by wishing@mail.tele.dk

The Ferrymen of Oblivion are often mistaken to be the generals of the Shadow-eaten by ignorant Helldivers and the few other foolhardy wraiths that venture into the Labyrinth. A classification of that kind does them a great injustice however - their allegiance lies not with the denizens of the Labyrinth, yet in some ways they are closer to the nature of it than any Malfean.

The Pasiphae are spectres, no doubt, yet they are unique, powerful, and exalted beyond any Shade or Nephwrack. The reason for this is simple - unlike their lesser brethren, the Pasiphae are pure Shadow, having no Psyche to torment them and make them long for elusive life. A Pasiphae is not a wraith claimed by Oblivion as is traditional of the Shadow-eaten, but is created by a process known only to the society of Ferrymen, a process known as the Ritual of Severance. The ritual has the effect of corporally and permanently separating a wraith from his Shadow. The Angst of the process itself creates a Corpus for the released Shadow, which is physically identical to that of his former Psyche - only the taint of Oblivion sets it apart. The only wraiths who have had this fate inflicted upon them have been Ferrymen, and every Shadow released as a result has entered the ranks of the Pasiphae.

Despite their ignominious birth, they are more than the discarded Shadows of the Ferrymen, much much more. Their foremost purpose is to lead the worthy to salvation in the arms of the Void. The Pasiphae deserve their title Walkers of the Labyrinth, as their intuitive mastery of the Hive-Mind makes every nook and cranny of Hell known to them. Whatever corner they turn leads to the mouth of the Void, if they so desire. Their secondary goal is to spread Oblivion in its purest form, often foiling the plans of over-ambitious Nephwracks or Malfeans if they defy the principles of entropy. They know emptiness of the soul like none other, from their lack of the martyrous Psyche. The scythes of the Pasiphae are feared and worshipped as the chosen tools of the Void, as befits the Pasiphae’s role as champions of Oblivion itself. But beyond these bans, the desire to harry and torment the Ferrymen that had them imprisoned for so long is present in nearly all of these creatures. Knowing that their repressed perversity and worst nightmares walk the Underworld, causing havoc and spreading despair, is the unspoken tragedy of every Ferryman.

Most Pasiphae share similar elements of their appearance. Corrupted versions of the scythes of the Ferrymen are nearly uniform, but the image of these can vary. Some are delicately ornate, some are broken and shattered, yet nearly all are horribly rusted from the tear of Oblivion. Similarly, their robes lacerate and lose color rapidly in the Labyrinth, giving them a ragged and leprous look. Suits of armor and protruding spikes have been seen as well, all tarnished, painful, and deadly beyond mere words.

Saints of the Shadow-eaten
The Pasiphae are a source of fear and admiration in the Labyrinth that rivals that of the Neverborn. They should not be portrayed as player characters, yet they are individuals with certain similarities that make them possible to classify, even within the boundaries of rules and dots.

Pasiphae have the same relationship rules-wise with their Ferrymen reflections as all spectres do to the wraiths they used to be. They gain the same powers and weaknesses from the Ritual of Severance, making them immune to mind control, able to store 20 points of Angst rather than 10, and so on. Immediately after the separation, a newborn Pasiphae has the exact same statistics as his Ferryman. Additionally, the following rules apply:

• Pasiphae are eyeless and voiceless. They can sense their way around the Labyrinth and the Tempest without eyesight, yet their lack of voice is a distinct handicap. They can only communicate via the Hive-Mind, and so only with other spectres and the Ferrymen. This can be done for free, without the need to expend Angst.
• The Castigate score of 5 required to become a Ferryman is converted to a Hive-mind score of 5 in the Ferryman’s Pasiphae. This includes all possible arts within the Dark Arcanos. Also note that Pasiphae are immune the Hive-mind arts of other spectres, as if Unity of Being was in effect at all times.
• Up to 7 points of the Ferryman’s other Arcanoi may be converted to Dark Arcanoi on a one-to-one dot basis following the Ritual of Severance.
• A Pasiphae retains the Dark Passions of his Ferryman. If all of the Pasiphae’s Dark Passions turn out at 3 dots or lower, then the highest is increased to 4 at the cost of the same amount of dots from the lowest Dark Passion he possesses.
• A Pasiphae has even greater difficulty than the Ferryman in reaching the Skinlands, in fact he cannot do so at all. It is impossible for Pasiphae to perceive or affect the Skinlands. Being in the Shadowlands tears away his Corpus at a rate of one temporary point per scene/hour. During a heavy Maelstrom (level 3+) this limitation is lessened, or ignored.

In addition, the Walkers of the Labyrinth utilize many arcane powers and Artifacts fueled and created by pure Angst and Bloodfire. Among these are alloyed versions of the Dark Arcanoi… let your imagination loose.

by wishing@mail.tele.dk

Below and beyond the Shadowlands, in the space and non-space known to the living ghosts as the Tempest, the storm grew fiercer. In the realm of the dead emotions were physical reality, the winds composed of shrieking frustration and despair that whipped the sea of regret and misery, of Shadows, into a foaming frenzy. The few dead eyes that watched the sea saw the storm as a furious writhing mass of currents, like torrent of black and grey, growing and vanishing and enveloping the beholder. The water below the winds seemed darker and solid, but much the same feeling of something you would never escape from.

A wraith was lost in this very storm. Her body was adrift on the waves clinging to the shredded ghost of a mattress, as both had fallen through the cracks of the familiar surface world. Their essence was battered and lacerated. Her Shadow, feeble but sadistic, whispered continuously in her mind of cowardly despair and misery. The continuous assault of the storm was ready to overwhelm her, to drag her to Oblivion, when she felt another presence closing. As it came, the winds grew docile and the sea stopped churning. When she opened her eyes she saw a light and focused on that. It seemed like a small star, but it hung from a curved pole and illuminated both her and the small reed boat that carried it. She felt herself letting go of the mattress, and an arm helping her into the vessel, and with the last of her energy spent she curled up in a comatose slumber.

When she regained consciousness, the first thing she saw was the calmness of the black water below. Next was the small and flimsy boat she was resting in, and the shape that was holding up the light she remembered as her savior. She sat up and backed away to the prow of the small boat, while watching the figure with curious fear. She wondered if what she saw was not conjured up by her subconscious mind to inspire terror, as it matched the image of the Grim Reaper she never saw back when she died. The black robes and cowl seemed to hide a tall and gaunt human male, and the long curved scythe rested calmly in the man’s hands as he used it to pole the boat across the water. His face was covered in shadow.

"There’s no need to be afraid." The figure spoke in a thin amorphous voice, the sound as grim and theatrical as its owner, the accent indistinguishable. "I won’t harm you. Consider yourself a guest of mine, for now."

The female wraith had to examine the words in her head for several long seconds before she was able to accept them. She had not heard words like these for an eternity, she felt, nor had she spoken them herself.

She had to cough a little before she was able to reply, kicking her plasmic body back into civilized function. "Thanks." Her English was northern Britain and middle-class. Her word was followed by a pause, in which she thought she probably had more to say than that. "I don’t know why you pulled me up from there, but I appreciate it and will pay you if that’s how it works." She managed to surprise herself by the last addition to the sentence. She was used to her subconscious playing tricks on her, through the whispers of her Shadow, but this felt different. Her Shadow seemed to be cowering in fear inside her, and something higher having taken its place.

The Ferryman nodded. "Good. But in due time."

The following silence did not sit well with the wraith, and after a while she spoke again, with the safest approach she could think of. "My name is Sibyl."

The Ferryman nodded again. He took one hand from the scythe, and with it made a slow sweeping gesture to draw her attention to the ocean around them. "And where do you wish me to take you, Sibyl?" He let his hand linger for a second, letting her eyes and mind focus, then returned to moving his vessel along.

Sibyl only now noticed that the storm, which she had assumed had died down, was still raging in full force, only the wind and water both became placid as they came within a few yards of the boat and the figure. She was momentarily stunned by the sight.

When she had convinced herself that she was safe, she slowly turned to her cowled benefactor, and answered his question while staring at his pale, though not skeletal, hands.

"I was in London just before we set out… I just want to go back. Can you take me there? The Shadowlands of London. Please." Her voice wavered a little with painful and violent memories, but she remained in control and set her goal with determination. Her host only nodded his head and continued on the course. Sibyl sat in the boat quietly, staring at the lashed reeds at her feet.

After a time Sibyl looked out at the waters and saw jagged rocks breaking the water’s surface, followed by reef and what looked like a small island. The Ferryman stopped the boat’s slow movement and inclined his head down towards her, and spoke. "Follow the path up the shore of this islet, and it will lead you to a portal, a nihil that will take you towards your destination." She nodded her head and felt her head grow light at the expectation of going back, to being able to see the places she knew rather than the endless searing tempest. He continued. "As for payment - I’ll require only a memory." Sibyl tore her gaze from the rocky shore to look at the gaunt Ferryman with a mix of gratitude and surliness. "What kind of memory…?" she asked.

"There’s a reason you ended up where you did, needing my help. You were fortunate, you companions were not. I require the memory of those you traveled with." He paused. "They will not be forgotten."

A few tears started to flow from Sibyl’s eyes while she stared into the boat with fury, but eventually her initial quenched rage at the suggestion was replaced by a quiet acceptance. She stood still, nodded, and a few seconds later it was over. She stepped over the side of the boat and into the low water.

She could feel the carnivorous winds again once she had left the boat, but close to the island they were less fierce, and she stumbled onto the shore feeling less safe but closer to returning to sanity from this nightmare.

The ground beneath her feet felt like porous dirt, and huge serrated rocks littered the uneven surface. Ahead of her was a vague beaten path. She turned her head and looked back towards the Ferryman and his vessel, but all she could see was the storm. She sighed, and started walking.

After a minute or two of walking uphill Sibyl felt that she was reaching the summit of the island, and further ahead she could see a construction against the tempestuous skyline. It looked like a stone cairn, oval boulders balanced on each other to form a heavy tripod. Something else was closer, however, and demanded her full attention. Halfway between her and the cairn stood the figure that had just transported her and left her on this island, or something nearly identical. She recognized the cloak, the cowl and the scythe, only the lantern was missing. Curious but wary, she approached and called out.

"Hello again.. is something wrong?" As she got closer she was certain that the shape of the one before her was identical to that of the boatman, but other details didn’t fit. This robe seemed dirtier, and the scythe was rusty and battered. She paused. "Can I help you?"

The figure made its first movement and looked towards her. Its face, as the other one, was covered in darkness. It proceeded to raise its arm and extend a hand towards her methodically. She noticed the fingers as being torn and rent, the tips being nothing but bone, as the index finger bid her to come closer. Sibyl froze, her senses and spine tingling, struck by a sudden and paralyzing terror.

