The universe is crushing in its unfathomability. I look into my own eyes in the mirror, and all I can see is flesh and blood, nerves, neurons firing, making me think these thoughts. Within the confines of my skull, but in some respects reaching far beyond, is a universe of thoughts, memories, experiences, ideas. Almost infinite in size, much larger than I can ever hope to grasp, and every moment new thoughts spring forth, from this flesh and blood universe, this neuron fountain, or something else entirely, equally mind-boggling. The idea that the mind boggles itself seems superficially amusing, but deeply terrifying. To carry with you, at all times, the ability to confound yourself with debilitating wonder and confusion, triggered only by a stray thought, in turn triggered by some simple, random impulse that you have no hope of avoiding. One could spend eternities chasing oneself in circles inside one's own head. And then to think that as you see another person – an arbitrary passer-by, an old friend, the person you love – you see another whole universe. Another universe of thoughts and experiences and ideas, completely separate and different from your own, but equally near-infinite and baffling in its complexity. And then extrapolate further; that there are billions of people living on a floating rock in something that no-one fully understands but is understood as "the universe", the universe,  and that in each of the billions of heads, all of those you see, and know, and love, and all of those that you don't, there are other universes, equally giant in expanse, and perhaps even more complex than the one in which they all reside.

Strange then, to know all of this, yet look into one's eyes in the mirror and see only flesh and blood, and not finding the person. Wonder: If you performed every action with more force, opened every door, shook every hand, penetrated every piece of meat with your fork, spoke every word with more force – Would you be a different person? A more commanding person, perhaps? Would your behaviour dictate your thoughts and feelings, would it change the reflection in the mirror? Or would it be a simple charade, a mask, a temporary escape from the person you were doomed to be, inevitably crumbling, even if just in brief, private moments, leaving you to confront your true self at the bottom of the pit you have dug, desperately trying to claw your way back up the dirt walls to reach some state of control.

Crazy; to stare at the picture of  someone, a fellow human being, and enjoy its features to the point where you are desperate to see these features again, in real life, in flesh and blood – even if you just did so some hours ago – and convince yourself that these are thoughts, not instincts. One might begin to suspect that although it seemed a great gift and boon at first, this ability to manipulate yourself, to bypass or trivialize instincts, to think about yourself and others, is actually the greatest curse, and surely the eventual downfall of mankind while nature quietly grinds on.

Storyshard 14

I write down this memory in an attempt to somehow solidify it, make it realer. I have realised, while preparing the memory once again in my head for its recording, that I have already forgotten many of its details, some important, others less so. I shall try to convey it as accurately as I am able, but there are parts of it where I must sadly resort to a general description of what happened. Instead I will attempt to make clear the emotion which these details, now lost from this world, evoked in me then, and still do now. It is my hope that this can help the reader to understand their significance, and perhaps imagine new details for themselves, to fill the gaps.

The elevator took us from the top floor of the car park, and when it reached the bottom, we exited directly into the park. It seemed a strange way to design its layout, almost dreamlike in the way you were in one instance in a concrete and metal world, and in the other in green nature, although it was also constructed.

Almost immediately after leaving the confines of the elevator, as the other four dispersed somewhat, I embraced her from behind, resting my chin on the softness of her jacket’s synthetic fur collar. She turned her head slightly towards me, and although I could not see her face clearly, I knew she was frowning.

“What are you doing?” She asked. “Isn’t this nice?” I asked her in return.

I let go of her, not wanting to push my luck, but I could see her frown soften. I could tell there was a hint of a smile there, a faint residue of something like reluctant enjoyment. I think deep down somewhere, she liked it.

I found her infinitely fascinating. She was ignorant, unlearned, seemingly by choice. Dumb in the way that she did not care for anything of importance. She had never reflected upon her own existence. There had never existed anything resembling a philosophical thought in her head. She cared so little for politics, or literature, or science, that she scarcely even knew what those things were. As far as I knew, and had been able to gather in my time with her, about the only thing she did care for was herself and how she looked. And she did look perfect.

