The Adult Story Hub

Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001. All rights, well, you know. Repost and archive to your heart's content, just don't charge anyone for it or I'll have to send Harry Long after you. You all know the rest of the drill by now.
By WZB (writerzblocked@aol.com)
(Authors Note: It ain't pretty. It ain't graphic, but it ain't pretty. You have been warned.)


"Dance," Elijah commanded, softly.

At once, silence fell about the huge tent. The serving girl dropped her tray to the floor, and even the hard dirt seemed to honor the moment as the pottery shards shattered and rolled and bounced across it but refused to break the silence. She immediately fell to her knees in front of him, her eyes shut and her arms shaking. "But, Lord, I..."

"You will dance for me," he repeated, his right hand moving slowly to his face to brush away an insect. He muttered a guttural juuj under his breath and the dozen buzzing flies around him suddenly caught fire and burned like ember gnats for a half second before falling lifeless and smoldering to the ground. Then the dirt moved to cover them and the silence returned. He lowered his head slowly and his flickering shadow grew to fill the entire space between his feet and where she knelt on trembling knees. Her hands covered her face.

"Lord, if I may," came a voice to his left, "she wears the holt of Arnuul." The elderly puusan fingered his own holt nervously. "There are certainly others here..."

Elijah squinted as he leaned forward on his throne to better observe the small amulet about her neck, white bone in the shape of a four-point star. He snorted and turned to stare at a small man sitting several tables away.

Again, all eyes turned to follow those of their master...

"Keriivan, how comes a virgin to a whorehouse?!"

The man shuffled quickly across the room until he stood beside the girl. "A trifle difficult to explain, Lord," he began. "Her father owed me a debt he could not pay and she is working for me until we can come to a better agreement." Keriivan put his hand gently on her head. "I was...unaware of her cuusint until she actually came to my door."

"Yet another sign Shwaam has fallen to her knees, Naastle, when she allows white within these walls," Elijah turned again to his left with a cruel smile. "This is indeed the time for those of power to rise."

"If it gives you pleasure, Lord," the older man bowed.

"Oh, no doubt of that, old puusan," Elijah laughed, "but now I am in search of other pleasures." He turned his attention back to the girl as he chuckled at his own humor. Not alone, as nervous laughter filled the room. The Lord of the Outlands adjusted himself on his throne again and fixed his gaze on Keriivan and the girl. "Who is her father and how much does he owe?"

"Well, my Lord, it is...well...it really is nothing that need concern you." Keriivan answered with eyes down and an obvious quiver in his tone.

Elijah smiled cruelly. "Is that NOBILITY I hear in you voice, old whoremaster? Is this the same voice that once laughed of procuring girls ten cycles young from the mudplowers for the price of a week's worth of water? Or buying and daring to work his own cousin?"

The Lord raised a finger and traced a glowing glyph in the air and watched with glee as it drifted towards Keriivan. "Is the same voice that owes its livelihood, if not its very existence, to me and my fathers and grandfathers now telling me that I need not be concerned by an ill-conceived contract between two parties on my land under my watch?"

Keriivan slowly backed away from the fiery symbol dancing in the air as it twisted and reshaped itself several times. From every corner of the massive tent, none dared speak, but all watched.

"Or could it be that perhaps, just perhaps, your voice speaks not for you, but for itself?" Elijah laughed long and deeply as the symbol shaped itself one last time, blazed brightly for a second, then vanished as quickly as it appeared. The room erupted in laughter, as Keriivan hid his face with his arm.

"Love?!!" Elijah leaned back on his throne and put his hand on his forehead and his entire body shook. "The great symbol of Batuul? Yet another sign Shwaam is sleeping! When whoremasters lose mastery of their own hearts! Come, now, Keriivan, please share with us all the day and time you actually discovered a beating within that old weathered chest, much less the ears to hear it or the key to open it!"

The laughing eyes watched Keriivan, master of the tent of whores, as he made his way quickly through the doorway and out into the night, leaving behind only scattered spots on the ground as he fled. And, again, the dirt of the floor moved to reclaim its own.

Elijah lifted his arms and raised his palms to the heavens as he watched the man flee. "And there you are, fellows proof indeed that hearts and voices DO have legs and can make swift when they must!" he mocked, and his laughter was slow to fade.

But fade it did, finally, and the large man turned his attention back to the girl who was still kneeling on the floor in front of him. Her long black hair masked her face as it cascaded down past her shoulders until it almost reached the ground. Her arms were wrapped tightly across her chest.

