…” Talia said, eying the beds where the three infirm lay sleeping.

“Then why wait? I can prepare my spell on the road, and we have a much higher chance of finding more people if we leave now.” This was Fernando, who was becoming characteristically restless.

A dispute quickly broke out, and we eventually resolved to part ways, with five of us (Ana, Fernando, Antonio, Clair, and Iosepine) leaving camp, and the rest staying to tend to the sick.

That night was perfectly silent – devoid of the musings of insects and predators of the night. In the morning, four of the separatists were found by the river. Their skin had been torn off the bodies in messy shreds. The corpses were barely recognisable at all, so that it could not be said who was absent from the veritable mortuary that the riverbed had turned to. Oddly enough, the scene was completely devoid of blood, the raw flesh pale and dry. Talia set to burying them while the other six survivors discussed our options.

“They were butchered, Pablo. We have no hope!” Pedro exclaimed as he passed around the meagre morsels of fish someone had caught.

“I reckon it was Fernando that done it,” said Ms Madrigal, the only surviving engineer, though she was bedridden and suffered burns all on her right side. “Saw his opportunity to off us lesser folk and fled! Only a magical attack could’ve brutalised them like that, and did anybody else notice only four bodies?”

There was a murmur at this. Talia stood up, “Oh for god’s sake people! Don’t let your personal disputes get in the way of what’s happening here! A creature of the night is stalking us, picking away at us like animals; what we need is to increase our defences, maintain a vigilant watch, and now allow ourselves to be splintered again, lest we become weaker and more vulnerable.”

Talia began to take more control after that – she who controls the resources controls the people, after all – and I was pleased enough with her decisions. We were always agreeable, even aboard the Sylvania, her serious attitude and bold disposition giving her the strength and insight to challenge the captain when others could not. So, at the quartermaster’s direction, we established a makeshift cheval de frise about the camp’s perimeter, laying out shattered glass where we could not set down the large wooden stakes. Fenjik, a northerner who happened to know a simple alarm spell, had made a long string out of bark, encircling the entire camp with it just as he had the other nights. If anything passed over that string, a loud and irritating noise would wake them all.

For several nights following, the beast made no appearance at all, and our traps were bountiful. Samanta even improved enough to get out of bed and help in the camp.

By the 29^th of September, after 4 nights without a sign of danger, the other survivors seemed to relax somewhat.

“Well done,” I congratulated Talia. “Perhaps you were right. This beast may see us as too much of a threat now to attack…”

“No.”

We all spun around to look at Fenjik, who had been scaling a fish, not appearing to be listening at all. I shared a look of surprise with Talia – Fenjik almost never spoke, his understanding of our language fairly poor.

“No,” he said again. “Beast full. Beast rest. Silven miri fear nothing.”

We attempted to press him further on what he meant, but it seemed the poor fellow had reached the extent of his glossary. He simply shrugged, returning to his work. None of us knew what a silven miri was, but the word set a sense of unease in us all, and even Fenjik seemed to have an uncharacteristic air of apprehension about him that night as we fell asleep.

The next morning, when I went to tend to Ms Madrigal’s wounds, I discovered she had died in her sleep, succumbing to her wounds. We buried her with the others, just beyond the boundary of the camp. We resolved that as soon as Flavio could walk, we would leave camp.

Over the course of the day, I noticed Pedro watching Fenjik with suspicious glances. When I asked him about it, he simply muttered something about “foreigners and their bunk spells.” How could I have been aware then that Ms Madrigal’s death would mark the end for us all?

That night, when I was keeping watch at the camp’s main entrance, I thought I saw movement in the forest by the lame light of the moon. Drawing my revolver, which only happened to have two rounds left, I began to creep toward the tree line, conscious of the thought that this might leave the entrance open to intruders. As soon as I reached the first tree, a flitter caught my attention, and I heard the distinct sound of rough, bestial panting. Turning to look, I saw three figures, hunched and heaving with unnatural breath. In the delusional haze of that moment, I swore I saw Fernando standing beside Ms Madrigal, their rotting chests heaving with wheezing breaths. I let out a yelp, and before I could catch sight of the third figure, they were all gone.

I went to wake Talia to tell her what I saw, but when we went to investigate Ms Madrigal’s grave, we found it to be undisturbed.

“It must be your nerves, or perhaps guilt.” Talia spoke to me gently, like a mother. She could be kind when she wanted to be. “Don’t blame yourself, Pablo. We’re all doing what we can to survive here. Get some rest.”

I woke to yelling. Rushing over, I saw Pedro in a scuffle with Fenjik, cooking knife in hand. “Nordic scum!” He was shouting as he slashed maniacally at the man’s body. I leapt in pulling the chef off the paler man, but it was too late. Pedro had cut deep, and Fenjik lay dead, blood spreading rapidly on the sand. Still, I kept Pedro on the ground, my knee holding him firmly down as I tossed the murder weapon aside.

“What have you done?!” I shouted. Pedro did not answer. He simply nodded his chin, gesturing over my shoulder to where Talia had come running. She stood over another body, hand over her mouth.