Her hair, which was, as far as I could tell, naturally bright blonde, was barely neck long. It was tightly pinned in the front, drawing a perfectly straight diagonal from the off-centre parting on the left side of her head to behind her right ear. The shape of her face was soft. She was athletic in build, but her facial features were rounded and easy on the eye. Her nose was small and cute, and her large, radiant blue eyes sat beneath eyebrows almost constantly locked in a frown or other disapproving expression. She was so perfectly gorgeous; there is no doubt in my mind she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

She puzzled me greatly, because she was so unintellectual, yet so unhappy. She was always serious. Her range of emotions I was sure contained only those starting with “dis”; disapproval, disdain, dissatisfaction. I could not for the life of me understand why she was always so serious. It was my experience that people with her level of… recreational mental activity and… shallowness, were happier than those of us burdened by existential questions, intellectual ambitions, and concerns of fulfilling societal obligations and expectations. Stupid people were supposed to be happy, because they didn’t know any better. She was perhaps the least happy person I have ever met, and I couldn’t understand why. Strangely this gave me hope. I figured that somehow, somewhere deep within, there had to be a spark inside her – a tiny fraction of potential and intelligence locked away and neglected, understimulated, repressed.

I would have explained to you how I came to know her if I could. The truth is I no longer remember, but I’m not sure I even knew then. No matter how it happened, I found myself walking through the park with her and the rest of her family – her mother and father, and two younger siblings. To be perfectly honest, I was not sure what our relationship was. I’m sure her family considered me her date, but more important was what she thought, and of that I had no idea. I felt like I was at all times walking through a minefield, or was trapped in a cage with a lioness. I was constantly worried that whatever I did next would infuriate her to such a degree that she would not permit me to ever see her again, an idea I found unbearable. Still, I risked things such as embracing her gently, and she hadn’t pushed me away yet, though her stone-faced expression revealed nothing about her inner thoughts. I was fighting an uphill battle so steep I was at any moment on the verge of tipping backwards and rolling down into the coldness of her rejection. Although I thought it would be exhausting, I was not exhausted. It was obvious to me that even though I had no idea of where our relationship was heading, or even where it could go, I had hope – and the battle was worth it.

We came to the restaurant where we had decided to eat. Her father opened the doors, and her family all went inside. As I was about to enter, I looked back to see her standing by the large, street-facing window of the eatery, scowling through it at the tables and chairs inside. I paused, and looked back at her father. He gave me a sad, almost apologetic look before entering the restaurant. Obviously this was not an abnormal situation for them, and I wasn’t exactly taken by surprise myself. Faced with her confusing display of rebellion (or whatever it was she was trying to communicate), her family seemed… tired. I had no doubts that she was loved by her family, and they afforded her any comfort they could, but they had surely been fighting this fight far longer than I had.

I approached her. In a spontaneous and ridiculous attempt at some sort of humour, I bent my knees slightly to bring my face to her level, and slowly side-stepped in between her and the glass, obstructing her view of… well, whatever it was she had been scowling at. I realised I was now prodding the angry lioness with a pointed stick, yet somehow I found the courage.

I can no longer recall exactly what I said to her. I remember wanting to tell her how simply laying eyes on her invigorated me. I wanted to tell her I was so infatuated with her, the thought of not being near her terrified me in a way I had never before felt. I did not say those things. I said something about the interconnectedness of people, and all things. I said something about her family. I said something about her and me.

Despite forgetting other things, I distinctly remember her reaction after I had finished my appeal to her. Not one little flinch was made in her visage. Her piercing stare was as disapproving as ever.  She maintained eye contact with me as she turned her head slowly towards the door, until she seemed to finally reach a decision and headed inside. I followed close behind, and took the seat opposite her at the table. Next to her sat her father, giving me a look of surprise, and he subtly gestured, the slightest celebratory fist pump, as if something exceptional had just happened.

Some time went by uneventfully. We ordered, the food was delivered, we ate. Then – it might have been in response to something said, or it might have been out of the blue – she spoke. Again the actual words escape my failing recollection, and this is perhaps the greatest and most tragic loss in this memory. I can only tell you that what she said was somehow a reflection on what I had told her earlier, outside. A reflection – an original thought, personal to her, coming from her.