"Now," he said firmly as he bent forward on his throne, "let us see what manner of woman could possibly find a heart in a heartless man and cause a voice to sprout legs."

"My Lord, if I might..." Naastle had not risen from his seat during the earlier ritual of seeing, but was now standing next to Elijah.

"Yes, yes, puusan, what is it?" his Lord replied, not bothering to divert his gaze from the woman in front of him.

"I do not think it would be wise to press this one into doing more than what would be expected of a serving girl."

Elijah grinned mysteriously and shook his head. "No, dear Naastle, I would not dream of forcing this poor girl to do anything she was not willing to do."

"I am very happy to hear that, my Lord."

"Because I expect YOU to do that." The grin grew wider, but still his eyes were on the girl, unmoving in front of him.

Naastle took a step back, and his jaws clenched and his eyes grew dim as he quickly struggled to gauge the seriousness in his Master's voice. "I...I mean, I don't think..."

"Yes, you do, my dear puusan." Elijah stretched his right leg out casually and scratched at his knee. "It is what you DO, is it not?"

"But...my Lord... Arnuul!" Naastle's fingers nipped nervously at his chin as he continued. "Guuntal sleeps not far away."

"Wine and song and silly ritual felled him not long past the rising of Chaasm, Naastle, you know this." Elijah turned to face his subject, the grin melting from his face. "Tell me you fear an old drunkard to the Lord of the Outlands. Or shall your newfound voice lead you also screaming from my presence."

"Never Lord," Naastle said reverently as he bowed and shied away from the large man's eyes, looking instead to the serving girl not five feet away. "I simply think there are laws that bind even the mighty Elijah."

"Yes, I suppose there are two or three," Elijah chuckled, "yet I do not count this among them." He turned and cast his gaze at the women lounging in the earthen chairs and about the tables in the large tent. "And I have had the rest of them so many times I know the names of every hair on their worthless scalps and can count them in my sleep."

He slowly bent down and extended his right hand to the girl. "But this one..."

She sensed his approaching hand and bowed her head more deeply and her hair swept gently across the dirt of the floor.

"This one is different," he mused as he watched closely as the patterns formed in the dirt. "I've not seen hair of that length on an Issuul in many cycles."

"If I were to guess, my Lord, I would say Taabul. Or Meecha. A caravan from that area passed through here not long ago."

"Hmm, possibly, but the patterns suggest to me a halfbreed." Elijah said, as he watched the very earth itself flee from her hair, ripples of dirt flowing outwardly from its touch like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone, and dust took lightly to the air on its own, drifting off lazily in all directions before finally forming several smoky columns and settling back to earth.

"It seems Shwaam herself refuses to kiss this one."

At his words, the girl gave a muffled cry and buried her head in her hands. Naastle turned from the scene and frowned while he scratched at his nose, again fingering the holt buried in his wrinkled chest.

"Now, now, girl, no need to feel shame for the sins of your parents," Elijah reached out to her head, his enormous hand casting purple shadows over her dark hair in the light of the torches. And as he waved, unseen winds tickled the flickering torch light as they moved through the room and took hold of individual strands, then more, more, until finally the whole of her hair was dancing above the ground, weaving in and out of itself, the winds finally fashioning it into a dark and soft structure reaching high into the air above her head. "And Shwaam is sometimes not the best judge in such matters."

She gasped in surprise and her hands suddenly jumped from her face to her head to examine his work. Freed, wetness fell from her still downcast eyes and fell to the floor and lay there. Unmoving.

"For Shwaam does not have open eyes to see you have a most beautiful face," Elijah continued with a smile. "I should rule it a crime to hide such a thing from the Lord of the Outlands."

At that, she let out another soft cry and her hands immediately fell back to cover her face and her body fell forward, bent from her knees, until she lay prostrate before him. Her legs shivered and her small feet moved back and forth uncontrollably, digging jagged paths into the ever-moving earth beneath her.

Elijah frowned as he fell from his thrown to his own knees in front of her. "Would that you should hold your cries until you hear the sentence for such an imaginary crime, child woman," he whispered, as he cupped a hand around her face, rubbing his thumb softly across her ear. "It might mean wetness of value so far beyond tears, that even rich-blooded women would gladly wear veils."

