The Cantlebrin Bridge was high up and made of ice. It connected one side of the Rezlinought Canyon to the other, a railless pathway joining opposing caves that nested thirty yards down from the canyon’s ridges. Although made entirely of ice—ice partially fused, partially wedged—the bridge had been a reliable mode of travel for centuries; it had been crossed countless times.

This was to be my four-hundred and forty-ninth crossing of the Cantlebrin Bridge. And the Nebulae of Dust standing rigidly at the other end caused me to believe it would be my last. These were nefarious beings that traveled in packs, leeching upon the misfortunate. And they were evasive; they could be solid or gaseous when desired, and travel to places unbeknownst to the world of man. To encounter a Nebula of Dust without the proper safeguard was to encounter a certain but slow death. Once upon its victim, it would oscillate rapidly between its forms beneath the flesh, never fully allowing either form to settle. In this manner it would burst like bubble-sized, miniature explosions while feeding on the wounded, pulped leftovers. The only defense against such creatures was a tempered rod imbued with a copper outer coating, which acted like a magnet, drawing the things away from their hosts—hopefully before too much damage had been exacted.

I had no such implement, and the base of the canyon—nearly two clicks downward—holding hundreds of pockets of frozen water—a sheath of giant, frosted honeycomb—would have killed me had the Nebulae failed. This was not a depth wisely gazed upon for but a moment. There was no course safe except to trek back the way I had come. And I would have reversed, if I was able, but such a choice would have left me in the cave upon nightfall, stranded as easy prey for the Coming of Death.

(Listen to the rest)

The blood determines the majesty of the host.

For most, the constituents of blood are—in order of greatest volume—plasma, red blood cells, and then white blood cells. But for those I served, these typical figures were not so. The Templars Aryiglen had a notably higher amount of red blood cells and less plasma, and thus, had a significantly higher density and thickness of blood. However, this extraordinary blood—Templar Blood—had more unique attributes than just its thickness. Those who contained this blood healed faster, lived longer, and rarely, if ever, got sick. This blood was rich and said to have been passed down from a lineage of beings that dwelled inside stone—prisoners of a world lost in darkness. In a distant time, several of these lava-skinned beings escaped and began a new life upon the surface of what is known, forging bonds with different races, blending and diminishing the occurrence of their special blood over the centuries.

When I served the Templars Aryiglen, I was known as a Validator. I was the authenticator and certifier of Templar Blood—for not always did the offspring of a Templar bear the blood of a Templar; its occasion was rare, and as such, it was in my right to prove or disprove this exalted blood’s existence. And even when the Templar Blood did flow in the veins of its host, its thickness differentiated. It was also my responsibility to accredit this thickness. The thicker the blood, the higher in the ranking of authority a Templar could reside. And so in my duty, I, a simple servant, was able to bestow the hierarchy of power amongst the greatest leaders of the Hurrowing world.

(Listen to the rest)

I sat beside my grandmother, who lay calmly and quietly within her bed. Nothing but her shallow breaths penetrated the atmosphere of her room. I intently watched her chest as it rose and fell. Only by the visual motion could I even discern and align the sound of those faint breaths with my audible perception.

My mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner. My father was in the den, listening to the radio. But those sounds did not matter; they were distant and out of mind.

As I gave my attention to my grandmother, I began to notice the uncanny vibration of life within her. It quivered with each breath as an aura of pale color. The hue of this color waned in and out of darker and lighter shades as death came and went, fighting for full, undeniable control. And with this apparition, all sounds vanished. Like a dream, I witnessed visual phenomena that I could hold no conscious understanding of or control over. Then, with a new breath, I saw the aura of life around my grandmother change as like the gentle change of a breeze. I walked over to the head of her bed, leaned against the edge, and moved in my face close to hers. Then, with what was supposed to be her last breath, I breathed. Before she could sip in, I snagged the breath from her, taking it into my own essence, stealing away those last seconds of life she had left.

For a moment, I tasted death. As a fortune teller communes with the future, so this breath within me told of death and its beyond. It tainted my insides, burning them yet tingling them with vibrant, magnificent feeling. And as this breath reached the ends of its paths within my lungs, I sensed the beginnings of an incredible power, an indestructible presence. This first breath that I had stolen was laid within me as a brick—the first brick lain towards the construction of a menacing apparatus. I could not fathom its shape or even guess at its purpose, but it now rested within me as an artifact of vision, destiny, and perseverance—those things required to complete its work.

(Listen to the rest)

I once had in my possession a unique thermometer I called the Gapetha. Using the buoyancy of five silver circlets in liquid contained in a tall, slim, clear cylinder, it determined temperature. If the temperature was to reach a very specific reading, down to fractions of a degree, these five silver circlets aligned in a pattern that, for while they were in that alignment, unlocked a gateway in the space between airs. The precise distance between these air particles, which would alter at any minor change in temperature, allowed matter from a place called the Devoted Man’s Bazaar to connect with the world. To enter the Devoted Man’s Bazaar by means of the thermometer was to let air slice between flesh, allowing it to come together again in a strange domain.

The Devoted Man’s Bazaar was indeed a marketplace, and it was operated by none other than the Devoted Man—the traveling being who was not man, but only called himself so. He engineered things beyond understanding and found ways to come and go, creating pockets in the continuum of space—havens where he could lead his trade at the apex of mystery. Under these circumstances, people acquired merchandise from his inventory, whether knowing or not—intending to visit or not intending to visit. More often than not, people had no idea they procured items from this inter-dimensional economy because the Devoted Man had his ways of blending his refuge flawlessly with the world and had other ways of masking his secrets. When he chose to carry out business, the Bazaar would appear in a remote location—never within or even close to a city. There would nearly always be a large, silver meadow surrounding the Bazaar, with the Bazaar itself appearing as a glowing, striped tent. And it always came at night—never when there was a single spot of sunlight.

(Listen to the rest)

From the letter addressed to the Strong, written by the hands of Tinus Perpentin:

There is an immovable place at the edge of a far-off, isolated cliff (this is all I can divulge with regards to location). On the outside it is but an enormous rock, seizing space like a gorging wolf. But on the inside lies the madness of evil—both the spawning pool and deathbed of ever-cycling nefariousness. Time wears on the exterior of this boulder, but within, time is departed. I can say assertively—with no one else believing this other than myself—that this place is a home, but not I, or evil and its brood, can possibly bear the turmoil in passing on the name of the master that lives there.

This place has been told of here and there in passing rumors—more incorrectly than correctly, for only I know of its real truth—and those tongues that have relinquished such woes have shriveled before blighted eyes. I would always say, “Better the tongue than the soul,” but the sting of such a comment is as potent as a weapon. It is as such that I have not shared any of my knowledge of the Stone House until that day that I have chosen to die; thankfully, it is that day, and I may finally drive away the haunts stored in my mind and soul. As I further write about the House, I will, to the best of my ability, describe also the way in which my life is taken, for it will assuredly follow my words steadily.

(Listen to the rest)