From within the deepest recesses of her mind, Sibyl felt the presence she had been able to ignore since her rescue well up and sink its claws into her soul, as if her brain was shot through with barbed thorns. Her Shadow’s voice thundered in her ears, telling her to get on her knees and submit. She screamed, but without sound. She wanted to run, but stood still. All she could hear was the slavering hiss of her dark side taking over, flexing her limbs and turning her head to look at the cowled figure. She could feel the mental command of the thing, in the same voice as the boatman, to come closer and follow. She watched as the figure made the ground in front of it crumble, falling into a black pit seemingly leading below the world, below the Tempest. She watched the figure half-walk half-crawl into the hole, and felt herself follow willingly, spurred on by her Shadow. As the Labyrinth embraced them, the ground above them grew closed, leaving the island deserted and only the Tempest to mourn her catharsis.

by darklavier@hotmail.com

I remember my death.

As one of the Quick I lived in Tasmania, an island 40 degrees south of the equator, nestled beneath Australia. Things were changing all around me: the government had proposed the damming of the Franklin River, and environmentalists such as Bob Brown gained their notoriety through placing themselves in the path of destruction. I myself was arrested twice for refusing to clear the area when ordered by police, my arms forced behind my back, cold steel closing over my wrists as I was thrown into the back of the van. For the duration of the long drive to the jail I caused trouble the only way I could: I lashed out with my feet, slamming them into the wall behind the driver in a steady rhythm until the ache in my legs grew too much.

After what seemed like an eternity staring at the dull white walls of my cell, my brother Paul arrived and paid my bail.

"Thanks for this, Paul," I smiled sheepishly. Paul was the richer of us two: his choices in life were the better ones, and through diligence and hard work he’d assured his future. I on the other hand, had pursued my own interests through my school years, usually ones that resulted in violence."Ah, don’t fret over it," he grinned. "I’m sure your time will come to set me free…"

It was one in the morning when I got into the fight that killed me. I’d just left the Hope and Anchor pub and was weaving my way up the street when I could make out two figures walking towards me. They seemed friendly enough, right up until they punched me in the stomach and robbed me as I lay in the cold gutter. Trying to get up, the pain bled slowly into me, just as my life was dripping slowly away. My last thought, at least the one I could remember, was feeling the hole in my stomach and seeing the black blood smeared across my fingers and suddenly realizing that I’d been stabbed.

Then, darkness. Then a dream, of light and shadow, eternity crammed into a breath, pain. Things cleared and I lashed out as I realized I was surrounded by masked men, armed with swords, and even managed to take one down with me before I felt the familiar clamp of iron around my wrists. This was different, though - the chill of the metal seeped into my bones, sapping my will. This time, although I wanted so badly to lash out with my feet, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just relax, I heard a voice say in my head. Don’t fight. It’ll all be over soon.

The men marched me along a road nowhere on earth, a road that wound through a howling dark mist and lead to a city I could only have seen in my nightmares. I was sold for a handful of coins that seemed to weep at my fate.

I spent some years as a faithful slave before my master succumbed to his own darkness, and I returned to to the city of Hobart. I was shocked how much the city had changed in my absence - the buildings I recognized seemed grimy with the weight of time, and new ones stood stark, glittering and utterly alien. I walked through streets full of haggard, drawn faces that stared through me, passed by cars in odd new designs. Soon I came to the place where I had been informed the Citadel was located: in life, the Women’s Prison of South Hobart had been little more than four sandstone walls and a memorial to the horrors of the past, but now in death the building loomed as foreboding and forbidding as the day it was built.

Service in the Grim Legion was pleasant enough for me. I learnt how to make my sword scream as I swung it: I learnt of the horrifying Spectres, the creatures of oblivion that would emerge in the city as harbingers of sorrow and pain. Every week I would receive my Oboli, the coins still weeping for me as I took them. I watched friends fall, enemies rise, all concealed behind masks. Between patrols I would sit and watch my younger brother (now older than I ever was) go about his life, and I would devour his joys and sadness like fruit. Sometimes, when he was alone and drunk, he would whisper my name, bury his face in his hands, and weep. My fingers would not dry his tears, my arms held no comfort.

I wasn’t there the Sunday afternoon he went to Port Arthur, and what if I was? It would have been illegal to intervene, it would have cost me everything. Martin Bryant took a Russian sniper rifle he had trained himself to shoot from the hip with, entered the Broad Arrow Cafe and killed twenty people in as many seconds. My brother, I heard later, had thrown himself in front of a young girl: the bullet had plowed through both their skulls, shattering them like porcelain. Women, children, elderly, my brother. More souls for the Grim Legion. The echoes of the gunshots reached the citadel, and beyond that rose the winds of a storm. My troops went about sealing the Citadel as efficiently as they had been taught.

Holding the position of Regent enabled me to pull certain strings, and I was able to both investigate if my brother had been reaped and by whom, as well as quietly stand aside while enraged victims took their vengeance from beyond the grave on the mind of the man who now sat giggling quietly in a solitary cell. But neither the Empire, nor the local renegades, nor a heretical cult seemed to have claimed my brother as their own. Even more puzzling, after I had spoken to a woman who had not survived the massacre, she claimed to have seen my brother swallowed up by the tempest itself.

Wracked with grief, I retired to my private chamber to try and plead the voice in my head to stop. I wished I could cry real tears, I wished I could bleed. "You were never there for him, you just sat and watched like he was an actor in a play. Well now the show’s over, and guess what? You missed the end…"

The voice stopped abruptly, and it took a moment for me to realize that my aide Steven was in the room.

"Pardon my intrusion sir, but I feel we must talk about something."

"Not now Steven, please. Some other…" I looked into Steven’s eyes and stopped - his eyes seemed to smolder darkly with a force that drove a chill into my spine…

Inside my mind a voice sighed happily.

I leapt out of my chair and drew my soulsteel sword, edging around my desk waiting for the imposter to attack, but it simply cocked it’s head to one side and smiled. Reaching up to it’s face, it molded and shaped it’s features until I could see the true face of the assassin who had come to claim me.

"Peter?"

"Hello David."

I couldn’t speak.

"You haven’t changed at all since you died." He smiled again, a hollow smile, predatory and jealous. "I came to you because I need your help."

"Peter… you’re a spectre… I have to kill you…" I hefted my blade, ready to strike. "I have to kill you…"

"David…" Peter stepped a little closer. It was him, it was his face, but it was drawn with lines of pain and anguish. He walked bent forward as if there was something eating away at him inside. And his eyes, once the a rich brown like our mothers, were now holes as black as grief that seemed to suck the warmth out of me.

"Please David… you don’t understand how much this hurts. I don’t want to feel anything anymore: I don’t want to care anymore. I want it all to end. I want Oblivion." He walked towards me, gripped my shoulders. I stared helplessly into his eyes, once the color of a summer sky, now black as despair. "I can hear It in my head. I can hear all of Them in my head. It promises to take me if I destroy the Silent Book. You said you’d set me free once, remember?"

I remembered the manacles around my wrists.

A Regent is not questioned. A Regent has access to keys, rooms, equipment. A Regent is not questioned, except by those higher up the chain who are easy enough to avoid. The Silent Book was a vital tome in use by the Castigator of the citadel: He was the last of his philosophy, and he and the book were all that was left. The loss of it would mean no means for spiritual cleansing in the Necropolis.

A Regent is not questioned.

Peter stood facing me, the roaring of the tempest echoing from the black chasm behind him. When I gazed down into the abyss, I almost felt as if there were eyes looking back at me. Peter took the book from me, held it to his chest and began to weep. I held him close to me, feeling the cover of the book squirm between us.

"Peter…"

"Mmm?"

"You said you could hear Oblivion… what does It say?"

He pulled back and smiled at me, one last sad smile. "It said we’d be together soon," and then he threw himself back into the tempest, and I lost him again.

Without the book, darkness looms all around. The Castigator himself was the first to go. The laughter in my head grows stronger every day, and it is now a race to see whether my shadow or my superiors destroy me first. But I have found a solution: I will go to the Nihil and throw myself into the Tempest, and I will sink beneath the screaming winds into the cold embrace of Oblivion.

My brother awaits me there.

by boswok@aol.com

I thought that I had led a basically good life; there was no reason for me to show up here, across the "shroud". I wanted so much more, though. My lady and I had been married for three weeks, but we’d been engaged for two years and together so much longer. I wanted to give her the world, to turn life into a fairy tale. That wasn’t going to happen like I’d planned.

It was odd to be engaged for so long back then, but I had no money; and I couldn’t take the life I wanted. Mother had raised me to be a doctor; father was a clergyman who devoted everything to me. Things would have gone well if I’d had a keen eye and a steady hand. The profession just wasn’t a practicality for me. After a few years of business school, I learned that my professors thought that I had no potential. I was disheartened but not destroyed. Not so my parents. Father grew weak as I took a job as a clerk; he died in his sleep after I’d been working for three years in this position. Mother grew bitter after father died; she disowned me when I met my Elisabeth.

She was, quite frankly, the best and most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. The daughter of a rural landowner, she was nonetheless considered to be of privileged class. We met in a café by chance; we fell in love by what I call design. I worked hard to be worthy of her hand in marriage. It took a long time, but after many long months her father finally did accept me. It took time to save enough to pay for the wedding, but she was even more patient than I. The wedding was small but dignified; her parents were pleased despite their former dreams. My mother didn’t even respond to the wedding invitation.

After all of our toil, we were finally rewarded with the bliss of marriage. I loved her more than I could have said; I was happy because of her and for no other reason. I wondered for the longest time why it had to end so suddenly. When our honeymoon had concluded, I received a message telling me that I was needed out of town for a few days. It seemed odd that I’d be requested for work outside of town; but I was told that the city I was being called to was short-handed, and that I had been well recommended. I wondered who had recommended me, but was excited to hear that I would be compensated with a sizable pay bonus for making the trip. Elisabeth didn’t mind and I had a mind to save a bit of extra money; so, I accepted in earnest.

It was a two-day trip by carriage in which I surveyed much of the land. At some point during the second day I dozed off in the carriage. I never woke up.

The next thing I saw was a distorted view of the land. My vision had been warped by something translucent, covering my face. I found that I couldn’t move; my covering stretched across my whole body. I seemed to be floating; and I remained there, dreaming, for quite some time. At some point, the curtain parted; and I was free to look upon the world once more. It was different, somehow. Darker and more decayed, these "Shadowlands" were the lands of the dead. I knew this because my benefactor informed me of my current situation, soon after releasing me from the caul that had covered me.