But his words did not appear to move her, save that her feet stilled, and the dirt moved slowly to smooth over the paths. Elijah shook his head and stood to full height, and his torch-lit shadow seemed to grow and stretch so far in all directions as to blend with the more benign darkness in all the corners of the large tent.

"The wine is beginning to take my words, girl!" he said, firmly. "And I find I am using some of the ones I do have left far too often for my liking. I know the name of every stone, tree, and worm under my protection, but I do not know yours."

"Is there not a name to go with that beautiful face?"

The soft, continuous sobbing from somewhere between her smooth, pale hands, remained her only reply.

Finally, Elijah let out a long, deep sigh, and the room suddenly became quiet as he once again raised his arm and traced a fiery outline with a finger. "What a night it is," he muttered to himself as he continued, "when dead hearts have voices, but living faces do not."

As the glyph began to slowly twist and wind its way down through the air towards her, it seemed to grow larger and larger until it settled in the air just above her hair. And, when finally it was still, in a voice both foreign and familiar, it spoke.

"Meintir, my Lord."

At the sound of the voice, the girl at once jumped backwards and let out a cry of surprise, one hand to her mouth, the other to her throat. Her face was without color, and her eyes wide with fear. "My voice," she cried softly through her fingers, as if to herself.

"No, my little woman-child. MY voice," Elijah stared down at her. "Do you not know who I am?"

"You are Elijah, Lord of the Outlands," replied the voice.

She tightened her fingers around her throat and shook her head back and forth violently now, her hair slowly tumbling back down around her shoulders. "No," she gasped, and her eyes moved up to the still smoldering symbol hanging in the air. "No."

"Yes!" he spoke, his brows raising and his lips curling with a menace honed from decades of practice. "Elijah, Lord of the Outlands! Son of Dargund, grandson of Farhund, protector of Undaal, and master of every spirit in my domain!" He was waving his arms wildly now.

"All spirits save one, it seems, my Lord," interrupted a voice from his left.

The large man suddenly turned towards the puusan, and his raised arm began a quick, downward arc towards the old man...

And stopped to rest on his shoulder.

"All save one," Elijah laughed a hearty laugh. "The spirit of the vine, the one cursed son of Shwaam no man can master, not even the mighty Elijah." He smiled wryly. "But MUST you interrupt my entertainment with such old news, ancient one?"

"Only if such entertainment is more for the benefit of that cursed spirit than for my Lord." Naastle gently grasped the hand on his shoulder and turned his eyes to Meintir, who was shivering on the ground now, hands still firmly about her neck and mouth. "And the girl is frightened far past the point of knowing or caring WHICH master she is supposed to be entertaining."

"Ah, perhaps you are right, old man," Elijah sighed as he turned his eyes to the girl, "but I have tried every spirit fire, dust, wind, and even whisper and still she refuses to calm." He grinned. "And I am losing patience. I think maybe it is time for the young to give way to the old."

The puusan sighed in turn as he went back to caressing his holt with one hand. "And what is it you would want from your servant?"

Elijah's eyes grew narrow as he focused on the girl. "She will dance for me."

"Is that all?"

"Now, that would depend on her dance, puusan." Elijah smiled, his eyes unmoving, cast over the whole of her body. "Will you not dance for the Lord of the Outlands?"

"I have never danced, my Lord," it replied, still fiery in the air.

Again, she let out a small cry and crawled back, falling from her voice.

"My Lord..."

"Yes, yes," Elijah sighed, as he slapped a hand softly against his hairless head. The symbol twisted twice, then tore into a thousand sparks, each wandering erratically to and fro throughout the night air within the tent, finally rejoining their brethren in the torch light, each to its own time. A few of his men stomped their feet lightly at the display, joined by the drunken giggling of whores.

And in the center of the tent, a lone woman-child again covered her eyes and draped an arm across her body.

"Never danced?" The Lord of the Outlands mused quietly. "Never have I been one to pry too deeply into the affairs of the virgins of Arnuul, but this seems strange even for them..."

"Well, my Lord, all you might do is look to her hair..."

The large man paused to put his hands to his head as if to steady himself, then let out with slow laughter. "The music. Indeed, Naastle, that damned spirit is fast taking me where I do not want to go. The singing of birds and insects and wind, and occasional words spoken as one may not be enough to have touched one so young."

"Certainly not as the songs of Shwaam, my Lord," Naastle caressed his holt now, and it began to glow with a bluish light. "And the priests of Arnuul are fairly strict when it comes to forms of artificial pleasure."