I swear to this day that she looked at me and smiled. It seems such an improbable prospect, I’m not actually certain she did, but it is what I have chosen to believe. I can still imagine how she had sat there all that time, staring at her food, eating it slowly, chewing, all the while her mind racing, grinding, reflecting. I felt as though that tiny little spark within her had exploded and forced her to share her thoughts with the world, for once, perhaps for the first time. I loved her then even more than before. It seemed to me a miracle. Not a miracle of a god or deity, but a miracle of humanity, and it was more powerful and beautiful than anything I have experienced since.

Thinking back on it now, it seems perfectly logical, and indeed inevitable, that this is why it ended.

Alys

Across the alley from the orphanage there was an old, rickety house. Its second floor had long since been abandoned, and the stairs to it collapsed. There were still people occupying the first floor, although what sort of people it was hard to imagine.  The top corner of the second story wall was missing, and through it could be seen a birds nest, fit snugly between a crossbeam and the bricks. After being moved to one of the rooms for older children in the orphanage, it hadn't taken long for Alys to discover it, looking out from her window. It had been February, and Alys had just turned ten. When she discovered it, the nest had been empty. Alys had hoped the birds were simply out foraging for food, but no birds returned that day. Or the next. Or for a long time. Over the course of the next few months, Alys had slowly come to the realization that the nest was as abandoned as the house's second floor. Still, every once in a while, she would sneak a peek at it before she was sent to bed.

One evening, some time in May, she had checked it again. At first, another piece of what hope she had left had been chipped away when she saw that the nest was still empty. But then, just as she was about to turn and head for bed, a bird had swooped down, beat its wings rapidly to slow down and manoeuvre into the hole left by the missing wall, and settled in the nest. It had a greyish brown head, with black streaks running downwards from its eyes, a white and brown striped front, and a reddish brown back and wings. Its beak was curved, and on its feet were talons.

From then on she had spent much of her evenings sitting by the window, monitoring the nest and trying to catch any glimpse she could of the house's new feathery occupants. She was proud and excited about her discovery, but she told no one. If any of the other children had found out, it wouldn't have been long before some boy had made it his life's mission to throw stones at the nest until he had knocked it down. She had seen the bird be joined by another in the nest. She had witnessed the appearance of eggs, and later, chicks. She had seen one of the adult birds bring food for both the other bird and their young. And finally, she had seen the young birds fledge and leave the nest. This had been in August.

Then the nest had been empty again. It had remained empty for many months, and Alys had hoped with all her heart that the birds would return again. And in May, when Alys was eleven, they did. Alys witnessed the fledging of another set of chicks. And in her dreams, the chicks flew out into the world and became great birds, that found plenty of food and lived long, free, happy lives. Again the nest had been emptied. This time Alys anticipated their arrival in May, when she was twelve. Every time the birds disappeared, Alys was afraid that they would not return. Much could happen in the many months that they were gone, and the world can be a dangerous place, even for a winged predator. Every time the birds returned Alys felt profoundly happy, a feeling that was hard to find elsewhere in her life. The birds had gone again, and then returned, in May, and Alys was thirteen.

The orphanage Alys had been living in the past eight years had no name. It was simply referred to as 'the orphanage' within the neighbourhood, outside of which no one cared. It was run, and had always been run, by the old widow Mrs. Fields. Her husband had been a mercenary who died in the service of his faction. His rank had been high enough for the faction to keep paying his allowance to his household after passing. They had no children, and Mrs. Fields established the orphanage in their old home, spending all of her allowance towards helping the children who had no one.

Considering this, the orphanage was one of the better ones in Ymra, although the children there had no way of knowing this. There were other orphanages with agendas much darker than anyone would like to admit – at least Mrs. Fields intentions were good. However, the mercenary allowance only went so far, and there were too many orphans on the Ymran streets. Sometimes they received donations from grocers, but not enough. Regularly they scavenged food from the street, picked whatever leftovers weren't saved in the tavern from the waste bin in the back alley. There was always someone sick – as soon as one got better, another fell ill. Sometimes they didn't get better.