I didn’t know the specifics of my death, but the fact that I’d arrived on top of a lake was an indicator; and the carriage was missing, aside from some deep mud tracks beside the water. My reflection on the surface showed me to have a strange marking on my forehead; and my body seemed to have the characteristics of drowning. I was pale and slightly blue-tinged now. The world showed me signs of decay everywhere and I heard strange sounds on the wind. My benefactor told me that Spectres were near and we should move on.

I learned that I was reaped by the Legion of Fate of the Hierarchy. I learned of the differences between ghost and man, the underworld and the physical one. I came to understand the basics of the Hierarchy, of the Renegades that opposed it, and of the Heretics that had betrayed it. I was told a history of the world from a new perspective, and learned of a terrible force called Oblivion. My life was over, and death would be quite different.

I found my passions and fetters easily enough. Of course Elisabeth was the most important of these; my wedding band buried underwater was something I had to have; I felt the urge to visit my father’s gravestone as well. I felt a need to continue making Elisabeth happy. I also regretted failing my parents after all of their attempts to make a better life for me; I would have a better life now that I was dead, I swore.

The Hierarchy was accommodating enough; I took to the merchant business with a new gusto and was much needed for the soul-trading business. I found it odd that souls had to be sacrificed to avoid Oblivion; but I grew used to the fact, after a fashion. A voice in my mind began to tell me of my weaknesses; told me that I was a failure and would join the souls sent to the forges. I would never rise to prominence, it said; I would fail my wife and my parents in death just as in life. I always thought that this Shadow-self kept me on my feet throughout the years.

I did my duties to the Hierarchy; suppressed the Shadow’s urgings; took care of Elisabeth, in my way. I eventually found ways to interact with the Skinlands. I made sure that my wedding band was returned to Elisabeth, at great cost. I avoided Oblivion without, but steeled myself against its ravages within. My few harrowings throughout the years yielded few successes for my Shadow, and I became careful to avoid them. After I became important enough in the local Hierarchy, I found more leisure time to spend with my widow.

She had mourned for seven years, but I eventually worked up the courage-and wore down my Shadow-enough to finally influence dearest Elisabeth to pursue her own happiness again. She remarried to a noble gentleman, and seemed to have moved on. My Shadow began to tell me that I had abandoned her, that she didn’t need me anymore; it said that I had failed myself and failed my widow, as well. My visits to my favored Pardoner became more frequent thereafter; my Shadow became persistent and worked my nerves beyond my personal capabilities. I wondered if he was right, sometimes, if I was truly making Elisabeth happy by giving her up. I always watched over her, though; never did I yield in my devotion to her.

The years wore on. I watched my Elisabeth grow old; I felt her slipping away. I still loved her, but now I had learned to take joy in her life, with or without me. My visits to the Pardoner were fewer than they had been and my Shadow was more silent about Elisabeth. It seemed as though it was at peace with her as well. That was when everything changed.

Elisabeth eventually grew ill in her age. I stayed by her through the whole mess, watching her deteriorate. I could see the sickness throughout her body and knew that she didn’t have long. She had a fever and was fading fast. I offered what comfort I could; she was in the throes of delirium and I was well received. I had learned many arts in my time and I used one such to caress her hand and cheek in her final moments.

In the end, she opened her eyes and leaned toward my ghostly touch. She told me she loved me, after all these years; she had never stopped loving me. Then she was gone forever.

As her life slipped away, I fell through a Nihil into the Tempest; Elisabeth no longer fettering me to the Skinlands, I faced my own unraveling in the Labyrinth. My Shadow seemed as though it had never forgotten all of the discouragement aimed at my widow. It wracked my emotions, calling me a failure, saying that Elisabeth would now join Oblivion. I saw her, screaming, reaching out to me and falling away. I had lost my love, my light, to time. My inspiration was gone and I had failed her in the worst way. I wanted to succumb.

No. Elisabeth died fulfilled, as I had never been. She was in heaven now, happy with God to watch over her. I had not failed her; I had succeeded. It was time to move on. My Shadow raged and screamed as it lost the battle with me. I returned to the bedside, next to the wedding band I had returned to Elisabeth so long ago. I was forever changed.

I resumed my work with the Hierarchy; but I felt a need stirring in me for something else. It was as if there was a calm within me, left by the absolution of accomplishment. A voice of stillness left by Elisabeth to give me peace. I needed to explore this feeling in its entirety. The tranquility was obvious to others. I was asked many questions from my fellows as to my condition. I had stopped seeing the Pardoner and had become mildly distracted from harvesting. My mind wandered to tales of the Far Shores.

I felt that truly accomplishing something in death would have to be more than merely enjoying the benefits of a well-placed station. My harvesting duties continued, but I began to travel in search of some unknowable thing. Oblivion and I met more often; I fought Spectres in the Tempest and at the Necropoli gates. My Shadow helped them attack me; it seemed to have changed as well since Elisabeth passed, now being more introverted. It was ironic that my Shadow helped set events in motion.

I spent much time near the Harbingers of different Necropoli in order to learn to travel more efficiently. After a long while, I was flying the Tempest solo; my eyes had darkened and had taken in many odd wonders of the realm. It was in the tempest that I met my first Ferryman.

The Shadow had decided to toss me to the Doomshades during my expedition and I was ambushed. There were three huge shades in the inky mirth of the tempest when I was lured down there by a strange light. I could have died instantly if not for the Ferryman. Her name was Khevara, I later discovered; she was an amazing sight. Seemingly from nowhere she appeared, engaging in a fatal melee with the creatures of Oblivion. Her huge scythe dashed the animals asunder before my eyes in a few short instances. I flew over the waters, amazed at her killing power. She beckoned me with a wave of the hand to join her on her wooden raft; I could not refuse.

The trip must have lasted several days; though I could not have told how many in the depths of the tempest. Eventually she spoke in a low, hard tone.

She informed me that my quest was far from over, that my search for Transcendence had many more turns to be taken. I wondered how she had known what my quest was; I certainly had not known. Khevara told me that all wraiths quested for Transcendence, but I had found the path that many others would deny.

My journey was far from over, though; I did not have all of the knowledge I would need to move on from this realm. As the trip bore on, I noticed more and more spectral entities dancing around the raft; I wondered how we had found such a high concentration of sentience this far into the tempest. Finally, my curiosity was answered; and the Labyrinth stood before us, in all its dark glory. It was the cave of Oblivion, the sinkhole of the underworld, the den of evil. The Labyrinth was a nightmare that I had no interest in traversing. I had heard terrible tales of the mining expeditions to the Veinous Stair, where they take raw Oblivion ore back to Stygia; abnormalities and abominations abroad-and that was only the entrance.

Khevara told me that I had not yet learned to accept the darkness in the underworld, nor the darkness within myself. If I wanted to escape this place, I would need to accept all of it and all of my own faults. I needed to let go; I needed to know what I was letting go of, first. In the Labyrinth, I would be forced to understand the creatures that represented the darkness I struggled against. She told me that I would find a man to help me along the path, if I searched long enough. His name was Rudvert; he was a Masquer Helldiver, an infiltrator of the Hive. He would show me the world of the Spectres.

It took quite a while to get close to the Helldiver community. I was forced to join the Doomslayer association called the Order of the Thorn while simultaneously trying to find connections in the Masquers. My days appeared to be numbered now. I had traded off all of the security of station that I had earned in the empire for this. Now I had the luxury of close and regular contact with the denizens of darkness and the duty of chasing enigmatic figures that I knew nothing about. Mother would not have been proud.

I did achieve my goal, however. As I participated in countless missions of genocidal abandon with the Thorns, I kept my Harbinger allies informed about the spectral activity in certain areas I was frequently in. After countless missions of stealth and battle, reconnaissance and maneuvering, I was considered an asset to the Thorns and given a good word or two with the Helldiver community. I learned my basics of Moliation and studied the art rigorously. I was exhausted by my battles, but I found a kind of solace in the knowledge that I was striking Oblivion and releasing souls from its terrible grasp. My abilities eventually led to a connection with the Helldivers. I treated it cautiously, of course; I learned new skills of stealth and maneuvering, doing more reconnaissance and less battle. My strikes against Oblivion were now fewer and more decisive in nature.

This took me years to accomplish. I had grown even more divorced from the Skinlands and was fettered only by my father’s grave; the bonds of my family were hard to let go of with the absence of the family. My ring eventually became just a reminder of Elisabeth, who remained in my fondest memories and my heart. I made certain that the ring was given to someone who needed it most; a young woman entering marriage with a rather poor painter received a mysterious family heirloom after I knew I needed it no longer. I had changed a great deal over the course of the years and was now older than any living man would ever be.

Finally, after assassinating a crafty mortwight-the leader of an Oblivion purity cult, I gained enough recognition in the Helldiver association to be treated with respect. My queries were answered now more readily than before and I could investigate my true objective in the business of Doomslaying. Rudvert was eventually revealed to me after an extensive hiatus in which he was supposedly hunting the Shadowlands for converts to the cause of Oblivion. He was on a very important mission in the depths that I would not be informed about until later, on pain of destruction.

After pulling some strings and begging some favors, I met him. Strangely enough, it was in the Labyrinth. I was told that I would meet him when he finished his mission and that I would proceed on myself in another mission of my own; I was to infiltrate a spectral barrow community. Apparently, these kind were more docile than the Spectres I had met before, a change of pace that I welcomed.

It so happened that after a few weeks, I came to realize the leader of this community to be my supposed benefactor himself. Rudvert was a man of contemplation and action, all at once. In this barrow community, the Spectres concentrated on the dull, black emotions of humanity while worshipping the unmaking force of Oblivion. It was quite religious, but seemed less fanatical and more meditative in nature compared to the other Spectres; I learned that those ones I had met were called Kindlings for their fiery nature.

Rudvert had progressed along the Spectral arcanos of Hive-mind; he must have had a strong will to use that terrible art to subjugate at least twenty monstrous shades and any number of young Spectres looking to find some breed of dark enlightenment. I myself had learned a bit of it from the get-go just to survive; and when I began my infiltration missions with the Masquer Helldivers my skill naturally increased to accommodate deep cover security. Rudvert was a master, though, pure and simple.

His agenda was a divided one. Officially, he was vying for the attention of a Malfean against a particularly promising Nephwrack, his intent to see the latter destroyed to prevent his ascent to power. This would weaken Oblivion just a bit more and further the Doomslayer cause. Unofficially though, Rudvert had been seeking Transcendence for some time and found that by communicating with the Psyches of those Spectres in his community, he gained a further knowledge of the Shadow. This information might have been useful to the Doomslayers, if they had the tolerance for such attempts–but he found that it gave him a personal insight into the motivations of the Shadow as an entity. With the help of those trapped Psyches, he could come to understand the motivations of his own dark half; such knowledge might eventually teach him to let go of his Shadow and Transcend.