“It’s Samanta,” she exclaimed. “The beast…”

“Not the beast!” Pedro spoke at last. “Fenjik did that…”

I bound the chef by his hands and feet until a decision could be made – he had killed Fenjik, after all. Then, I walked over to Samanta’s body.

She had been brutalised the same as the others – long claw marks streaking down her face and body in filaments of bloodless wounds. She had shrivelled up, her limbs tightening from the blood loss, and her face seemed frozen in terror. It was clear to Talia and me (and to Flavio when we explained to him) that Fenjik was not responsible. So, Pedro remained bound.

“That Nordic bastard did it! I’m sure of it!” Pedro exploded in a string of accusations when I brought him food later. “There was no beast at all – Fenjik used that foolish silven miri nonsense to scare us. He wanted us all dead… Probably a cannibal come to think of it…”

I left the man to his ramblings. Fenjik had been harmless, if a little odd. The poor man’s only sin was that his alarm spell had failed. That troubled me… How had the beast stolen into the camp with all of our defensive measures?

On the night of the 31^st, I finally saw the beast.

I had been sleeping when a soft scuttling sound woke me. Opening my eyes to the darkness, I was met with the sight of a creature the size of a wolf, its long leathery wings clawing at the dirt as it skittered back from me in apprehension. It jumped back as I leapt up from my bedroll, my legs pushing sand as I shuffled backwards from the thing. With an uncanny fwoop, the batlike beast lifted its wings and pulled itself into the darkness above, disappearing from sight. Relieved, I crossed myself and got up, figuring sleep to be impossible after such a fright.

That was when I saw the beast in its full, glorious terror. It was not unlike the winged creature I had seen moments ago, but it was stranger, more human, with greying, leathery skin, and a back bristling with dark fur. Its human-like arms seemed to be gripping something as its head bobbed in a strange rhythm, the back of its obscene skull lifting up occasionally to reveal a scalp of mangled white hair. Silven miri was all my brain could muster before, “HEY!” I shouted in a surprising feat of stupid bravery. It turned to face me at last, its unnatural, bestial features revealed to me in full. The face was not unlike that of an old man, except that its large, mammalian teeth bared as it registered me in the darkness, its red eyes flashing with malicious hunger in the moonlight. Blood was smattered across its pale face, and a thick ring of fur seemed to cover every surface. It smiled a predatorial grin as it dropped its previous quarry and began to stalk purposefully towards me. My heart leapt into my chest as I stared at its approach, paralysed. The bat-like creature which had fled just moments before now landed by its side, apparently newly empowered by its companion’s fearless hunt. As its strange paws touched the sand, it transformed, standing to reveal the nude, furry form of what once might have been identified as Fernando, the apprentice mage of the AA Sylvania. He smiled a similar predatorial grin as he paced slowly toward me behind the dark form of the silven miri, his own bestial teeth showing in a dark and grimy fashion. They seemed to communicate through rough, low speech, a dark glimmer passing in their eyes which never broke from my frozen body.

Suddenly, instinct seemed to take over me. I remembered my revolver, stowed just near my bedroll. Seeing me lunge for it, the beasts began to move more rapidly, but I was quicker, cocking the loaded gun and firing directly into the chest of the larger beast. They both recoiled from the sound of the gun, the larger one dropping to the floor quickly with a squeal of pain. The bestial Fernando quickly caught my eye; fear plastered on his face as I levelled the gun at him next.

“Begone!” I shouted, suddenly empowered by this subversion.

As if in reaction to my command, both beasts froze, then transformed rapidly back into the winged creatures they had been when they arrived, flapping frenziedly as they took to the skies. By now Talia was awake, and she rushed to my side as the sound of their upset cries receded into the forest beyond. Together, we crept cautiously to where the elder beast had been feeding to find…

Pedro’s mutilated corpse, still bound, his face and neck shredded like all the others. The beast had not reached the rest of his body, but he had the same, bloodless scars like pinstripes lining his terrified face. We quickly checked on Flavio, who was alive but still ill, then made to bury Pedro with the rest. We made light work of it; the soil still unsettled from Ms Madrigal’s burial only days before. There was no sign of her body when we put the chef to rest.

The sun was already up by the time we were done. Nobody spoke all day. It is plain to us that there is no hope. Those who tried to flee were killed, those who chose to stay were killed all the same. Somehow, Fernando had been forced (or allowed himself? or even requested?) to become that beast as well.

So, I resolved to make this report, in the hopes that it might prove somehow useful to anyone who might come after us. If you came to this place freely, then I tell you again – leave now, while you can.

Since I began this report, four days have passed. Flavio was taken on the 33^rd, though we tried our best to fend off the beast that was once Fernando. Talia was injured in the tumble, her arm clawed at when she got too close with Pedro’s knife (which seemed to have no effect on the beast). She was killed the night after, unable to defend herself when the beast returned.

I am now alone, with one shot left in my revolver and God at my side. Today is the 36^th of September 1923. If I survive the night, if I defeat or at least scare off the silven, then I will begin the journey north in the morning in the hopes of a better chance at survival. If not, then…

God save the souls of the AA Sylvania.