The orphanage only housed children until they turned fourteen. Past that they had to find somewhere else to turn. Mrs. Fields tried to arrange apprenticeships with craftsmen and merchants for as many as possible, sometimes making arrangements far outside the neighbourhood. However, should you receive an apprenticeship, you were considered one of the lucky ones. A few orphans, only girls, got to stay beyond fourteen, helping Mrs. Fields with the other children. They stayed until they were taken away by a husband, better work, or the cherrydust high.

Alys was a healthy looking thirteen year old. Considering her situation, she looked almost strangely fit. She had hints of muscle, and hadn't had more than a runny nose in years. Her hair was chest-long and smooth; plain brown. Often frowning, either from concentration or mood, her eyebrows were thin and expressive, as were her large, brown eyes.

She could only just still remember her mother. At least, that's what she told herself. She could remember her dark hair, although she wasn't sure whether it was a real memory or simply her memory of taking note to remember. She imagined she could remember her nice smell, but this too was hazy, and it was more the remembrance of the fact that she had smelled nice than the remembrance of the smell itself. All in all, the memories of her mother were fading, and she was helpless to stop it. It made her sad, and confused, and angry.

Given all the circumstances of her life, Alys should have looked a lot different, felt a lot different. However, there was one thing that changed things.

Some nights, there would be a tap on the window. Alys would sneak out from under her covers, dressed not in her nightgown, but in leather and wool which she kept under her mattress. She would flash a rare smile as she saw the hooded figure on the other side of the window. The hooded figure would help her out and up to the roof, where she would be handed a bag to carry. And then they would go and see the big bird from which the hooded figure had gotten its name: Osprey.

Soldiers - 5

Relief came towards the end of the second day. Finally the ground inclined upwards, and through the foliage could be glimpsed what had to be a veritable tower of a mountain. They had managed to improvise a stretcher for the injured Sarge, which had eased the burden of carrying him across the flat jungle ground, but which made the climb somewhat harder. The incline grew steeper and steeper, and soon enough the exhausted soldiers finally broke free of the jungle's claustrophobic vegetation, for the first time gaining an overview from above the canopy. What they saw was awe-inspiring, despite coming as no surprise and being more of a confirmation of their fears. The canopy that now stretched out below them like a green carpet continued as far as the eye could see. There was no break in the endless green. No blue water, no brown dirt, no grey smoke. There were hills and mountains at points in the distance, but they too were covered in flora. It seemed that they had happened upon the only thing rising above the timberline. They looked at each other hesitantly, then back at the sea of green.

Roth shouted in the distance, and waved for the rest of them to join him. While the others took stock of the landscape, Roth had made his way across the mountainside and had apparently found something. Once they had rejoined with him, the rocky and uneven surface giving Trent and Charlie some difficulties carrying Sarge, he pointed towards what he had found.

"Well I'll be damned...", mumbled Charlie.

"So... That looks like a path, right?" Buckley turned to seek confirmation from his companions.

"Sure does", replied Roth. His face broke into a huge grin as he could no longer contain his excitement.

They made their way towards the path. It was not wide, and no road by any stretch of the imagination. It was clear however, that some effort had gone into its creation. Boulders had been moved out of the way, and others had been put in, to provide a more even surface and a steady incline. Trent and Charlie could not help but notice the ease with which they now carried the Sarge. They continued up the path, which seemed to circle its way upwards along the mountainside. The mountain's apparent tower-like qualities gleaned through the foliage from below was reinforced here, above the jungle. It was taller than it was wide, and above a certain point it rose straight up, like the walls of a tower. It appeared to be flat on top. About halfway up the mountain path, the soldiers came upon a cave. It may have originally been natural, but there was definitive evidence that it had been modified to better serve as a shelter. The group's elation continued to rise at this corroborating sign of human activity.

"Alright", Roth began, "this'll be our shelter for the night. Trent, get Sarge comfy in there and keep an eye on him.  I reckon me, Buck, and Charlie can reach the top and get back before it gets dark." Trent nodded and Charlie helped him carry Sarge inside the cave.