Of course, he eventually met others with the same basic agenda and would not hide his findings. Over time, many pupils found the courage to seek him out. Those who had made it were stronger for the journey and had hopefully found their motivations that much more rooted. Others came to realize they enjoyed the battle with Oblivion too much to let go of themselves; and still others fell along the way. These he mourned silently, but there are always trials on the path to enlightenment and he realized this.

My path had been made known to him through the negotiations I’d made with the Doomslayers and Masquers and by way of Khevara. He accepted me and taught me how to behave in his realm. The place was a refuge of meditation by advertisement and a chamber of study by design. None of the Spectres knew it, but deep in their meditations they underwent catharsis on a regular basis. They gained the composure to do so through subtle applications of the mind caused by the keening powers of Rudvert and a concerted effort by all resident Psyches.

We discussed their meditations while we could, and Rudvert and I took the lessons to heart. I grew to understand that my own Shadow had been weakened by the resolution of my ties to Elisabeth. I hadn’t been controlled as much lately, I didn’t know why. I thought that it had to do with my studies of the darker emotions, rather than outright denial of them. My Shadow hadn’t been playing tricks because I was starving him since my search for Transcendence had begun. He-I had begun to think of my Shadow not as a set of mental mishaps but a separate part of myself-was focusing more on my denial of my parents’ dreams now. He used this twisted devotion as an excuse to try to send us both to the void; it was a buried loyalty I had almost forgotten when I died that he now gave as penance for us. The Shadow also seemed to have a lingering need to exploit a sense of failure in me.

I remembered from my mortal years feeling that I would never accomplish anything in my life. These thoughts I repressed as I pushed on, especially after I met Elisabeth. I pushed aside loyalty as well for Elisabeth as I had abandoned my parents to be with her. This too I pushed aside to make room for the good things in life. I wondered then if my other half had hated Elisabeth because I had chosen to forget the things he so loved for her. It made me wonder how to ease his pain; for the first time that I could remember, I sympathized with my Shadow. He was made of buried hurt that I would not confront before or after death.

I learned this and more with the help of Rudvert and was thankful for the lessons. I also learned new methods to communicate with the Psyches in the Labyrinth on the sly. I eventually came to wonder how much I could learn locked in the cavern; I needed resolutions that could not be found here. I felt the need to see my father’s grave again. It seemed to be essential, the key to unlocking the pain of my Shadow. There was another key, though, and I would find it soon.

I checked in at the old gravestone and remembered my father somewhat fondly. Apparently, Spectral activity in the area was increasing lately for unknown reasons. I knew why; it filled me with a dread I hadn’t felt in so long, but I knew. I watched the gravesite until it became obvious that I wasn’t going to be disappointed. My mother was a Spectre now. She might have even been a Nephwrack, for she had a contingency following her. I don’t know what they were doing there, and I never would, but I didn’t run. I had the appearance of a Spectre and no intention of being chased because I fled. There were a couple of people in the cemetery, doing who knows what, but they would certainly regret it soon enough.

The world had progressed since I had died, and cars were an everyday part of life now. Smoking was still in fashion, though, so not everything had changed. I regretted these facts after mother recited a crackling prayer to Oblivion and took the body of one of the innocent bystanders. The other one fell dead in a few moments with stunned surprise; the two young men were probably friends. Mother had taken over the smoker and piped away contentedly inside of her new body. After some experimentation, she drove his car directly on top of father’s grave. I watched helplessly from the Shadowlands as she dropped her cigarette into the gas tank of the car.

The young man burned shortly and she was again with me for a few moments. She knew who I was and smiled the venomous smile of eternal hatred. She told me she would send us both to the everlasting comfort of Oblivion, just as she had always wanted. Then the gas tank exploded and sent us both away. She went home and I to another harrowing as my last fetter was consumed in the pyre she had unleashed.

The Shadow roared his triumph. I was weaker than he and would fail. I could never be better than Oblivion and had given up all for a goal that didn’t even exist for one such as me. In the end, I had struggled against my destiny and now was faced with it on a cosmic scale. I was the fool of the universe; opposing my parents, my Shadow, my annihilation, and more had led me right to where I deserved to go. My dream, the Eidolon, was nothing; a trick played by an overly imaginative dead man, it had served well to send me off to my final rewards whimpering for mercy. The universe loomed over me and all was a great swirl of lack. My mother had known all along; she cackled her glory and watched me fall apart. I could do nothing to escape my fate.

There was a dawning then. I knew I truly was nothing to the universe. I had never forgotten myself in all of my experiences and all of my travels and trials could never remove who I was. The time to think of my own goals was over and the fetter of my own mind was past its usefulness. The dark of Oblivion faded into a shimmering ray of hope. All the things that pulled at me faded. I knew what to do now. My Shadow had nothing to stop this sense of purpose. I didn’t matter; that was why I was going to succeed. The Tempest opened up before me and I was spilled out before the gently swaying raft of Khevara. I had come a long way; it was time I saw the Far Shores.

The next period of my unlife was all forgetting. I forgot the color of my mother’s eyes, the names of the cities I lived in, the place I died; I let it all go. I stayed with others like myself and did everything I could to show my gratitude for their company and devotion. We were all walking the path to enlightenment and lived in compassion and grace. The Shadow tried to rant at me once in a while, but found my lack of angst and receptiveness to his speculations detrimental to his own resolve. We were both going away. I spent a long time that way, probably longer than my whole unlife-but it was all a blur. I felt a connection to an unknown bliss. I was different, then. My thoughts were not my own, exactly; they were of the world, from another place, a higher place.

I was ready to move on. There was only one thing left to do then. I finally got my one last wish, today. The Spectres outside of the isle gate are no coincidence. I had to tell someone my whole story before my departure. I’ve been waiting all of this time for one last confrontation; then I can move on to whatever lies beyond. I’ve known about the Spectres out there for some time now, which is why I chose to share with you so conveniently before the arrival and the call to arms. There are others here who know what I know, and our privacy was assured. Remember this day, friend, for I won’t. I’ve told you all I can remember of who I was. I hope you enjoyed the story of a passing piece of history.

Mother was out there in the storm. She raved and screamed across the Hive-Mind for my destruction. There was an amazing force brought here just for me and I found it odd. It was time to say goodbye, though, so I began to move.

The storm rips at my corpus and drains my vitality. It is all right, for I won’t need it for long. I fly past the oblivious Spectres until I come to my mother. I release the shroud of shadow and face her one last time. I tell her that I loved her, and that I’m sorry she was disappointed in me, and that I hope she finds peace some day. She rends my corpus apart symbolically enough and I face the end.

The mouth of the void calls to me below, rippling and wavering. I sense that I could lose myself if I reject that place of destruction. I feel the pull to nothingness, but I have nothing left to fight with. There are none here to sway me, only myself and Oblivion. I forget both.

They all watch as I climb back up through the Maelstrom winds, flaming like a star. My eyes burn with the fires of absolution as I meet the crowd of Doomshades. It is time to go at last. Elisabeth, here I come. Mother looks at me with fear, for they all know what is coming. On the island, all eyes are upon me as none can avert from my radiance. My purity erupts in all directions, like a hurricane. The Spectres are devoured in my final passing; the island is safe from Oblivion, for now. I am no more. The story of my existence has ended perfectly, and I shall never have to mourn it.

by daedaleus@lycos.com

My name is Jacob Cassidy, but most call me Jake or just Cas’; short for Cassidy, of course. My family well that’s all part of the story, your family always tends to be… Makes up part of who and what we are. Another always ends up being our job and hobbies in life… And boy oh boy can I tell you that all mine seem to be mixed in together. Yeah it’s a long story, but what ain’t these days? Things get complicated and yeah stuff happens to throw ya off track but sometimes ya just gotta keep on truckin’, believe me I’m tired, oh lord am I tired of things. But we are what we are and even if I do miss my brother, I can’t bring him back. Nothing and no-one can, even if I have seen some things to make me wonder. And trust me working for the NSA you see lot of things, but not near as much as my family does. But perhaps this story might help…

Things had been going pretty well that day, Me and my brother Bran (Brandon) were out at the mall. We were both pretty young I admit, and had been out as usual just trying to hit on ladies. Bran and I always were after the ladies back then, what can I say, hell we’re Irish! Anyway we had just finished picking me up a pack of smokes and as usual bran was lecturing me. He was pretty big on the environment and health, but hey the whole family was in a way. It’s in our blood I guess, well along with all the rest…

Anyway where was I, oh yeah he had been lecturing me on the Poison of cigarettes and such and I was not really arguing just admitting to myself; yeah, I should quit someday. But hey, it’s a habit. And we all know how habits go.. Well as I was saying he kept on lecturing and out of nowhere he turns and sniffs the air. About that time I began scanning the crowd myself, my senses ain’t near as sharp I guess and I must of missed whatever it was he’d keened in on. So Bran just takes off down the escalator mumbling something about " Not here.. not like this.. too many people…" I as quickly as I might tried to follow suit, he is my brother after all and well if he was about to get into something I figured I at least owed him enough to back ‘em up. We’re family after all, even if he had developed a lil’ more than myself. Ya see thing is my brother was a full-blooded garou, or rather what most call werewolf. Myself on the other hand I was just a kinfolk as they say, and I don’t just mean blood-relative. Well thing of it is, it meant he could shapeshift ya know do the whole half-man half wolf deal. He had it all and I admit, I envied ‘em. But then again most of my family was pretty much like that. He wasn’t the first of us Cassidy’s to be born with it. I am just lucky I was born with part. He did teach me a few tricks he’d been learning and over time I perfected ‘em a bit, but at the time neither me nor him knew a whole lot about it all.

Well I am getting off track again… Well bran he’s finally bolted off the escalator and things are already kind of hairy. So I jump on to the side railing and pull a slick move. I wound up down to the end as fast as I could and rolled up and onto the floor by bran. By then he handed me something as I could see he wasn’t too pleased. It was this strange dagger-like object and he looked me dead in the eye and I knew it was something of importance, something from our family. He then spoke to me some of the last words I ever heard from ‘em. Bran locked me dead in a stare half snarling and spoke:

"Jake, dear brother, something bad is gonna happen here, and I may not make it out of this. Just take this, and keep it with you always; mom will instruct about it later, but you have to promise me something; Our family is just one of many. And there are more of us out there and we don’t get along so great. You gotta try brother, try for me and for us all, there is gonna be a big fight and gaia, our mother earth, she can’t defend herself. We’re getting sick but we have to step up and defend her. You gotta lead the way, I’ve seen it, and I’ve seen your heart dear brother. We can’t let ‘em win.. we have to fight. Now you gotta promise me, you gotta take my place and fight this fight, that is if I fall here. Take this, keep it with you brother and may luna protect you."

