My body died. Perhaps my spirit entered the Mansus.
Despair, the wolf that devours thought, devoured me.
I no longer have any idea what is real, and what is not.
I honoured my agreement, but I did not have a friend.
My trial was contentious. But thanks to the Inspector, here I am.
I wrestled the Forge to victory. I will not grow old.
I gorged on the fruits of the sticky Grail. I will not grow old.
I walked behind the Watchman. I will not grow old.
I worked. I slaved. I lived a sort of life.
I will be honoured by my peers. And then, one day, I'll die.
I dedicated myself to the Hours of struggle and conquest.
I dedicated myself to the fire that changes and remakes.
I dedicated myself to the mysteries of birth, blood and appetite.
I dedicated myself to the drumbeat which can never end.
I dedicated myself to the Hours which open doors.
I dedicated myself to the understanding of the Light that leaks from a fiercer place.
I dedicated myself to chaos, and the unexpected Hours.
I dedicated myself to the study of the five Histories, and their thousand demi-real branches.
I dedicated myself to the silence that comes and the cold that ends.
I conjured a creature from beyond the skin of the world.
The Wood grows around the walls of the Mansus. As any student of Histories knows, the Mansus has no walls.
Speech may not pass the White Door, but I may.
I have answered the riddle of the Stag Door, and am counted among the Know.
I have made the necessary sacrifice to enter the Mansus through the Spider Door.
It has pleased the Peacock Door to yield to my entry.
I sharpened a believer to their deadliest Edge.
I shaped a mighty believer from the fires of the Forge.
I pledged a believer to the Feast of the Grail.
I drew a believer to the endless Dance of the Heart.
I forged a believer into a true instrument of Knock.
I cast a believer onto the Lantern's path.
I led a believer to the Wood of the Moth.
.....................
I have joined the storm-chorus of the Thunderskin. Never shall I cease.
I have become something winged, dark and undying; something that no longer exists.
Our flesh may tire. We may grow old. But I will not regret.
She wants very much to be found.
We find, we think, a way.
I may give him his reward.
We seem a suited pair.
We are happy, I think.
I would not say it ended badly.
I am drunk with her.
One by one we douse the flames.
Now we are scholars of the heart.
I am well repaid.
He thanks me afterwards.
She ensures I have sweet dreams.
It is hard to tell, with him, whether to laugh or cry.
Our home is littered with his notes.
That is enough.
Our house is home to fluttering things.
Life is not easy with her.
Our heartbeats quicken together.
We dream the same pink dreams.
He is the melody of love, and I hear him now.
We wrestled the Forge to victory. We will not grow old.
We gorged on the fruits of the sticky Grail. We will not grow old.
We walked behind the Watchman. We will not grow old.
We have joined the storm-chorus of the Thunderskin. Never shall we cease.
We have become something winged, dark and undying; something that no longer exists.
I am a successful trophy.
I was consumed, but another I rose higher
I was devoured, but another I rose higher
I was lost to another I's glory
In the Fifth History alone, I will rise like a wave and hood myself to mark what I have become.
I carry the colours of lost Hours with me like a coal of rosy fire.
I couldn't risk them picking up the trail again.
NO RECKONERS, NO EXCEPTIONS.
I've been poor, I've been rich, and I've learnt that I'd rather be rich.
'I have one very specific recommendation for the contract...'
Somehow I can't stop thinking about it...
There's a lot of the world, and it's not all mapped yet.
I don't think it really qualifies as a cadaver, so much as a souvenir.
The Corrivality is the world's engine.
The opposite of battle is death.
The Wolf and all the wandering flames will feast.
Any student of Histories knows: as within, so without. One way or another.
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