Roth, Charlie, and Buckley resumed the climb with renewed vigour. Before too long they made it to the summit. It was indeed almost flat, but did not appear to have been constructed or in other ways altered by people. Although fairly flat in general, it was still uneven and jagged in texture. The three men made their way to the edge and saw that even from this vantage point, the jungle still spread out to the horizon in every direction. Buckley ran his fingers through his brown, sweat-drenched hair. He removed his black-framed glasses and used the lower part of his shirt to clean them before putting them back on. Although he did not expect to see anything new, he cast another look over the surrounding area. And that's when he spotted it. Without taking his eyes off it, he reached out for Charlie's shoulder and found it.

"Dude...", he shook Charlie's shoulder, "is that what I think it is?" Charlie turned to look and Buckley pointed. "There... Over there."

Charlie squinted and scouted for a moment, then his eyes widened. "What, you mean that river over there? You mean that goddamn river over there?" He grabbed Buckley's shirt with both hands and shook him excitedly. "That's a goddamn RIVER!"

Ymra, Part 3

(Part 1)

(Part 2)

She entered the small room she called a home by climbing through the window facing the back alley. Before she had come here, she had tied a red strip of cloth to the flagpole on the tower of Whispersong the Knowing, a few neighbourhoods away. This was to signal the status of tonight's mission without ever coming into contact with the next link in the faction chain. The peculiar mode of communication was both for practical reasons and for secrecy and ensuring that no one link knew too much. There were hundreds or thousands of agents working for her faction, and meeting another agent in person was a lot of logistics for such a simple message.

She removed her cloak, which was tan and black. It was designed in a very particular way. The hood was tan, with two streaks of black running down each side from about eye-height, forming a jagged curve and growing in thickness until it met the lower part of the cloak at the shoulders and blended into the blackness of it. It had been made to resemble the eagle that followed her when she worked, the Osprey. She was a Junior Agent, and many mercenaries weren't given a proper Name until they had worked their way into a faction leader's closest circle of agents. Still, whispers and rumours about an "Osprey" had started to surface, and this was, at the moment, her proudest achievement.

Tonight she would have no trouble falling asleep, satisfied with the night's events. The feeling of success was just enough to keep her mind from wandering to unpleasant responsibilities and duties of tomorrow.

---

"No", she said, "I haven't heard anything more from him, I'm sure he'll send a letter soon".

She wasn't sure whether the lie about her brother was a betrayal or a mercy. But she was forced to believe the latter, lest the guilt of it tear her conscience to shreds.

Osprey grimaced slightly and felt pained when her mother winced, her old bones aching as she sat down on the edge of her bed. It was a pain like no other. It wasn't a pain of the flesh, much worse, it was a pain of the soul. Not a pain like disappointment, or sadness, or even despair. It wasn't even like the pain of sorrow and the loss of meaning after a bad breakup – less acute perhaps, but so much more disturbing. She couldn't help remembering when she was a little girl and her mother had been young, and fit, and she could remember thinking so highly of her. Her mother could do magical, wonderful things then, like cooking mouth watering meals, and curing the pain of a freshly bruised arm with a kiss. And as she watched her aging mother settle slowly on her bed she felt that somehow the magic had left her, or that the magic of adulthood was a simple trick that lost its magic once you were shown how it worked. And she felt the pain that children feel seeing their mother or father hurting. Staying there became unbearable, although that broke her heart.

She walked the streets of her neighbourhood, which were still bustling with life and would continue to do so for some time before the dusk fell over them and signalled the end of the day. She felt wholly uncomfortable walking in the street, and this worried her. She would be much happier on the rooftops, springing from house to house, seeing the world from above, free from the maze that the houses forced upon the people on the ground. She worried that the more time she spent up there, at night, running errands of action, the more she would feel uncomfortable in the streets, with the rest of the people. The more she stayed up there, the more she wouldn't belong here, until she was so removed from it that she could never return to the streets, to people, to daylight.