After that some guys tore into a local girl, I didn’t much know her but the look on her face, when it went ghostly pale, and they poured the blood from her body to the floor lapping at it like wild animals. It was then I knew the first feeling of a frenzy wave over me, if there was evil, wyrm as my mother once called it, then this was definitely it and well, I couldn’t just live and let be- Neither could bran.

Next thing I know bran was in a pile of these thugs in full blown crinos. All I can recall of him at that moment was a bit of glory as he charged in fur flying and teeth and claws glittering in the neon lights. He took a good handful down with him and roared, a almost feral primal sound I’ll never forget. It seemed to weaken all these thugs somewhat. I soon after learned just what it was he’d done but still at the time it was amazing.

Well like I said it was after seeing that girl get butchered right there in broad daylight, well it was that evening but still, bear with me, that I just let go of something deep inside me. I soon found myself atop one of the slower of their group and threw a knee into his gut. He reeled from it momentarily but this guy was some kind of monster even by vampire standards. Oh did I forget that small detail, sorry.. Back to what I was saying; He reeled from the blow for a moment and then came up slashing at me with a switch-blade. Typical punk-style I thought then and still say today. Well I side-stepped right as he thrusted and then felt it at my wrist, tied there; the ritual knife bran had given me. Now I had no idea what it did then but all I knew is he had a knife and I wasn’t sure how long I could go toe to toe with this guy. So I gripped it in my hand and knocked him off his balance with a well placed blow to his lower back. This guy he fell off to the side and twisted around to try and catch me in the gut and just by natural reflex I twisted a lil and caught him in the side with the blade I had.

This punk whaled at the top of his un-dead lungs and seemed to really be in major pain. So I pulled the blade free and stumbled back. The guy was concentrating or something, he was just standing there concentrating for a moment and then he charged me again. He swung at me as well as he could from about as far as he could safely try to reach and I just dropped. Dunno how or why I thought of it but I ain’t complaining. I rushed upwards with the blade in hand and caught the guy right in his right side of the abdomen. Oh man he started to shriek again as if it hurt as bad as a fraggin’ red hot poker. So I look ‘em dead in the eye as terror sweeps over the guy and I says to ‘em "Say hello to hell for me," and pulled the blade clean across his midsection. He pretty much dropped after that. So I went ahead and finished it; to make sure I cleaved his head right off his shoulders. Figured hey, even if yer dead ya need a head right?

By this time most of the people in the mall were off in shock somewhere and my brother was taken a major beating of his own. I tried to get to him and help but it was too late. There wasn’t much of anything left I could do and by then what was left of the thugs ran off. Seems bran had taken about 3 or 4 down by himself and wounded the rest. Guess they must of been pretty young themselves… But my brother still died right then and there. Plus it took some explaining to the cops too, oh man back then the local police wouldn’t of believed any of it. So they just chalked it up to 2 nice kids trying to step in on a gang’s lil’ mood swing. Things worked out alright I guess, I lost bran that day though. But the way mom explained it he would always be with us helping to guide us and watching with all he might that I’ll succeed as he wanted. That and a lil’ piece of him is always with me. Besides, gave me something to do. I hunt the kind of things that attacked my brother and me, I lost him to them but I figure a good way to relieve stress is just take me out about half a dozen of ‘em at a time or better. Makes me feel better every time…

by adam-koebel@home.com

Alexander sat on the blue carpet floor, playing with the dinosaurs. The plastic figures clenched in his pale hands stalked the building-block mountains in search of each other, and as it was every morning, a battle ensued. Soon, as it was every morning, Alexander grew tired of his plastic combat, and looked for some other means of consuming his five-year-old attention.

Something was wrong today, something poor Alexander couldn’t put his finger on. Mrs. Whitby was there, watching over the children as they began their first playtime of the day. The children were there as well; Alice, the spoiled girl who pulled Alexander’s hair, Julian, the angry boy who Alexander was afraid to talk to, Lucien, the quiet boy. All of the familiar faces, red cheeks and yelping voices in the colorful room Alexander was so accustomed to.

The day was the same as well, Mommy had taken Alexander to the school, and Daddy had kissed him goodbye. He fell asleep on the way, and then he was here. Sometimes, the way seemed so long, with the morning sun through the window so warm on his face and his blonde hair, he couldn’t help but fall asleep. Once, he woke up very afraid, as Mommy carried him to the class. But this morning, he only remembered being here, with his toys, and the ride before. He was a bit tired, though.

In fact, Alexander noticed, all the boys and girls in the classroom seemed tired today. Alice’s big brown eyes, always looking for adult attention, seemed somehow, not so brown, and not so big, Alexander thought. Julian sat quietly, something that was very much unusual. Lucien seemed sad, and looked sick, his skin was grey, not like it’s usual almost-brown. Alexander wondered what was wrong, but being shy as he was, Alexander simply put down the dinosaurs and looked for more toys to play with.

Just as Alexander’s bright green eyes locked on the abandoned set of finger-paints, a tiny tinkling sound filled the room. Recognizing it, Alexander dashed to his desk, sitting down, crossing pudgy fingers and staring straight ahead. The other children had done the same. Mrs.Whitby set her little silver bell down on her desk. Alexander’s eyes drifted, just slightly, away from the smiling face of Mrs.Whitby to the bell. The sunlight came through the window, just like every morning, and hit the bell like every morning. But this time, the bell seemed to have lost its shine. It’s once-glittering surface seemed so dull, like a worn-away nickel. Alexander snapped his eyes upward again when he heard Mrs.Whitby’s pretty voice.

"Hello children." a chorus of replies responded, Alexander’s quiet voice included in it. "How are you this morning?" Everyone replied with "fine" or "very well". Alexander beamed with delight. His morning was progressing just the same as it always had.

"Mrs.Whitby?" a girl’s voice echoed from the back of the room "I bought a new puppy dog yesterday." It was Alice, spoiled Alice. She always started the class with a story to brag about all the lovely things she owned. Alexander looked over his shoulder at the girl, her face a prim picture. Alexander sighed.

She doesn’t like you Alexander.
Alexander gasped and turned around at the very loud voice behind him. He put a finger over his lips and shushed whoever it was. Even though he didn’t like Alice, he knew it was against the rules to interrupt.

Mrs.Whitby seemed not to notice, and after listening patiently to Alice’s story of her new puppy, returned her attention to the class.

"One of our students will not be present today." she began. Alexander watched her face while she spoke. He never realized how many tiny lines made up a face before. Like a spider had crawled over it and left little webs. Mrs.Whitby seemed very old to Alexander. "He may not be present for a while." Alexander craned his neck, eyes darting from desk to desk. Each in turn was filled with a little body. Alexander couldn’t understand. He held his arm up, fingers stretched towards the fan that turned slowly above. He waited. Mrs. Whitby looked past him, around him, through him he thought. His arm began to ache.

"Mrs.Whitby…" he whispered, almost afraid to break the perfect morning with the sound of his voice. "I have a question." Mrs.Whitby sat at her desk.
"Mrs.Whitby, please?" She sighed and opened a book.

"Everyone take out your English books. I am going to read you a story."
Mrs.Whitby opened her book, and Alexander slowly lowered his hand. His cheeks burned. Embarrassment flooded him. Mrs.Whitby didn’t even say a word. Seeking to avoid further trouble, Alexander reached down, fingertips grasping at the edge of his desk. He tugged the desk up, trying to open it. The wood stuck. The desk did not open, and so Alexander furrowed his forehead and pulled, hard. The desk did not budge. Alexander began to panic. He was still too embarrassed to ask for Mrs.Whitby’s help, but he could not possibly continue the class without his English book. Alex sank in his seat, trying ever so hard to become invisible as the other children lifted their books and placed them on their desks.

"Mrs.Whitby?" the voice came loud from the box over the door. The intercom, the way the adults talked to each other when a child was in trouble. Alex sank deeper. Was he in trouble? Did the Principal want to talk to him because he wanted to ask a question about the student who was sick? Was he in trouble for breaking his desk? "We need to see you. It’s about the Bellemore boy." Alexander gasped and clamped a hand over his mouth. Bellemore was his last name.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry." Alexander began to whisper through white-knuckled clenched fingers. His panicked breath warmed his palm.
It’s too late Alexander. Mrs.Whitby is going to tell the Principal what a bad boy you are.

Alexander’s eyes clamped shut, tears beginning to stream down his bright red cheeks as he pushed himself deeper into his seat. He hid, with all his might. From Mrs.Whitby, from Julian (who would certainly taunt him with cries of "cry baby! cry baby!"), from all the world. His vision, clouded by tears, never registered Mrs.Whitby leaving the room, holding a handkerchief over her mouth, her shoulders moving up and down in tiny, hiccoughing sobs.

The other children quietly read their English books while Mrs.Whitby was gone. Alexander hid under his desk, the top of his head pressed against the underside of the cold metal. The room was silent, save the tiny gasps as Alexander tried to hide his sobbing. Everything seemed to close in right then, like when Mommy tucked him into his covers at night. But instead of warmth, it was like cold was cuddling him up in its arms. Alexander began to shiver, and cry, and gasp, and shiver again. He looked around at all the feet, some swinging, some still, some sandaled, others with shiny plastic shoes and velcro straps. He thought if only he could’ve opened his desk, or kept his hand down, Mrs.Whitby would still like him, and call him "Little Alex" like she always used to. And now everyone hated him.

I’m sorry Alexander, but that’s just how it has to be. You’re in very deep trouble for being such a terrible little boy.

Alexander shook his head, the voice coming so loud, like one of the other boys in the room was screaming right in his ear. "No! It isn’t true, it isn’t! I didn’t mean to be such a bad boy!" Alex whispered, as loudly as he could. None of the other children saw him, huddled there under his desk. Alexander’s eyes, full of tears, darted back and forth across the room. Then, suddenly, there were four extra feet in the room. Two pairs, one a man, the other a lady. The man wore grey pants, and the woman had a pleated grey skirt. Their shoes were very shiny. The new sets of feet walked their way down the aisle, as Alexander prayed to be invisible. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry" he whispered through his sobs. The grey pants and grey skirt and shiny shoes stopped beside Alexander’s desk.

"Hello little one." a man’s voice, ever so gentle. "Are you alright?" Alexander pulled his arms tight around himself, eyes clenched, tears dripping from his round chin onto his shirt. Mommy would notice and know he was crying. "Little one?" the voice came again, and the man with the shiny shoes and the grey pants knelt down beside the desk, and looked at Alexander. Alexander slowly opened his eyes, shaking from fear and from the cold.