Elijah cocked his head slightly and lowered a brow towards the old man.

"Or so I was told long ago," Naastle smiled, "when I cared about such things." His holt was now bright bluegreen in the torch light.

"Well," sniffed Elijah, turning his attention back to Meintir. " I am not so old yet, though the night is quickly getting there. And I think maybe it is time she learned. As protector and nurturer of all within my reach, I think it is my...obligation."

"As you wish, my Lord," came the reply, as Naastle turned his attention to the girl. "The music of Shwaam can even grace the ears of half-breeds if given a proper introduction."

"Indeed," replied Elijah with a smile, as he began to sit down, his earthen throne growing and shifting to meet the needs of the Lord of the Outlands. "And, as with many things, let her first be her best."

The old man took a deep breath, tugged at one ear, then exhaled audibly, visually, his breath becoming seemingly solid things as it streamed slowly out in front of him. First a bird, a large, smoky winged thing which quickened and then swept through the air of the tent, circling about Meintir twice before coming to rest a few feet above her head as she continued to shake and shiver and see nothing outside the palm of her tiny hand. Then a cloud of crickets, chirping, crawling, then bouncing, then jumping to each its own rhythm, scattering wildly about the tent. Then a chorus of frogs, ungainly and without measure, croaking and writhing about in the dirt, hopping in all directions.

"Oh, good one!" Smiled Elijah as he kicked dirt at a frog near his throne, chuckling as it passed without incident through the green hollow of its skin. "This be almost entertainment enough!"

Meintir suddenly let out a small cry as she shook her foot to dislodge a frog, then the hand covering her face went abruptly to her hair to shake off a cricket, her fear of the previous moment apparently replaced by the growing awareness of the chaos of nature surrounding her. Above her, she could feel the vibrations of wings and the night air was pierced by a shrill cry, suitably out of tune with the growing cacophony inside the tent of whores. Then, as if commanded by Shwaam herself, it all ceased.

Save for a soft, rapid, but steady beating which she only vaguely recognized, but which grew louder and louder and louder until her hands covering eyes and breasts moved to her ears seemingly of their own accord.

But, it did not stop. All around her now it pounded and echoed through the tent and, indeed, through her body as well. Her arms and legs felt it now, her chest heaving in step with the heart within it, her lips and brows shaking slightly with every pulse. She felt her feet move on air beneath her, rising, rising, legs following, swaying unsteadily at first, then gaining composure as the heat from her pulsing heart filled them with the energy of the music of Shwaam. Sensing it fully for the first time in her life, she let out a small cry and opened her eyes.

Her feet were nearly invisible to her, enveloped in the eruudi, the breath clouds of the puusan, a full five feet above the ground. She gasped as her mind took it in, but the heat flowing within her would not let her lose her hold. The beating was now steady again, and lower, but she felt it in every hair on her brow and in every nail on her fingers, a heavenly warmness which kept her eyes open and her mind calm. Her hands extended slowly out in front of her as if to somehow keep and hold an unearthly balance in the air, only to be rewarded with two more vaporous extensions from the puusan they grasped each a wrist and gently pulled them in opposite directions, all keeping with the beating of her heart and the music of Shwaam.

Then, smoothly and solemnly, the chorus of crickets began to hum. And, one by one, the frogs ceased their wanderings and began to moan in tones both low and high. And, from its perch on another floating eruudi five feet from her head, the diisti spread its wings and began to cry.

And Meintir began her dance.

In the early moments, it seemed her limbs moved of their own accord as she watched the clouds take them high and low, back and forth, with wide eyes and mouth open; she felt her blood warm and her heart whisper and her ears speak, but still a part of her was watching from outside. Her hair flew in waves of black beside her face as she turned her head, and her hips swayed slightly, following the lead of her legs, which, in turn, were driven by the rush of air which moved her feet in small circles, high above the dirt and sand. The heat within her body reached outward, reddening her chest, hardening her nipples, and she felt a warm wind whip softly and gently around the hollows of her neck, rising about and caressing her ears, then moving between each and every strand of hair as it made its way back from whence it came.

And the diisti swept down towards her, hovering within arms reach, cocking its head to and fro as it warbled a particularly somber melody. And the part of her that was watching from the outside, stopped, and looked, and listened to the clouds and the crickets and the frogs and the bird and the majesty of the music of Shwaam. And the beating of her heart. And it reached out.