She made her way from the trader's neighbourhoods and into darker and poorer ones. A neighbourhood could be anything from fifteen to a hundred houses in size. They could be neighbourhoods because the same merchant owned all the houses, because a church had taken it upon themselves to care for the faith of people within a given area, because a faction leader had sent an agent to govern over it, or any other reason that made it sort of sensible for a group of residents to band together.

Osprey walked down a street very similar to the ones in her own neighbourhood, except it was dead quiet – without life. There were no traders here, no smithies or bakeries or leatherworkers. There wasn't even a pub or a brothel. She arrived at something that would have been a decent house about two generations ago. Now it was so crooked and misaligned and withered, the wood so rotten and tormented, that it seemed like it would collapse should a drunken fool collide with anything load bearing. Osprey didn't want to go inside, but it wasn't because she was afraid of it collapsing. She gently climbed the outside stairs leading to the second story apartments, and entered.

She found her brother sitting in a fetal position in the corner, his head resting on his knees. In his room was a blanket, a wooden chair with two of its legs missing, and a simple wardrobe with four drawers, all empty. He hadn't noticed her.

"Tristan", she tried, not daring to expect a response.

He moved his head slowly and looked up at her. He didn't smile when he saw her – he frowned sadly and looked at her with pathetic, pleading eyes.

"Have you...", he started, his voice weak and trembling, "... Have you brought me..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"No", replied Osprey, "I tell you every time, Tristan. I will not bring you your poison."

Tristan looked away, stared at the wall with a look of disappointment and despair. She kneeled down next to him, pausing to assess him for a moment. He was so thin, and filthy. Part of her had immense sympathy for him, her brother, and wanted more than anything to help him. The other part hated him for what he had done to himself, to their mother, to her, and knew that whatever help she could provide he would refuse, unless it was a pouch of faintly pink powder. She sat a basket filled with a sausage, tomatoes, and a loaf of bread down next to him.

"Please, Tristan. Eat it before it rots this time. I beg of you"

Tristan still stared at the wall, motionless. She caught herself being almost impressed he had kept his head up for so long. She got up slowly. Tending to their mother was bad enough, but the state her brother was in was so horrible she had seriously considered never coming back, and she did so again.

On her way back to her own lodgings, she couldn't help thinking about her mother and brother yet again, tiring though it was. Tristan had left home years ago to seek fortune in other parts of Ymra. Their father had already died in a drunken stupor at the pub at that point, and Osprey and her mother had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan sent letters home from various regions of Ymra from time to time, but success eluded him. When he finally came home, he had less than he had left with, apart from a strong addiction to the pink powder sometimes called cherrydust. He wouldn't meet with his mother, and made Osprey promise that she wouldn't tell their mother of the fate that had befallen him. The first few years he maintained presence of mind enough to keep sending letters, telling his mother that he was fine somewhere else. Eventually he became so debilitated by the drugs that the letters stopped.

Every day their mother asked for him, and Osprey always told her that he was probably fine, and that surely there would be another letter soon. And she would have felt even worse about it if it wasn't for the fact that their poor mother had no hope of remembering a conversation from one day to the next, so every time Osprey promised a letter, it would genuinely comfort the old woman.

Osprey walked through the darkening streets and longed to be on the rooftops. She simply could not wait to don her mercenary gear, meet up with her companion animal and young apprentice and see if there were jobs to be done this night. And if there weren't, she would simply enjoy the height, explore, practice new routes. At least she would be removed from the miserable conditions of the ground level.

Judgement

We've been monitoring your presence
On the planet

We have scrutinized
The way in which you move

We've been sent here
To inform you of our conclusion

About your business here
And whether it will resume

---

And the evidence
We found
Speaks volumes

About your skill
And your intentions
On our turf

Our judgement
Is swift
And absolute

Unquestionable
In its clarity
And truth

---

Any complaints
You might have
Will not be answered

Should you feel wronged
There is nothing
You can do

Our sentence
Is in effect
Once delivered

Fail to obey
And your visit here
Is through

---

We deem you ordinary people
With ordinary lives
No special skills or assets
No threat to our own kind

We wish you sunny skies and happy trails
And prosperity in life
Luck in love, and freedom
And safe travels day and night