"Are you …" Alexander whimpered "the Principal?" He blinked the tears from his eyes and looked at the man, who smiled at Alex, a bright, friendly smile. He had black hair, like Daddy’s friend John, and a pair of the funniest glasses Alex had ever seen. They were great square things, lenses nearly the size of Alex’s whole hand. The man had eyes to match them too, quite big and a rather lovely color of green, like the slide in the playground. Alexander looked at the man and couldn’t help but smile a little, despite his fear.

"Oh no, little one, I’m not the principal at all." the man chuckled a little,but not the kind of chuckle that Alexander learned meant you’d asked a silly question, but the kind of chuckle that perhaps Santa Claus might chuckle if you’d asked for a rather large present this Christmas. "Perhaps you’d like to come out and talk with us. Don’t be afraid." The man with the enormous glasses held out his hand. His fingers looked soft to Alexander, and the little golden buttons on his cuff shone like tiny coins.

No Alexander! Don’t go with him! The Principal will come and take you away, and Daddy will yell at you!

Alexander froze, his hand, half outstretched, and trembled. "I can’t." he whispered.

"Why not, little one?" the man asked, retracting his hand very slowly, placing his palm on the blue carpet below. "What’s wrong?" Alexander didn’t know what to do. The boy who kept saying such terrible things was right, the Principal could come and take him away, and he certainly wouldn’t want to make Daddy mad. "Please little one, just for a moment?" Alexander, not wanting to be rude, desperately sought an excuse.

"My, my, my" he sobbed out, his tears slowly degenerating into a pattern of wet gasps "Mommy said that I shouldn’t talk to strangers." The man looked up to the woman in the grey skirt, standing beside him. He nodded and turned back to Alexander.

"Well then, we mustn’t stay strangers." He grinned, he had big white teeth, and they were nearly as shiny as the gold buttons on his cuffs. Alexander couldn’t hide the smile again, the man looked ever so silly. "My name is Mr.Greene." Mr.Greene reached his hand out again, turned sideways this time. Alexander reached out and took his hand. Mr.Greene pumped it once, squeezing just a little, like Daddy did with his businessmen friends.

"My name is Alexander Jeremy Bellemore," Alexander began, reciting what his Mommy had taught him to say "and I live at 122 Applebee avenue." Mr.Greene chuckled and smiled at Alexander.

"Well Mr.Alexander Jeremy Bellemore, perhaps you would like to come and meet my friend?" He smiled again, and winked one of his enormous green eyes at Alexander. Mr.Greene stood up, and Alexander crawled after him on his hands and knees, one hand wiping away tears from his cheeks. He stood, slowly, staying close to Mr.Greene’s grey pant-clad leg. His eyes, still stinging from tears, scanned the room. The children were still reading, and no-one, not even mean little Julian was staring at Mr.Greene or the lady who’d come with him.

Alexander looked past Mr.Greene’s skinny shoulders to the woman he was with. She was very pretty, with curly red hair and shiny skin and red cheeks and lovely blue eyes. She wore a white blouse and had a pin on her collar, shaped just like a television. She smiled, just like Mr.Greene, a very friendly smile.

"Hello there Alexander." she curtsied, lifting her skirt and nodding her head a little. Alexander giggled. "My name is Mrs.Greene." Alexander looked at Mr.Greene, who winked an emerald eye. "We’ve come to meet you Alexander." Alexander’s interest began to corrode his fear.

"Why?" he whispered. Alexander stepped a little closer, and he could smell flowers. Mrs.Greene was very pretty.

"Because we’ve come to take you on a trip Alexander." she smiled, and Alexander shook his head.

"Oh no, Mrs.Greene, I mustn’t. I must stay and read my English book. I really must be good." His eyes were wide, and he looked suddenly at the door, worrying again about when Mrs.Whitby would come back, and whether the Principal was coming. "I’m ever so sorry I’ve been bad." He sat down in his desk, and tried to ignore Mr and Mrs.Greene. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a soft touch, and looked down to see the daintily-painted fingernails of Mrs.Greene.

"It’s alright Alexander. We’ve got permission from your teacher, and from the Principal." she smiled again, and Alexander couldn’t help but smile, try as he might. Mr.Greene leaned over.

"Would you like to see a magic trick, Alexander?" Alexander nodded and turned his head to Mr.Greene, who reached out and plucked something from behind Alex’s ear. In his hand was a small, round piece of odd green metal. A coin of sorts. He handed it to Alexander. "It’s an Oboli Alexander. A special sort of coin. You’ll need it to board the train." Alexander immediately perked up.

"The train?" He said, quietly, excitement evident in his voice. He had only ever ridden a train once before, when he was younger, Daddy and Mommy took him to visit his Aunty in the country, and they rode a train. Alexander remembered it very well. "We’re going to take a train?"

"Yes Alexander, a very special train." Mr.Greene looked at Alexander as he pulled himself from his desk and stood between the Greenes. "Are you ready now?"

Don’t go Alexander. You’ll regret it. Mommy and Daddy will be very cross with you.

"Please be quiet." Alexander said, politely, to the voice, whomever it came from. "I would like to ride the train." Mr. and Mrs. Greene looked at each other. Mr.Greene wrinkled his forehead the way Alexander’s Daddy did when it came time to pay the bills. Mrs.Greene just sighed and took Alexander’s hand.

"That’s the way Alexander, you’re a very good boy." the three of them walked away, out of the classroom. Alexander took a moment, looking over his shoulder into the class. The children were still sitting, reading, and hadn’t even noticed him leave. He thought he saw a spiderweb in the corner near his desk as Mrs.Greene led him from the room.

As Alexander, Mrs.Greene and Mr.Greene walked along the street by the school, Alexander watched the leaves on the great big oak trees that lined the sidewalk in the quiet neighborhood. He knew it would be autumn soon, the leaves were yellow and red, and many of the trees were bare altogether. Though it seemed awfully early in the year. The sun dappled light through the black-barked limbs of the trees, casting patterns on the cracked cement. Alexander puzzled. It wasn’t nearly late enough to be Autumn yet, he thought. The sun was warm, he remembered wearing his new blue shorts just the day before. It was cold today, even though the sun was very bright. His attention was suddenly distracted, when he noticed Mrs.Greene was humming.

It was a very pretty song, just like Mrs.Greene was very pretty. Mr.Greene was walking in time, and as Alexander was between them, holding their hands, he walked in time as well. He felt very happy, despite the worry of the morning. As his red cheeks split in a grin, a voice came whispering, like smoke from a guttering fire, across his ears.

Alexander. Alexander, please listen. They mean you nothing but harm. You’re only safe alone Alexander. Run away Alexander. Into the dark corners where they won’t find you. And then you can be home again.

Alexander stopped, was pulled a half-step forward, and stumbled to his knees, his sweaty hands slipping. His knees hit the sidewalk. He stayed there, trembling, the last echoes of the sickly-sweet voice passing away with the sound of the passing cars.

"Alexander! Are you alright?!" Mr. and Mrs.Greene stopped, both turned. Mr.Greene’s eyes were wider than Alexander thought possible. He knelt on the cold cement, lips closed, eyes open, tears burning in his throat. He looked up, a tear slipping down his cheek, warm in the cold air.

"Mr.Greene, I would like to see my Mommy." he said, trying ever so hard to be a good, strong boy, like Daddy always said he should be. Mrs.Greene’s beautiful face wrinkled with worry as she knelt on the pavement beside Alexander.

"What’s wrong Alexander?" sincerity clung to her features like a beautiful ceramic mask.

"I heard something I didn’t like." Alexander said, his voice half-whimper, half-whisper of fear. "A voice, like if a snake or a beetle could talk, I think that is what it would sound like" he paused, then added;

"Mrs.Greene". Mrs.Greene shook her head slowly, red ringlets dancing on her cheeks. She stood again, and took Mr.Greene by the arm, leading him a step away. As they talked, Alexander stood up, and rubbed his eyes, wiping away the tears from his cheeks. He looked around, at the dark shapes of the cars flying by, and the cracked cement, and the shadows the trees cast on the ground. He felt his eyes drawn across the road.

A house sat there, amid a clump of angry-looking trees with knotted and gnarled limbs. It was old, it’s windows broken or boarded over, it’s door hanging open like a toothless mouth. Darkness dwelt inside, bits of it falling through the windows and the open door onto the wooden slats of the shattered porch.

I’m sorry I scared you Alexander. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Then a pause, and harsher;
Look at them Alexander.

Alexander shook a little, the voice felt thick, like oil. He looked over at Mr. and Mrs.Greene. They were still talking.

"Yes?" Alexander whispered, "I don’t see anything." He stared as hard as he could, and scrunched his eyes until they hurt. Then, slowly, like a mirage that bled over into reality, he saw them. Hanging over Mr. and Mrs.Greene, two black shapes, made of arms, and legs, and a head, but all black, and frightening, somehow. They held strings in their hands, tendrils of darkness that fell from their fingertip to Mr. and Mrs.Greene’s arms and legs and mouth. The darkness pulled the strings and the Greenes moved their limbs in shuffling little movements, whispered in conspiratorial voices.

Do you see now Alexander? They’re just puppets.

"I don’t believe it!" Alexander screamed, holding his hands over his eyes. He stood there, on the edge of the street, feeling the dark-filled house watching him. He stayed that way until he felt gentle hands on his wrists and smelled a pleasant smell, like raspberries. He moved his hands slowly and looked up to see Mrs.Greene, a look of concern in her eyes.

"Are you alright Alexander?" she knelt down, closer to Alexander, and wiped a tear off his cheek. He looked at her through teary eyes, and saw none of the dark puppeteers from before. "You said you heard something?" Alexander nodded, sniffling. "Was it a voice Alexander? A voice in your head?" Alexander nodded again. "Don’t you worry Alexander. When we get to where we’re going, you’ll be able to get rid of that dreadful voice. For a little while anyway." Alexander sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Well chap, are you ready to go?" asked Mr.Greene, his great wide eyes wrinkled at the corners as he smiled happily. Alexander, still wary, only took a few steps forward. "We don’t want to miss the train, and we’ve still got a long way to walk, little one." He held out his hand. Alexander stood between the dark house and Mr.Greene and wondered. What had he seen? What was the voice? When would he see his Mommy and Daddy again? He stood, transfixed by the decision of forward or back.

Go ahead Alexander. You’ll see in the end.

Alexander steeled himself and stepped forward, taking Mr.Greene’s hand.
"Let’s go then." He said, quietly, trying desperately to ignore the oil-slick voice slithering in his ears.

