The Stone of Autroch, Chapter 1
Khadan Jalayir crouched in a bush, staring at the corpse of the Chosen One. A horrid, dripping spine, the length of a forearm pierced the boy’s heart and brought their quest to a very premature end. As if to taunt their failure, the enchanter’s tower where their quest had begun was still visible through gaps in the trees.
The body in the road was Jack Overmarker, a farm boy built like an oak tree. He still gripped a sword in his right hand, a look of surprise on his pale face. Blood soaked the white shirt and pooled beneath him. Khadan emerged from the woods, glancing in both directions and up at the sky.
Creeping from cover, he expected the shriek of the scaly, jackal-headed monsters as they swooped for him. But no such cry came.
Khadan knelt next to the body. “Are you alive?” he whispered.
Jack did not respond.
“I’m just gonna take the Stone of Autroct.”
Jack still did not respond.
Nodding, Khadan fished inside Jack’s trouser pocket, wrapping his fingers around the smooth stone that the old enchanter Gino had given him. He pulled the stone free and held it up in the sunlight. Blue light spread across the surface, solidifying into symbols and letters of some unknown language falling like rain down the surface. Standing up, Khadan dropped the stone into his pocket.
“Well, it was a pleasure travelling with you.” Khadan looked down at the boy. “Even if it was only for an hour. I hope you feel the same and find happiness in whatever afterlife awaits us. Uhm—Good day.”
Turning on his heels, Khadan headed back to where his adventure began. And once he stood before the large wooden doors of Gino’s tower he straightened his back and flattened his doublet. Brushing out the twigs and dust gained from his time spent in the bushes from his leather riding pants. Knocking on the door, he heard it echo inside the empty tower entrance.
There was no response.
Khadan performed another series of knocks, more firm than the first. This prompted the padded shuffling of slippered footsteps. The door creaked open a crack. Dark brown eyes matched to the delicate, ochre skin of Lady Cirina.
“Done already?” she asked in a sharp tone. “Or did you forget your bravery on the doorstep?”
“I do not think I had any bravery to forget. I return because Jack has fallen to the mighty spine of a Drackel,” Khadan replied, solemnly.
Lady Cirina placed fists on her hips, pulling in the loose, grey gown she wore. “What, another one?”
“Yes—,” Khadan answered automatically. “Wait—what do you mean another one.”
Lady Cirina let out a long sigh. She swung open the door. “Come in, Lord Jalayir. You brought the stone back, right?”
“Yes, I have it here in my pocket.”
“That’s good, it’d be a shame if he had to make another one.” Lady Cirina fished a ribbon from her pocket and used it to tie back the tight, dark braids that ran to the small of her back.
“What do you mean another one?” Khadan sputtered louder.
“Never you mind, let’s go speak with Master Gino,” Cirina said, ushering him in and shutting the door. They climbed the spiraling stairs headed for the top of the tower.
“When I started working for the man I expected to learn—well you know—Enchantment. We all dream of making a sword that drops meteors on our bullies, or an amulet that curses whomever wears it. Instead I’ve been nothing but handmaid to that man! Can you believe it? I eek out what wisdom I can but when does the real training start?” She continued in a mocking tone of Gino, “Oh Lady Cirina, please won’t you create an orb of hot water summoning for my bath. Oh Lady Cirina, won’t you watch the chosen one on your crystal ball for me? Mind you, most of them survive longer than it takes for me to sweep up the floor.”
Khadan followed behind her, his mouth ajar. She droned on until they reached the door to the top of the tower and Gino’s office. Knocking on the door, Cirina called out. “Gino, the noble boy is back with the stone. Jack’s dead already.”
They wait for a few seconds. Lady Cirina craned her neck so that her ear hovered above the door. Grabbing the doorknob, she pushed it open to the office of the enchanter. Bookshelves filled the room, stacked to the brim with leather-bound books and knick-knacks of all varieties. On the far side of the room was a desk facing the doorway, a large red chair pointed out the window behind it. Lady Cirina shuffled across the room with Khadan close behind.
“Gino, are you sleeping?” she called from across the room. Rounding the chair, there was Gino, looking as if asleep but unmoving. Grabbing his shoulders, Cirina shook him gently at first, though with increasing intensity as the man did not stir. “Gino are you there?”
He did not move.
She shook more, shouting at him to wake.
He still did not move; nor did his chest rise and fall with breath.