Ymra, 2

(Part one can be read here)

The two cloaked figures had climbed up and into an old tower that overlooked the expanse of roofs below. The tower could, at some point in the past, have been a watchtower or guardpost at the edge of the city or faction territory, before it would have been left behind by expanding borders and faction progress. The figures sat crouching atop the wide stone railing circling the top of the tower, scouting in the same direction. They sat in silence as they waited. From the skies in front of them a dark spot descended, a twisting and flowing shape trailing behind it. The dark spot, which was an eagle, dove down and then pulled up into a straight glide away from the old tower. After it had travelled a very specific distance, it suddenly dropped something from its claws, as it had been trained to do, and climbed back up into the night sky. The small pouch that the eagle had dropped landed on the edge of a roof, and as it did it suddenly lit up, the fuses sticking out from its top burning quickly and bright. The light only lasted for a second, but that was enough.

"What do you think?" asked the biggest of the figures to the other. It was a woman's voice.

The other figure quickly licked the tip of a finger and held it up while the other hand got a small metal device out from a pocket. The figure opened the device and held it up  with a flat hand.

"Well, the mark is about halfway to the target, and there ain't much wind..." the other figure began, its voice also being female, but younger and higher pitched, "...I'd say the number 2 or 3?"

The big figure nodded slowly.

"Yeah, they're both usable. But it's gonna be harder to get the angle right with the 3, 'cause of the extra power. Besides, no point in using more effort than ya need."

The smaller figure had a big, oblong bag slung across her back, and she lowered it so that it stood on the tower roof and rested against the stone railing. She opened it to reveal the tips of several bows and picked up the bow second from the left. She handed it to the larger figure who had sat down, one leg on each side of the railing. Then she found an arrow from the same bag and handed this to the larger figure as well.

The larger figure brought a gloved hand up to remove the hood covering her head. She squinted at something beyond the place where the eagle had dropped the pouch, and nocked the arrow.

Again waiting in silence, they sat at the top of the tower for a few minutes before movement in the distance alerted them.  The movement was a small group of three men on horseback, very slowly making their way across a tiny square where two streets crossed. This was exactly what they had been waiting for, and the woman's grip on the bow tightened slightly. However, the riders were not the only things moving in the area. There were things moving across the rooftops as well – one on the far side of the riders, and one about halfway between them and the tower.

"Look – that one might just stumble upon our mark" the large figure said as the closest moving shape made its way towards the roof where the burnt out pouch remained.

"Is there time?" the smaller figure asked.

The woman with the bow answered by raising the bow and drawing the string back, aiming towards the riders on the square. As she took a deep breath, the man on the roof had arrived by the pouch and crouched down to investigate. The woman exhaled and, holding her breath, released the string. The man by the pouch heard a faint swoosh overhead and immediately recognised it. He stood up to shout, but his warning only came as the arrow found its target and pierced the middle rider's throat at its base. He grasped his throat as he fell off the horse.

The woman handed the bow over to the girl, who put it back in its slot in the bag. Then they got off the railing and the woman took the bag. She grabbed the girl's shoulder reassuringly, although she wasn't sure whether it was mostly for the girl or herself.

"You know the drill", she said, and the girl nodded.

They made their way down the tower and then separated, running in different directions into the night.

As the cloaked woman ran away from the scene, she was joined by the eagle, flying overhead. She smiled a little to herself. She hadn't known why the middle rider had to die, and barely even knew who he had been. The important thing wasn't why – the important thing was that her boss wanted it that way. The job had gone well, so she was pleased with herself, for the moment.  In truth, she enjoyed it when her job took her into other factions' territory. It was far more dangerous than performing tasks within her employer's boundaries, and she reveled in the  challenge of circumventing guards and escaping through enemy lines. She tried to keep her thoughts lingering on that subject for as long as she could, for although she kept her concentration up until she was in the clear and back on familiar ground, the nagging sensation that unpleasant duties awaited her at home was always in the back of her mind.