As the day passed, Mr. and Mrs.Greene told Alexander all about themselves, and about the train, and where they were going. They told him about the Emerald Legion, the club that they belonged to. They taught him songs and sayings of the Legion, like "Cogs Turn Wheels" (one Alexander was particularly fond of, and found himself repeating in his head). They told him of the wonderful city of Stygia. Stygia was, Alexander learned, where the Greene’s had come from. It was a great big city on an island, full of interesting people and interesting things to see. Alexander was very excited to go there. The Greene’s asked him about himself. They asked what he loved most, and what were his favorite things. What did he want to do and what made him angry. So many questions that Alexander became very tired. The last thing he remembered as he fell asleep, carried on Mr.Greene’s back, was that dreadful house, so full of oily darkness, and the voice that matched it, whispering doom into his head while he slumbered.

Alexander awoke much later, when the moon was full in the sky, higher above than he had ever remembered it to be. He was laying on a metal bench that was once covered in green plasticky paint, but now rotted and rusting. He was at a train station downtown, he almost recognized it. Daddy had driven him past here on the way to the zoo once or twice, but Alexander remembered it to be much brighter and more colorful. But here, the lights were broken and sparking, and the great big clock was broken and it’s arms twisted.

Alexander stirred and sat up, looking around and rubbing his eyes. He saw Mr. and Mrs.Greene sitting on a bench nearby, talking in quiet tones. The dim light made the darkness seem to close in with every spark of the broken bulbs. Alexander stood and walked with shuffling steps to where Mr. and Mrs.Greene were speaking.

"Could I use the telephone please?" he asked, quietly.
"I’d like to call Mommy and ask what we’re having for dinner." Mr.Greene turned his head, his wide, white eyes reflecting the dull yellow light of the train station.

"I don’t think there is a phone here Alexander" he said, with a sigh. "Perhaps you can wait until we get to Stygia?" Alexander thought a moment, and resigned to sit down on the bench next to Mrs.Greene. He swung his feet absently, and his hand reached into his pocket. His fingers found the oboli, cold and round. He took it out and examined it under the light. It was thicker than any coin Alexander had seen. It was a sort of funny green color too. Alexander flipped it a few times, then became bored.

"When will the train come?" Alexander asked, "I can’t wait to see Stygia!" He stood and walked to the edge of the platform, looking down the rotten-wood tracks.

"Soon Alexander, very soon." replied Mr.Greene, with a glance at Mrs.Greene.

"Will it be nighttime there? Will we stay in a hotel? Are Mommy and Daddy coming too?" Alexander’s barrage of questions broke the placid silence of the abandoned station.

"So many questions Alexander." Mrs.Greene chuckled.
"Just be patient." She said, then, after a moment, pointed down the tracks.
"Do you see it?"

Alexander looked, following her finger. At the very edge of his vision, buried in the inky blackness, Alexander spotted a light, faint and nearly invisible. Aspot of white like the kind that would appear if you rubbed your eyes at night. Then it grew, slowly, until it took form. A light, then soon, a heavy cast-iron tube, then a train! Alexander stepped back as Mr. and Mrs.Greene stood up.

"Still have the coin, Alexander?" Mr.Greene asked. Alexander presented it proudly as the cold night air filled with the whoosh of train wheels on the steel line. As the massive engine arrived, Alexanders eyes grew wide. It was a colossal thing, like some metal dragon or coal munching monster. Alexander marveled as the mighty beast crawled on round arms and legs to lay it’s iron bulk against the station’s crumbling wooden platform. The train belched a gout of steam and lay silent. Behind the engine lay a hundred or more large wooden boxes, with foggy glass windows and old-looking wooden trim. Tattooed on the head of the beast were two towering numbers, almost as big as Alexander himself. "13" it said. Engine 13. Alexander was shaken out of his awe by Mr.Greene urging him along the platform.

"Don’t dawdle Alexander, we must get on board." he said, taking Alexanders hand. Mr.Greene led Alexander to a door, which opened when they approached. Mrs.Greene stopped, and looked down at Alexander.

"When we’re riding the train Alexander, we mustn’t be separated.
Promise you won’t leave?" She looked Alexander in the eyes, her pretty face creased with worry-lines.

"I promise." said Alexander. Though secretly, his fingers were crossed in his pocket. Alexander was never one to make promises he couldn’t keep, and this was just too exciting to stay in one place. He felt bad lying to Mrs.Greene. As she smiled and looked up again, Alexander thought he heard an oily-sounding chuckle, but shook it from his thoughts.

"Three please." Mr.Greene said to a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a conductors outfit, all blue and white stripes, and a proud-looking cap with a silver button. Mr.Greene handed him an oboli, as did Mrs.Greene. When it came Alexander’s turn, he proudly placed his coin in the conductors hand. The conductor looked down at him and smiled with crooked yellow teeth. Alexander tried to hide his sudden fear as he stepped back and bumped into a woman standing behind him. She spun around and snapped at Alexander in a sharp language Alexander didn’t understand. Her face was sunken and grey and very frightening. Mr.Greene took Alexander by the shoulder and led him to the safety of a large, red, pillowed seat.

"It’ll be alright in here Alexander. Just stay close by." Alexander barely noticed Mrs.Greene as he looked around the car. It was full of people, some very strange. There was a man with a grey suit, like Daddy’s, who carried a briefcase and wore sunglasses. Beside him was a man with brown skin, who was carrying a long stick with little white bones hanging from it. He wasn’t wearing any regular clothes, but had a cloak made of spiny-looking fur. Next to him was a man who looked like he was in charge of the whole train. He wore the kind of armor that Alexander had seen in the movies when Daddy had taken him to see Ben-Hur. It was shiny and bright, and the man had a very squareface and looked quite proud of himself. Alexander wondered if they were going to a costume party.

Mr. and Mrs.Greene sat, watching out the window, their faces reflected in the foggy glass. Alexander saw shadows dance in the darkness outside, and remembered what the oily voice had said. About looking closer. He turned his eyes back to the crowded room and squinted hard, his eyes aching. Then he saw them.

Just as it was with the Greene’s, each man and woman in the car had a black shape. Some were men, others were less tangible shapes. One was a skull, grinning with black teeth. Alexander choked out a yelp and clapped his hand over his mouth, opening his eyes wide. The shadowy things passed away.

Do you see it now Alexander? You’re in grave danger. I am the only one who can help you Alexander. Will you let me?

Alexander froze, the voices words burning in his head like acid. He looked over at Mr. and Mrs.Greene. They stared into the darkness as the train shook, a blast of steam and a keening whistle, a lurch and the beast in whose belly they rode crawled into the darkness. Alexander nodded slowly. He could not hear the call as it went out from his mind, into the darkness. A voice startled Alexander.

"Alexander." it was Mommy. He turned quickly, but saw nothing but the crowd of people in the car. "This way Alexander". Alexander cast a nervous look back at Mr and Mrs.Greene, who seemed to have forgotten him altogether, sitting whispering together. Alexander turned again, and began to push his way through the crowded car. The voice was quiet, but insistent, his mother calling him through the throng.

You see Alexander? If you had only trusted me from the beginning. We’ll be home soon enough.

Alexander, too panicked to find his Mommy, never stopped to wonder why the voice seemed to think it was his home too. He pushed between a massive man in a long and tattered toga and a woman in a turtleneck, and came to a door. He reached for the handle, and as he turned it, he thought he heard a hiss of pleasure from somewhere. He would not be distracted. Alexander turned the cold steel handle, and the door slid aside with a long rasping sound.

Outside, between the cars, was a set of small balconies with a little ladder between them. Alexander expected to see the countryside whizzing by beside the train, lit up by the moon. He turned his head a moment, as was paralyzed by the vision. A terrible sea of red, a boiling soup of blood and bits of thick gore. Occasionally, a shape, almost human, would surface under the gruesome mass, claw it’s way to the surface and break it like a boil, spewing ooze across the swirling red sea. It’s skinless form would thrash, seeming to drown in the air then fall back under the gooey crimson waves. Alexander clenched white-knuckled, round little hands on the bars of the balconies, staring out between them, prisonlike.

Terrible, isn’t it?
The voice burned in his ears, the words taking on a tone of mocking praise. Onward Alexander. Onward.

He heard Mommy again, calling from above. A ladder up onto the top of one of the cars. Alexander set his tiny hands to climb it. Shutting his eyes against the dreadful sea on which the train sped. Like the jungle-gym at home, the bars of the ladder felt cold and huge in his five year-old hands. "Alexander." she called to him. "Alexander" he climbed another rung. "Alexander" he clenched his teeth, climbing to the top, finally, pulling himself onto the metal roof. There she was, waiting for him. Wearing the pretty dress she wore to church on Sunday. Alexander smiled, and lifted himself to his feet.

His vision was filled with a field of red, the struggling figures thrashing and weeping in the sea all around him. Mommy stepped forward, and knelt down. "Hello Alexander." She said, her face wrinkled by a half-smile. "Where have you been?"

Alexander told her the story of the day, of how the teacher had ignored him, and how everything looked dead at home, and how Mr. and Mrs.Greene had promised to take him to Stygia. The voice, that sounded just like him, but was ever so helpful in finding his way. He told Mommy about the great dying house, all full of blackness. He told her about the black shapes that played with everyone like puppets. Then he had a thought, and as though answering;

Go ahead, look at her Alexander.

Alexander looked with the same squinty eyes at his Mommy. There was nothing at first, the horrid black shapes that had been hovering over everyone else he’d seen today was not there. Instead, a little white light seemed to dwell inside her, pushing against her skin like it was desperate to escape. Alexander did not know what this meant, but it was Mommy.

"Come here Alexander." she suddenly seemed very cross.
"You’ve been a very bad boy. Daddy and I were so worried when you didn’t come home. Daddy spent all night looking for you, and he was so tired he couldn’t go to work the next day. And do you know what happened Alexander?" Her face was wrinkled and angry. Alexander shook his head, afraid and at the edge of tears. "He lost his job, and now we can’t live at home, or have nice things like the television anymore Alexander. And it’s all because you ran away from us."

Alexander shook his head, tears burning hot streams down his cheeks.
"No Mommy! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!" He came closer, to be held, to be accepted again, but Mommy stood and turned away. "Please Mommy! I didn’t mean to be bad." Alexanders eyes grew blurry with tears, his heart throbbed in his chest, his throat closed up.

Mommy walked a few steps away. "I’m sorry Alexander. You’ll just have to go back down and tell Mr. and Mrs.Greene that they’ll have to be your new Mommy and Daddy. We just don’t love you anymore Alexander."

Alexander froze, tears falling onto the cold metal roof. His vision was a terrible blur of red, only Mommy, clear in her white dress stood out ahead of him. There was movement, slithery and dark at the edge of his vision. "I love you Mommy."