And she smiled.

And as she reached out to it, the diisti seemed to smile as only diisti can, and the eruudi about her hands slowly dispersed, forming smaller clouds which danced and mingled with each other, all to the beating of her heart. She looked down, but the clouds which had captured her feet had likewise retreated into their own camps, darting and zipping about the tent, but always in rhythm. And she smiled down at the barren dirt, now twice again as far from her head as her feet. But she did not fall.

Indeed, she could not fall. She was one with Shwaam now, for the very first time in her life. She felt her arms move and her legs move and knew. She felt her breasts heave and her lips and tongue moisten and knew. She took a deep breath, and felt the fire as the air filled her lungs and KNEW. This was the touch her mother never felt, the kiss infants know in the womb, the caress given upon dying and rejoining. This was the dance of Shwaam.

HER dance.

All these things she felt as she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sounds and the feelings. Slowly she started, bending her waist, lifting one leg, then the other, running one hand up her side, the other down her back, tilting forward, backward, all with the certainty of one who KNEW. She laughed loudly as she kicked both legs up and bent backward, twirling her body in the air until she straightened flat out on an unseen bed. Her hands covered her body, her right moving up her bent leg from her ankle to thigh, her left throwing her hair above her head, where it continued to move about in the air, a thousand different dark dancers sharing one foot. She giggled as a hand moved across her breasts, stopping to tickle a nipple on its way across her belly. Her heartbeat quickened aloud as she arched her back, lifted her legs at the knees, and passed a hand between her legs. Then again, she rolled, and came to rest facing the ground. With eyes closed, she continued to caress her body, wrapping an arm under one leg and dragging a hand across her breech and down between.

And so she danced, for seeming hours without end, lost in Shwaam's first kiss. During that time, her ears noticed subtle changes in the music, but her heart and mind did not care. The cry of the diisti became more urgent, and closer also, but rarely did she open her eyes, so immersed was she in the dance. But, finally, she did and saw that the bird was very close now, and smiling again. She returned the smile and did yet another twirl in the air, laughing as the bird did likewise. Then as she came to a stop, it again mimicked her movements and smiled, interrupting its song just long enough to fly even closer, a mere breath away now, and a drop a purple feather. She laughed again as it drifted there in the air, until finally it brushed up against her cheek, leaving behind a wetness not unlike tears.

Immediately, she felt a horrible burning against her chest and the dance was at an end.

"Naastle!" Elijah looked to the older man, exasperated, as Meintir's eyes shot open and she quickly pulled back away from him, startled, his seed still wet upon her face. "Just a few moments longer!"

"My apologies, my Lord, I do not know..." The old puusan was still fingering his glowing holt nervously. "...perhaps Arnuul. Or the hair."

"Oh, that cursed vine spirit has taken my patience for excuses, old man," The Lord of the Outlands glanced downward. "Among other things."

"Again, a hundred apologies, Elijah..." Naastle had one eye on his master and the other on Meintir, who was clutching at her still-burning holt with one hand and furiously wiping at her face with the other.

"I do not want a hundred apologies, Naastle, nor a thousand." He was attempting to peer through the roof of the tent to plead with the heavens now. "I want to FINISH!"

"And finish, you will, death bane of Shwaam!!!"

The voice was cold and unwavering as death, and brought all talk to a halt, as all heads; guards, soldiers, whores, priests and Lords, turned to the center of the tent. Meintir again fell forward on her face, away from the smell of decay, away from the thing which had seemingly risen from the dirt beside her. It was thin and gaunt and resembled a man in most ways, except it had no eyes, nor ears, nor nose, nor mouth, and a large rune glowed beige and brown in its chest where its holt might be. At once, five guards jumped from their seats across the tent, the ground itself moving at their feet, rising up around their legs, past their waists and further enveloped them as they moved, until where there was once flesh and blood, now walked five deadly shrouds of rock and stone.

Elijah put one hand to his forehead and waved at them dismissively with the other. "Yes, yes, that WOULD explain it."

Naastle sighed deeply and threw up his hands.

"You can not continue to abuse Shwaam in this way, corrupt one!" The figure continued, even as the five living statues surrounded it. "The time of awakening is close at hand!"

"As you told my father, and his father before him, foul one." Elijah leaned to rest his head in one hand, an arm of his throne rising to allow him to prop his elbow upon it. "A thousand times you come and a thousand times we send you back."