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, trickling down her face. Khadan grabbed an arm and halted her assault of the deceased man. Gentle tears turned to sobs as Lady Cirina collapsed on the floor.
Over the three days that followed, Khadan worked with Lady Cirina to dig two graves near the edge of the forest for the old man and Jack, whom they retrieved from the road with a cart and ox. A coffin had been long prepared in the basement, beside a small tombstone, four handbreadths in length with only Gino printed upon it.
Using ropes and sawhorses, they lowered the coffin of Gino into the ground beside the unmarked grave of Jack Overmaker. Lady Cirina’s tears had dwindled from constant streams on the day of the Enchanters death, to occasional outbursts. These streams of salty water returned in force as the coffin disappeared beneath dirt.
Khadan shoveled the dirt back into the ground while Lady Cirina spoke, “Gino was a kind man, with a good heart. He worked hard to right a world so wrong, dreaming of mending the Tear. He saw the power in all people, and the necessity of teamwork and cooperation. Gino had the power to move mountains, but moved hearts instead. He will be missed, and by my will never forgotten.”
Khadan awoke days later to opalescent hues scattered across the spare bedroom through the random colors of the stained-glass window. Dressing in a simple gray coat and white trousers. A mirror showed his curling black hair had grown in a poofing ball since its last cut weeks ago. Similar hairs grew from his face into a short beard obscuring his sharp features.
As he had done each day since the discovery of late Gino’s will, he climbed the staircase to the office to help sort the goods with Cirina. Papers shuffled beyond the wooden door as though it were an acknowledgement of his tardiness.
Pushing the door open, Khadan called into the room, “Good morning.”
“Finally awake, are you?” Lady Cirina crowed from across the room. “Come here, I have something to show you.”
Rolling his eyes, Khadan crossed the room to the desk. Behind it sat Lady Cirina, dressed in purple robes as she tended to do these last few days. She turned an open scroll towards Khadan. A list of names and locations crossed by red ink ran down the scroll—at closer inspection Khadan noticed that four names remained unmarked. The first of these was the familiar name of ‘Jack Overmark, Stonefall’ followed by ‘Linta Tilden, Peford’; ‘Erasto Opprey, Izteszent’; and ‘Assandra Resvera, Gualis’.
“What is this?” Khadan asked, though realization dawned as he spoke.
“This is the list of Chosen Ones that Gino”—Cirina flinched at the mention of his name—“created years ago after a series of prophetic dreams.”
“How many names are on that list?” Khadan asked, looking at the size.
“That’s not important. What is important is that we can complete his life’s work,” Lady Cirina said, standing.
“We?” Khadan asked, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure I will join? And what of the tower? who will watch it?”
“I am sure you will join because what else would you do? And this tower is not without its magic. When we have departed, the tower will be inaccessible until we return. Gi—there are many powerful enchantments upon it to protect it while we search for the Chosen Ones.” Lady Cirina rolled up the scroll and slid it into a scroll case. “Please prepare for travel.”
“What do you mean I have nothing else to do?” Khadan asked, blood rising. “I am the child of a noble house!”
“Third child—and least favored am I right? Hardly worth the cost; housing a third son.”
“You speak very ill of someone who you wish a great deal from?”
“No, I speak the truth that hurts. If not for me, or yourself, you should do this because you swore an oath to take the Stone of Autroct to the Statue at the End.”
Khadan sniffed, glaring out the window. “That is true. If not for myself, but for my house I should hold my oaths. Very well, my lady. But I must point out one key flaw in your plan. Neither of us is Gino, the Enchanter of the Tower. Convincing a series of children to follow us to almost certain death will be impossible.”
Lady Cirina paused for a moment as she was tying shut the small scroll case. “Did you know what Gino looked like before you met him?”
Khadan opened his mouth, then closed it again before answering. “I did not.”
Lady Cirina raised her eyebrows, giving him a sly smile.
“No! I shan’t!” Khadan shook his head while waving his hands in front of him. “I don’t know Enchantment and the ruse will surely be discovered.”
“I can do any simple enchantments we need, you can claim a bone illness.”
“A bone illness? In one so young as I?”
“You have an artifact of illusion that makes you appear young.”
Khadan stomped his foot. “Lie upon lie! All shall see through this and I will hanged.”
“True, but—counterpoint—I don’t wish for the world to end. So put on your big boy robes, and we will be on our way.” Cirina rose to end the argument, placing a hand up to silence any further thoughts from Khadan. “Grab robes from Gino’s bedroom, we must leave soon for Derry.”
