A cold breeze brushed the man’s arms as someone entered—not a circus clown, nor an acrobat, nor a dancing elf. But a body encompassing the darkness of night.

“Asteroth,” the aged man cussed. “Or should I greet the one who really possesses this body? Which of your ancient names shall I use? Night Beast? Serpent of the Eve? Nightflesh?”

The once-prophet’s long, diamond-white hair was tangled, his flesh wrinkled with gray patches. He had lost weight since the season Obb had spotted him as a young, sputtlepun scribe of the Red Palace. “You have wasted your time coming here. I am a Guard of Doors no more. And even if I was, I wouldn’t help you do such a despicable thing, and violate the rules of… ”

Asteroth settled his hollow, dark gaze on the aged man, and Obb’s throat constricted. He looked to the tent flap but jumped to discover gruesome, wispy creatures in torn burgundy fabric blocking his path. ‘Twas from them the terrible whispers came, and Obb felt bile rise from his aged stomach as he beheld the abominations of this new age.

When Asteroth Ryuu spoke, it was with a voice not his own. “Choose your fate: death or obedience?”

With tight skin, Obb made his choice. “Death,” he said in the face of evil.

A beast stared through Asteroth’s eyes.

“Wrong,” it said.

THE STORYTELLER :

MERRILY MERRILY

A WINTER STORY

Nestle in, if you will, and let me tell you a pirate’s tale…

Once upon a Winter’s eve, Zane Cohen was quite little. Though, not little in height or anger, but little in spirit—a spirit no larger than a nut, no heavier than a feather or fishbone, yet just big enough to upset the scales of those around him.

The Rime boy was not like the others of his crew, nor his blood relatives who whispered spells into the air. And so, little Zane Cohen built a wall of steel ‘round his young heart, and ‘round his joy, locking it deep where it could never come out to play.

Read on, then. See it for yourself.

FIRSTLY

There was not enough snow in all of Winter to wedge between Zane-Cohen-Margus Bowswither and Tigris Oran-Mathsideon to create sufficient distance between the two. Born rivals, they were, even at a dozen seasons old.

Before a sky bleeding scarlet and succulent orange, Zane stared across the deck at Tigris’s twinkling smirk and the iron in his narrowed eyes. The boy’s obsidian hair was soggy with perspiration, but he seemed otherwise well; fit for a race. Healthy enough to bury Zane’s glory at the bottom of the snowseas.

Unfortunately for Tigris, Zane was excellent at races, and he very much hated to lose.