"And a thousand times more shall I come if there is even the slightest chance your sons and grandsons will listen to the voice of Shwaam." The figure turned towards Meintir, who was unmoving now, and its rune throbbed in earthen tones. "This one is a chosen of Arnuul. She has cuusint and her holt is strong."

"Ah, but the lust of the Lord of the Outlands is stronger," Elijah smiled, his head still in his hand, "and you are interrupting my entertainment." He gestured nonchalantly with his free hand and barked out a harsh juuj. Immediately, the ground beneath the decrepit figure began to open.

"Be warned, cursed one!" It yelled as it slowly began to sink into the earth. "This one will not be forgotten!"

"That will probably be decided by the spirit of the vine," The Lord of the Outland muttered to himself as he scratched at the back of his head.

"This one knows a purpose and will demand justice!" Then the ground closed above its head, and all was silent.

"Yes, yes, now go back to sleep with Shwaam for another thousand years," Elijah yawned as he rubbed at his eyes. "Or frighten the few children who might still believe your words have any meaning at all."

"As for me," he continued as he stretched his arms wide, "I have unfinished work." And his legs straightened, then fell firmly to the ground with a force that managed an earthly echo as his feet sank ankle deep into the dirt floor, and slivers and sparks of brown and red and yellow erupted from the pits about them.

As the Lord of the Outlands stood again to his full height, the puusan next to him stared at the spot where the reenq had appeared and then vanished at his master's command. "I knew it could not have been me," he muttered quietly as he continued to finger his holt. Then he turned to the girl who lay unmoving nearby, and his voice raised. "I could make another attempt, my Lord. It would be a challenge, for her holt IS stronger now."

"What holt is that, puusan?" Elijah's throne crumbled behind him as he moved forward, bits and pieces of stone and mud peeling from the top and sides and falling and sliding to the floor as it collapsed inwards upon itself, abruptly and without order, but silently, so as not to interrupt its Lord.

"The holt of the virgins of Arnuul?" He asked aloud to himself, not waiting for an answer, his eyes turning from brown to red, and his feet burning blazing furrows in the ground as they slid through the earth. Dust rose and dirt flew and turned to smoke and ash as he moved.

"Was there indeed such a holt?" He cocked his head as he approached, and the ground beneath Mientir groaned as it twisted and reshaped itself into brown and blackened fingers which grasped and clawed at her struggling body, lifting her up and pinning her arms to her sides as the Lord of the Outlands approached.

"Really, my dear puusan, I think the wine has taken YOUR memory," Elijah laughed low as he bent down to examine the amulet around her neck, which was burning white with a light which matched the color of her skin. Her eyes went wide and her head shook violently as he reached out a finger...

Mientir sealed her eyes and opened her mouth, but no sound came from it, as the white light turned deep blue, then red, then yellow and the four points of the star melted together and twisted as it flared one final time, searing itself into the very flesh between her breasts.

Elijah grinned sideways at Naastle, whose own eyes were wide and whose mouth was similarly open and had seemingly managed to turn his own peculiar shade of white. His hands were like iron one on top of the other across his own chest.

"I see no holt." His master beamed as he turned back to Mientir, who was shaking even within the firm grasp of stony fingers as she dared to open her eyes and look down at her chest...

And screamed a scream that no ears could hear. Not even her own.

"Certainly not of Arnuul, who is not likely to grant cuusint to those bearing the mark of the Lord of the Outlands..." Elijah spoke through lips of fire as he bent closer to watch the symbol begin to take shape.

"...for I know none of hers and she will never know one of mine," he whispered softly, smiling as he lowered his tongue to kiss the brown burning serpent between her breasts, and a fiery finger slipped between her legs.

And Naastle forced his eyes to close, but he could not do the same for his ears.

"Yes, dear puusan, sometimes the old ways ARE the best."

A foul smoke rose through the air and out of the tent of whores that night and drifted off to the north and east, a smoke which seemed to mask the stars themselves, save for the one which would be seen and felt by Shwaam herself. At that very moment, it appeared in the night sky just below the Great Bear and neither clouds of water nor fire would darken its path as it made its way across the heavens to find rest in the Northern Reaches.

Countless sets of eyes watched its journey that night and each has its own story to be told. But had any been outside that tent on that night they might have noted one with no eyes, but witnessed.

And with no mouth, but smiled.

End