Khadan let out a breath through clenched teeth. “Very well, Lady Cirina—for my oaths will see it done.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. And just call me Cirina, it will be suspicious if you are calling me such a formal name in public,” she replied waving her hand.
“Very well, Cirina.” Khadan stomped from the room.
I am optimistic when it comes to humanity’s survival. The reality is that humans are extremely adaptable. Barring a meteorite impact or multiple super volcano eruptions I believe humanity will survive long into the future.
I do not believe our current society will survive though. When climate refuges flood from the inhospitable equator and from lands now underwater, our way of life will not survive.
Our trajectory does not point us towards opening ourselves to those most in need. Mark my words, these refuges will be treated just as poorly as all refuges are treated now. We are not pointed towards helping each other. We see greedy monsters perched atop mountains of false promises and dream one day of pushing them off to take their place. They tell us that they achieved everything through honest hardwork but it takes only the briefest glimpse to see that small amounts of money divide, large amounts of money multiply. Most of them were never like us to begin with.
Silver spoons passed down from parents to child, generation after generation. Why does everyone not just start life with a trust fund? Why does everyone not just start in wealthy suburbia? Why not just be born to wealthy parents who will give you jobs to stop your tears? Parents that will give you the funds to start your career.
Greed is our trajectory, but money, as has been the case for every civilization, will become worthless. Guillotines and iron rings. We’ve seen this game before.
I said I’m an optimist and I am, because despite all this I still have hope. I see countries where they help the broke. I see countries fight back against tyrrany. I see love and hurt in protestors eyes. We’ve all seen the pictures of what happens when fascism attacks their own students in a public square. When we silence the voices of those who actually care and crush them beneath tanks and shoot them for simply being there.
There are two trajectories fighting one another. One towards caring about humans and one towards caring about profits. Look to the future and at what you will leave behind. Look to what you wish the world would be like. Look to the past, and how we combined. Look to what was left for us after each and every fight. There is only one path that leads towards survival. I only hope we see it before it's too late.
It exists beyond your understanding; but to it you are an old acquaintance.
“What a waste of money,” I mumbled as we exited the tent. Jack gave me a disapproving, sidelong glance. “What?”
“Screw you, Mark. You don’t always have to be such a dick.” Jack shook his head as we returned to the clamour and wafting scents of the carnival. I inhaled deeply, free of the oppressive odor of lavender and smoke inside the purple tent. We passed by a sign, the words Fortune Teller painted on it. It declared a fee of a measly five dollars for all the nonsense a self-proclaimed astrologist could handle.
“I’m not always a dick,” I replied, shoving my hands in my pockets to shield them from the wind. “I just know a pile of bullcrap when I see it.”
That was three days ago. That was the first time I saw it.
We were leaving the fairgrounds. Jack had already left with his little sister, while I waited for my parents to meet me at the exit. In the midwest, podunk town of Lansbury, the carnival is the only real excitement we have all year. Everyone and their extended family show up. When I saw the figure creeping around the edge of the woods, I just assumed it was someone’s drunk cousin out for a piss.
The forest was dark. Fall had not yet robbed the trees of their leaves, and the setting sun beyond the canopy could not penetrate the dense greenery enough for me to make out the form. It was certainly humanoid; walking on two legs with two arms dangling down from a thin torso. Although I was about 100 feet away from it, on the other side of a parking lot... I could see something wasn’t quite… right. Its gaunt form was hunched forward, as if it were only bones.
At one point, it seemed to stop and turn to face me. If I could have made out its eyes in the shadows, I feel that our gaze would have met. It was in that moment that fear gripped me. Something in its stillness seemed to tell me it was surprised that I could see it. It stood motionless, with a strange curiosity that someone was watching it. I froze. After a moment, it turned away, stalking back into the forest. As it left, I took note of its peculiar proportions. The arms were not just long - they stretched from its shoulders to its ankles. It was as though it lacked a gut completely as its legs stretched up to its chest.
Although its physical form vanished back into the dim forest, the memory of that moment has haunted me endlessly, as if playing on repeat ever since.
Two days ago, I saw it again. Or at the very least, I believe I heard it. I was at home and my parents had already left for their date night. I was in the living room, watching television when I was startled by a tap on the window. Dread gripped me, tearing at my mind as memories of the creature flooded back.