Time slowed, and Alexander felt as though he was falling. Not down to the metal roof, or away, but inside. Falling away from his vision, into a dark place. He felt the voice swell up inside him, fill his head and his arms and legs, the places he rightfully belonged. He still felt the tears on his cheeks and the rumbling of the beastly train below, still saw his Mommy, but it was like gazing through a black curtain.

Yesssss… the voice hissed. Mommy turned, smiling, and stepped forward. Her features twisted, the dress fell away like rotting rags. Mommy’s skin crawled, and her hair fell out in clumps. Alexander screamed, but it was like screaming into a pillow. He tried to shut his eyes, but the voice wouldn’t let him. They were his eyes now. Alexander watched the naked ghoul walk forward, skin sagging and grey, eyes sunken, and glowing with a sickly green light. The thing held Alexanders face with taloned hands, and the voice turned Alexander’s head out, so he could see the crawling sea.

The sea itself had changed, become a massive field of white sand, swirling like it was swept by a powerful wind. Maggots crawled under it’s surface. And near the train was a great hole, a black pit in the sand. It was so dark, like the door of that black house when Alexander was still near home. He felt the hag hold tight his shoulders, and felt the voice move his feet, one step at a time, to the edge of the train.

"No!" Alexander screamed, but he knew he had taken the voice’s place, no-one could hear him but it.

Oh yes Alexander … time to go home.
Alexander felt the hand shove him forward, and felt the voice move his legs to leap as hard as he could, out, away from the train, and down, into the seething sand below. The pit loomed in slow motion as he tumbled towards it. The voice screamed in primal joy, but Alexander screamed in terror. As he fell past the train, he saw Mr. and Mrs.Greene stand and watch him fall, their faces full of the same fear Alexander felt. They saw his body hit the sand, then the train leaped away into the distance.

He felt the sand swirling around him, almost alive as it filled his mouth, seeped into his lungs, tore at his clothes and burned his skin raw. The pit surrounded him as he fell into it. Darkness filled his eyes, and the voice seemed enraptured by the whole event.
Goodnight Alexander.

Alexander gasped hard, amazed that it was his lungs that filled, his lips over which cool air passed, his eyes blinked in the bright light. He was back again. The voice was gone. Alexander looked around, and saw his room, and his house. He looked down, and saw none of the burning red skin where the sand had wrapped itself around him. He felt his shoulders, his face, his head. He seemed to be fine. Alexander lay back on his bed, breathing hard.

"Alexander!" a voice, his Mommy, came from downstairs. The smell of pancakes accompanied it. A little wary, Alexander responded.

"Coming!" he stood, walking down the short staircase into the kitchen. Inside, Daddy was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating his grape-fruit with a little spoon, just like every morning, and Mommy was making pancakes, and there was his plate, and his Mickey Mouse spoon and his juice cup and everything that awaited him every morning. Just like always.

Alexander smiled and sat at the table. Mommy brought him pancakes, and they ate breakfast and Daddy read him the comics and Mommy smiled and kissed Daddy’s cheek and Daddy went to work. Everything was just like Alexander had remembered. When the house was quiet, and Mommy was cleaning the kitchen, Alexander told her about what had happened, about all the things in his head, just as he remembered them.

"That’s terrible Alexander" Mommy replied, after some reflection. "That must have been a very frightening dream you had." Alexander nodded. "But it’s over now, and you’re safe at home." She smiled, and patted Alexander on the head.

"When am I going to school Mommy?" Alexander asked, looking at the clock that hung over the table.

"Not today, Alexander, I have something else I need you to do." Mommy stood up. "I have lots of things for you to do today, in fact, so we’d better get started." Alexander looked up happily at his Mommy.

"What are we going to do today Mommy?" Alexander followed his Mommy from the kitchen into the living room and to the front door.

"Plenty of wonderful things, my little child." Mommy smiled, and knelt down, holding her arms out. Alexander stepped forward and wrapped his round arms around his Mommy. He smiled, feeling safe again. His family kept him safe.

"I love you Mommy" Alexander whispered.

"We love you too, little one." Mommy whispered back, her face in a haunting smile. Alexander and Mommy left the house together, hand in hand, and as they stepped outside, into the cold air, Alexander felt himself drifting away. It was like falling into a blissful sleep, warm and comfortable. Comatose. As he did, he heard a cascade of slithery voices, his Mommy and Daddy among them, and the voice in his head from his dream. They all told him what a good boy he was, and how proud he would make them. He smiled happily, though it felt as though someone else were pulling his lips. This time, it didn’t bother him. Everything was fine.

If Alexander had looked behind him, he would have not seen his home, but the wicked and decaying manor he had seen in his dream; it’s mouth-like-door, spewing darkness into the streets beyond. If he were truly looking, he would not have seen his street, or the sky, or anything but the pulsating walls of the Labyrinth. He was content for now, however, to let him Mommy guide him and listen to the echoes of the praising voices in his head.

by Lars

The land of Khem was one of the first human civilizations to appear in the Skinlands, and their Underworld naturally appeared with it. Needless to say, the culture of the Egyptian dead is truly ancient, having existed for several millennia before the rise of Charon and the Hierarchy. Egypt is the land of immortals, and of the forever dead.

Amenti is the haven of the ancient Egyptian Restless and Reborn alike - an echo of the Nile valley hidden beneath the wrath of the Tempest. It is known by some as the Dark Kingdom of Sand, and it is the closest thing to paradise for those wraiths that still cling to the ancient mortuary beliefs, even though dwelling there is usually a captive existence. The wraiths of Amenti are intensely xenophobic, and rarely, if ever, leave their realm, out of fear of the outsiders and the Tempest alike. That Amenti is hidden from discovery by prying eyes is the greatest comfort to them, as well as on the surface being similar to the Egypt they knew in life.

Osiris has been the ruler of Amenti and king of the Egyptian dead for over 6000 years. The realm was first discovered when the Beautiful One set out to find the blessed fields of A’aru, and since then he has reigned unopposed from the throne in the great royal palace-tomb. He has not stirred, nor moved an eyebrow, since the Egyptian Shadowlands were conquered by Stygia, when Neter-khertet suffered the same fate as Khem did in life. His Corpus simply sits, with arms folded across his chest, unblinking and untouchable on the royal throne. The practical ruling of Amenti is handled by a High Council of priests and generals, some being former advisors to the king, but this council has had to adapt and change during the 2000 years Osiris has been dormant. The Council has been stable for the last two centuries though, and the (mostly) ancient wraiths have always had two forces to assist or oppose them as the needs of Amenti required - the Shemsu-heru on one side, and Anubis on the other.

The Shemsu-heru are as respected and revered as the High Council, and the only reason they are not the rulers of Amenti is that their cycle forces them to always return to the Skinlands, and thus leave their dead homeland behind. A few of them are utterly devoted to serving the Kingdom, and visit it even while they reside in the living world. Most Reborn are content to enjoy life while they have it though, and let their Underworld run itself while they are away. Only about 10-20 mummies are usually found in Amenti at one time, and the status of all 42 Shemsu-heru is legendary to the thousands of wraiths that reside there, so the period they spend there is usually an easy one. The accumulation of ba energy is slower when dormant though, so although whiling away the years by sitting quietly in Amenti is preferred by many Reborn, most explore the Underworld for extended periods instead.

Amenti itself is cut through by the River of Life, the Underworld counterpart to the great Nile, though in Amenti the river is stale - the Pathos of the living no longer feeds it like it used to. Despite Amenti’s wealth of smooth, angular fortresses, the buildings there are almost only tombs, and though their elaborateness and splendor used to be great many have crumbled or fallen slowly into Oblivion. Stone obelisks, sculptures and even pyramids can be found in the dunes and fields, all dedicated to the afterlife by the living back at the dawn of civilization. Almost nothing modern exists there though, few younger wraiths find their way to Amenti these days and the ancient souls are comfortable with the illusion of stone, bronze and wood. The charnel air in the valley is heavy, as the population slowly dwindles and progress is steadfastly refused. Only the Shemsu-heru are able to bring a wind of change to Amenti upon their arrival, and for this reason they are resented by many of the conservative elders that are loath to destroy their afterlife by letting heretical and modern thoughts into their safe paradise.

The legends concerning the mythical figure of Anpu, or Anubis, are many. He is told to be the first man who ever tasted death, the one who taught the Arcanoi to Charon and his people, the one who founded the Ferrymen and much more. What is known is that he is the spiritual patron of the Reborn, and, to an extent, all Egyptian dead. He is there when all mummies are born into death, again and again, and he is the one who guides them safely to Amenti if they so wish. His knowledge of the Tempest, which is known to the Egyptian dead as Tenemu, is supreme. He functions as emissary, ferryman and counselor for both Amenti and what used to be Neter-khertet, although his existence is very little known outside these realms. Certainly Stygia never recognized any rumors of this enigmatic being, deferring to the Lady of Fate on such mythical matters. There are certainly similarities between the stories and powers of the two, but since knowledge of one almost excludes any of the other, no relation between them has ever been suggested out loud in neither Amenti or Stygia. If anyone knows of one, it would be he who was Charon or the Ferrymen.

The figure of Anubis is unmistakable, unless he has chosen to appear in another form entirely. His head is that of a jackal, unmoving and appearing to have been carved from black stone, with traditional Egyptian headdress and costume to complete the classical temple-image, occasionally supplemented by white linen robes. He travels the Tempest in a crescent-shaped reed boat known as Mesektet, stitched together by the reeds found at the mouth of the River of Life. A long pole is his favored tool for charting the Sea of Shadows, and this image is the one he shows to the Reborn when their time has come to enter or leave the Underworld.

The mortuary culture of ancient Egypt was dominated by belief in the afterlife, and the ideas of the living world naturally carried over into that of the dead. The Khemrians believed that every Egyptian soul would be judged after death, and be found worthy of the afterlife or not. If the soul was deemed unworthy, its heart was devoured by a hybrid-beast, while worthiness meant the blessed fields of A’aru, or something similar, awaited. As always, legends of the Far Shores identify them with A’aru, and countless wraiths have been lost to Oblivion while questing for their promised paradise.

According to the ancient hieroglyphic writings, the world was created from a primal sea of nothingness, and if proper devotion was not paid to the gods, the world could be unmade once more. In the Underworld, this was very visibly the case - the rolling Tempest that surrounded Amenti was the topmost layer of this mass of unbeing, known to them in life as Tenemu. In death, only Anubis could sail the primal waters safely. The texts also spoke of a great serpent, an embodiment of Tenemu named Apophis, whose sole purpose was to devour the world once more. Ra, the sun, had to defeat this monster every day in his journey across the sky. Most denizens of Amenti see Anubis as having taken Ra’s place, as the sun continues its journey through the Underworld every night. Apophis is the name given to the most powerful servants of Oblivion, as well as other demonic entities that threaten the stability of Amenti.