"I need something, a map," A quick breath, "Some sort of map, something." The man repeated himself many times, pacing as he did so. He roamed around a very small cabin, a single window harboring a view of the Imbarle Bay. The cabin itself was made of simple spruce, treating more than likely at the saw mill that could always be heard no matter where you traveled around here. The constant grind of saw work gradually just wore into the white noise, and you grew to never notice it. Outside of the cabin the harbor itself spread into the deep bay, four or five long docks reached out, many small ships tied up to posts. The bay itself nearly closed off before it enters the sea. Only a small strip of land among the horizon remains. Families and couples are always seen walking along the thin stretch of land that just barely didn't connect. The small water passage was only big enough for two rows of medium sized ships to pass through. A constant flow of ships in and out, lines in the water like the line in the sand that didn't quite make Imbarle a lake. Around you the sounds of chains slapping and yelling, screaming of languages not understood. Alien humans from far sides of the world, seeing every shipping port and every lighthouse known. The entire town smelled of salt and fish, lingering on the warm spring air. 

The inside of the shack was not as industrial. A rectangular straw mattress lay on a wooden board built directly from the side of the wall. Under it a few pairs of shirts and pants were underneath the shelf/bed, none of which were colorful. There was one small woolen floormat directly in the middle of the floor. It was stained with years of boots and spills and wood. In one corner was a modest potbelly wood stove. A short stack of meager wood lay beside in a woven basket. Woodchips scattered from one side of the room to the other. The man himself was angry as he paced. Dark circles were stained under his sagging eyes. He obviously had not shaven in a week or two. A simple brown shirt was all he wore to cover his skinny frame. His pants were died brown wool, along with his simple overcoat. Finally, he stopped his repetitive walk, threw a small piece of wood in the fire, stood up tall, and sighed deeply. 

"I need to find someone." He mumbled. The door flung open and Loncovitz breathed in the salt and sun and the warmness that flies with the wind when it comes off the sea. He paused just a moment, staring idly at the tall spruces and evergreens that littered the tall hills on all sides of the town. His gaze fell downward to the bundles of flowers that littered his rock pathway and all across his yard. Lately, nobody cheered, though. No new flowers.

Having never taken but a step out of his door, which still was open, Loncovitz bent over and grabbed a single wilting yellow rose with his bony fingers. He carried it just a few steps and he started to walk forward. He then let it slip out of his grip and tumble from his side, his mind elsewhere. The flower focused on compost and regrowth as something new. He now knew where he was heading, but quickly turned around and ran back against his progress to shut the door he forgot. Back turned south, his mind turned like the saw buzz that rumbled in the back of his mind, forgot.

"The damned heretics should know, they have all treaded far away from this place. Lordl is just a constant hub of wanders, a small rest for anyone and everyone that wants to go any direction. Or no direction at all. The place is filled with bile, people preaching on every corner, each an opposite idea. Each equally insane. They need to know real prophecy, they'd be too busy to be insane. It's only a couple moons this direction. I just can't think of some place where this threat is coming from. The guidance of my dreams have yet to fail me, why now would it leave me answerless when it showed me the most clearly of things to come? A vision of death to our people, I need to track down Wen. First, I need some food for the trip. Then I deal with that aimless wanderer, and find out if he's seen any creatures like that." 


The rocks surrounding the path were entirely shale, breaking off in sheets with every misplaced step. One could see where small rockslides have happened, and people have spend many days digging out a rough path through the new rock. Some of the slides were so bad, the road had to pass up the hill, sometimes taking a half mile to transverse the side route. The rocks themselves were entirely gray on the side the light shot down upon, due to the constant wind that howled through these canyons. The underneath of the rocks remained a blood red, though. Vibrant. A violent red some nearby aboriginal tribes use as body and face paints for their ceremonies. They are called the Huulls, peaceful tribes whose Witch Doctors often match the medical power of our best doctors.

These thoughts passed through Locovitz mind as he moved south. A small stick hanging off of his shoulders, a bag of supplies dangling behind him. "Those rituals in my dream were nothing like that, so angry, so vicious. As if they wanted to raise that marsh over the entire land, all but that hill they danced upon. And that marsh, so vast, spreading to what seemed like the horizon line of my sight. The closest marsh I even know of is in Brindle, but even that is at least sixteen moons south of Lordl. Even so, that marsh remains only a percentage of the one I witnessed. Wen will know, Wen knows maps, he has maps, he will know."

The End

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