Memory can be confabulated. Over time, your mind fabricates, distorts, and misinterprets the past until it’s no longer the same as reality.
Not this time. It was as if at the moment, I realized that the shadows of the forest were not as defined as I remembered. I could see it clearly now. The veil was lifted. In my improved memory, it was daylight. I was at the exit. No, the entrance. We were entering the park when I saw the creature, lurking behind one of the carnival’s tents. It watched me as its seven long fingers gripped and distorted the tent’s fabric. It’s pale, bulbous face scrutinized my movements with beady black eyes. Their piercing gaze tracked my entrance into the carnival before it stealthily released the fabric and disappeared.
At the window followed another set of rhythmic taps.
Motionless, I kept my eyes fixated on the television as I tried to pretend what I was hearing wasn’t actually real. A single booming rap ended the barrage of taps. Silence followed. I laid my head down on the couch as the television’s lights danced across me, and after a sleepless night, morning finally arrived. I checked my phone to see that my parents had sent me a text to let me know that they had booked a hotel room downtown to avoid driving home late.
I glanced up at the window, and with all my courage, I pulled back the curtains. What greeted me was a curious imprint. A bird. I could discern the head, wings, and body impressed on the glass in a chalky white color. I walked outside and saw where it had landed and scrambled around in the mulch beneath the windowsill. It wasn’t there now.
Yesterday, it came again. I was in my room, while my parents were sound asleep in their bedroom. I heard the sound of the door slowly groaning open. I wasn’t asleep and I don’t know how anyone could be. It’s deliberate footsteps grew louder, closer to me, until it stood beside my bed. I couldn’t look at it. I kept my eyes shut.
Above the blankets, I felt the cold, clammy flesh of seven fingers grab my hand. It slipped something into my palm… something metallic and a strange warm dampness.
"You weren't supposed to remember," it whispered. "You weren't supposed to see." Its voice was sweet and melodic. It wasn't like how I remembered it.
I could remember it now. The tent it hid behind while gripping its purple fabric. The fortune teller’s sign out front that had pulled my attention. It introduced itself to me, telling me its name is Jack and that it would like to take me to see the fortune teller. I was frightened, because I already knew what lurked inside. There was no carnival. There was only dusky forest, with us deep inside its unlit grasp.
I had pulled back the curtain and stepped inside when I felt Jack’s seven-fingered hand grip my arm. Terrified, I could clearly recall its voice. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t remember a thing.’ It rasped, its breath grating and deliberate. I wasn’t supposed to remember anything. I wasn’t supposed to see it. That’s why it hunted me.
That’s why it killed my parents.
“What do you think, Crawlly?” Captain Aimsfield’s voice was soft; sympathetic. From behind the one-way mirror, they watched him and heard his blubbering sobs.
“A psychotic break. How else would you explain it?” She took a drag of her cigarette as she looked at the captain across the table. “No fingerprints other than his own on the knife and a completely nonsensical story to boot. The fact is that Mister and Misses Gordon are dead. They’ve been dead for three days, yet he says two days ago they were very much alive and out on a date. And there’s no carnival in Lansbury - there hasn’t been one for years. Not a single person named Jack has any connection to him. You saw his written confession, didn’t you? He had a death grip on it when they found him.”
“I saw the sheet,” Aimsfield replied while tapping the table with his fingers.
“I don’t know if he even knew we were in there with him when he was talking,” Crawlly said, her eyes wandering to the preteen boy in the interrogation room. “How many times has he recited the story now?”
“Seven times.” He replied quickly.
“And each time, exactly the same recount?”
“Then I don’t see any other option than to institutionalize him.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” The captain was massaging his temples now. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”
The captain paused, his eyes locked with Crawlly’s. “The bite marks on his neck.”
Second Person Story Intro
Toxic gas fills the chamber, choking your lungs. Light streams through the singular porthole to the outside of the ship, the bright blue light of the star outside illuminating the deadly yellow haze. You feel the drifting of your massive metal coffin, the star ship Bauldair drifting forever through space. Stomping boots echo around you, growing closer each second.
Do you still hold on?
Do you give in to the darkness?
In these last moments, what do you think of? Family? Friends? Your old life on Earth?
Against the haze, a shadow appears. Blotchy darkness against the blue light. Your throat is in excruciating pain, your voice lost long ago to the poison.
Do you struggle?
The shadow approaches your body and places an object against your back. You hear a voice call out, the voice distorted by the figures suit and incomprehensible due to your pain. As you feel yourself slipping from consciousness you hear a voice whispering into your ear, “Thank you.”
The first thing you hear is beeping, over and over again. Just beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep… Hundreds of beeps accost you as you slowly drift from unconsciousness back to reality. The next sound that you can make out is a regular clicking noise, each click followed by rushing air. Click, woosh, click, woosh… These sounds continue for what feels like hours.
Gravity begins to give you a sense of direction, it tells you that you are lying down. Something is pressed against your back and head. You feel tightness all across your body, something held against your skin. The sensation is subtle, hardly noticeable. You drift between sleep and lucid consciousness as time ticks away, the beeping ever present.
It is hours, maybe days before your mind begins to become coherent, though the past is a hazy mess of disconnected thoughts.
Is it an effect of the toxic?
Did that actually happen?
Your body begins to ache as if triggered by your thoughts. A painful sensation crawls across your skin like laying in a pool of infected blood. Your eyes snap open and reality crashes upon you. As your eyes dart from corner to corner of the room, you piece together where you are. A hospital, laying in a hospital bed with the lights off. The only light in the room comes from the beeping device, a squid looking computer with wire tentacles stuck to your body, measuring you carefully. The word ‘Error’ fills most of the screen, blinking in time with the beeps.
On one side of the room is a cabinet with a counter. A sink sits centered next to containers of swabs and rags. With immense work you are able to sit up and take better stock of the room, seeing the closed door on the other side of the room and see yourself in the mirror against the wall.
It’s a tall mirror, allowing you to see your entire body as you lay in the hospital bed. Your face is obscured by a breathing apparatus, the device that is making the clicking sound. You recognize it, one of your friends aboard the ship had to wear one when their lungs collapsed.
When did it happen?
Did it even happen?
A headache assaults you as you think back to your past. Images assault your eyes, disconnected thoughts all fighting each other to be the focus of your attention and none succeeding. One thought begins to take root stronger than the others, a singular purpose forcing other thoughts away, though the purpose is unclear you feel a deeper connection to the thought. Something primal that drives you. A number that is core to your being. The numbers 2548 and 1597.
Why are they important to you?
What do they mean?
Why do you care about them?
The numbers sit centered in your mind.
I wrote this a while ago, and this is as far as I wrote. One of the problems faced with making a 2nd person story is that you have to predict what everyone might do given the situation. My friend gave me the idea to ask the reader questions to help guide them to the thoughts you want them to have at the specific point in the story. Hope you enjoyed it!
Untitled Science Fiction Project, a short section
They say we are alone. Horribly, and utterly alone. How can it be, amongst the hundreds of millions of stars in the galaxy there is not one single life form that can contest us for galactic supremacy? Humanity spreads from planet to planet finding only remnants; finding only the collapsing remains of civilizations past.
They say we are alone.
“Name?” The PDF officer tapped his finger against a tablet his eyes hidden behind a darkly tinted visor. His mouth was hidden behind the helmet which fully engulfed his head. It connected to the tight black suit that he wore beneath his red and yellow carapace armor. Emblazoned on each piece of his equipment was the emblem of the Planetary Defense Force. The symbol shown most prominently on his left breast, and the sides of his helmet. It showed Earth; as it was known when man first found itself in need of a force to defend against galactic raiders, a blue and green marble with the letters PDF arching over it.
“Robin Denholm,” came the voice of the woman who stood opposite him. She was clothed in a tight jumpsuit made for space travel, and like most of the passengers had a helmet cradled in front of her. The air on the recently discovered Cimmerian was Earth-like which meant colonists had been pouring from Pop Planets to get a piece of nature. The guard checked the picture displayed on his tablet, taken when the passengers had left port three weeks ago. She had kept her haircut mostly the same, shaving one side and keeping the rest of the brunette hair long enough to drop past her shoulders. She wore a confident smile, the light lines of future crows feet next to her brown eyes showed the commonality of the look. According to the document, Robin Denholm was now 26 and possessed a doctorate in Xenoarchaeology from the University on Persephone.
“Place your hand on the tablet please,” the guard asked as he tipped the surface towards her. The screen went blank for a moment has Robin’s hand gently touched the cold surface. It blinked green and the guard pulled it back.
“Genetics check out, you’re cleared for entry,” the guard nodded. “Welcome to Cimmerian Misses Denholm.”
“Thank you,” Robin piped cheerfully before continuing past the checkpoint.
She had watched the landing through a window, marveling at the greens and browns of the planet. As she stepped through the metal doors of the landing bay, she stopped in amazement as the sight of untamed wilderness dazed her. She had learned of it, of course, the wilderness that had once existed on Earth is the point of many university classes. But to see it, to actually feel a real breeze blowing through her hair left her speechless. Large, hard-bodied plants rose around her like the skyscrapers of her home, but without the manmade order she was accustomed; trees, she knew. Though they were not found on Persephone, having been replaced by machines that could create breathable air at a far higher volume than even an entire planet of trees. But manufactured air was missing something that she did not know existed. The air here was crisp, no longer artificially purified to be perfect, and this imperfection was wonderful.
The ground crunched beneath her feet, a far cry from aluminum walkways she walked in her youth. It had a satisfying give as she sank slightly with each step. Though people milled about the port, the sounds of animals was distinct beneath the chatter. Their calls cut sharply through the noise and added the final touch to complete the image of a tranquil, untouched world in Robin's mind.
Lifting her hand palm up in front of her, a massive panel filled her vision as if projected by her hand. It wasn't, instead her contact lenses created it in her vision. The hand movement was just a command to let her cybernetic computer know she that this what she wanted to see. The panel displayed a user interface of her own design. Widgets and apps placed in a way that she found appealing. Her email was the largest and most central piece of this information. Neatly organized by sender, level of importance, and subject matter she quickly found the email she was looking for, an email from one Dr. Karrell.
As he was one of the leaders in the area of Xenoarchaeology, Robin had been courting a business relationship with the man in the hopes of becoming his protege. After a year it had finally worked. A few weeks ago he had sent her email proclaiming he had made an incredible find on this recently discovered exoplanet, and he wanted her help. Leveraging some of her connections at the University, she had found out that what he had found wasn't clear, but the directors of the school had given him a sizable grant to work on it. If this went well, Robin knew she could potentially work on this her entire life. Paying for her to work until retirement wouldn't even put a dent in the money that was available to Dr. Karrell. To say she was excited would be an understatement.
G’lmesh is afoot
Outside I looked, into dark grey soot,
Until I was shook, by the ragged look,
Of a man that stepped to my door from the soot.
Oh how I remember the day, I remember the rain
I remember the day, that Gunter came.
He said, "Gunter's the name! Hunting’s the game
And I wish to stay, only one day.
I wish to wash away all the stains."
I said, "Of course, my friend,
As long as you need!
But what are you hunting on Merrigold Street?"
"We have no beasts," I told
"And hardly a deer in this cold.
So what do you hunt on Merrigold Street?"
"G'lmesh is afoot!" said the Hunter.
"I mustn't stay put!" said Gunter the Hunter.
"If I fail to find him your town is kaput!"
I said, "G'lmesh is not known to me,
Is that the name of bird or a flea?
Or maybe the name of a book or a tree?"
With a shake of his head
And a laugh Gunter said,
"G'lmesh is none of those.
He is a creature of old!
With skin like ash, that sheds in the wind,
He can only be seen by those with great sin,
As the mist grows, he will seek those within,
Flaying and slaying and stealing more skin."
"What horror!" I cried.
"Will any survive?"
"Yes, yes," he said.
"I have hunted much worse!"
"The Drorse of Concorse,
and the Curse of the Herse,
All the way off in the city of Converse!"
Gunter the Hunter laughed again and he said,
"There is little terror left for me in this world.
I see into the nightmares as the corners unfurl,
The link is weakening between or world and theirs.
Those who live in the other plane,
Wish only to hurt and wish only for pain.
Fear not my friend, for soon it'll be slain.
I promise that you, and your kind will never reign."
It was here that I saw, he had loaded his gun,
It was here that I snarled and started to run.
Though I was quick,
He was much quicker.
I felt the sting of silver, and down around I spun.
"G'lmesh is afoot, but it's simple you see,"
The voice of the Hunter was coming closer to me.
"The soot is a circle, centered on you,
I gave you a chance, it was the least I could do.
The seams on your skin, was the very clear clue.
I knew, this is G'lmesh when I was staring at you."
"You will regret this Gunter," I cried.
And the pain did subside.
His face melted away,
My flesh started to slide.
"You will regret this Hunter," I screamed.
The world disappeared,
Back to the darkness,
Where the light does not peer.