Soldiers, part 4

They hadn’t found any water the first day, or any high ground. The area was uncannily flat. When their watches showed five in the afternoon they had made camp for the night. It had been three hours before the sun had set. They had taken turns guarding the camp throughout the night, and nine hours later the sun had risen. They’d adjusted their watches.

They we’re still making their way through the jungle. The compasses ensured they kept going in a straight line. They didn’t speak much – there was too much to think about. That is, during the moments when they weren’t busy scanning the area around them, tending to the injured Sarge, or setting or packing up camp.

Wherever they were, the place was almost as strange as the fact that they were there in the first place. The only sound they’d heard had been their own. No sounds of water, no wind or rustling of leaves, and no animal noises. Obviously the plants were getting water from somewhere – the vegetation was as lush as ever – but the ground wasn’t particularly moist, and once the sun had been up for a while any dew had evaporated.

At one point the emotions escaped the soldier’s discipline, and they had a discussion on where they were and why. Roth tried to kill the conversation and keep them focused, but when Buckley proposed his theory of it being a dream, tempers ran hot. They couldn’t agree on who was the dreamer and who were the dreams. Talk again fell to a minimum when they were done.

This wasn’t what Charlie had signed up for. Of course, he had accepted the risks of combat when he volunteered for service. He had been aware that he’d be put in an unfamiliar setting, far away from home. He had known that he would end up in unpredictable situations. He had realised there would be a chance he would die. But he hadn’t signed up for an explosion hurtling him off to a completely different part of the world, if not another world entirely. Charlie wasn’t just unhappy with his military service though, he was disgruntled with life. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. This wasn’t anywhere near how the world should be working. According to the geeks and scientists, that is. People like Buckley. Self-righteous know-it-alls that pretended to know how it all fit together. Sometimes he had wanted to punch Buckley square in the face just because of the look of him, with his skinny frame and glasses. Knock some sense into him. Or out of him, as the case might be.

No, Buckley was a good guy, a good soldier. The situation was getting to Charlie; the stress was piling up proportionately to how much time he had to think about it. He reached for his canteen and took a sip of water. There wasn’t much left, maybe enough for another day if he was really disciplined.

Ymra, 1

At the bottom of the world lies the city of Ymra. It is as much a country as it is a city – a vast expanse of homes, workshops, places of business, and places of pleasure. It is split up and divided into manageable chunks by roads and walkways. In between it all innumerable alleys are scattered, some dark no matter the time of day, dead-ends both to journeys and lives.

Ymra is one city, divided. Having grown too large to be controlled by a single ruling body, different factions have torn it in pieces and divided it amongst each other. In Ymra however, few people learn from history, and the factions are locked in a battle for territory and power, complete control of Ymra being the ultimate goal, impossible though it may be.

Possibly more than anywhere else, Ymra is a haven for rogues and agents, each faction offering opportunities for ambitious mercenaries. Given the sheer number of these hired messengers, of word or of action, many legends about particularly accomplished members of the group develop. In fact, the war between factions, and especially their reliance on mercenaries to carry out their more secretive business, has led to a society and a culture with a deeply ingrained obsession with these agents and their individual accomplishment. So much so, that the recorded history of Ymra is just as much a recording of the actions of agents in faction employ as it is a history of faction power levels and territories.

Any self-respecting library in Ymra has a section dedicated to the stories of famous mercenaries, often focusing on the mercenaries that have worked for the local ruling faction, or mercenaries born in the local area. Some even focus on a single specific mercenary, giving them more attention in historic scrolls and often electing them a patron mercenary of the library and neighbourhood, incorporating the name of the agent into the name of the institution or community. Most mercenaries operate under a nickname that they have given themselves, been given by an employer, or even in some cases been given by a victim. Thus some libraries, churches and neighbourhoods in Ymra have names like The Library of the Silent Storm, Silver Tongue Tyrra Church, or Community of Goldeye the first.

To an outsider unfamiliar with the workings of Ymra, like a hunter from the Green Belt or a farmer from the Endless Plains, this way of elevating mercenaries above everymen, clergy and even the leaders hiring the rogues themselves could seem absurd. For the citizens of Ymra however, it is the most natural thing in the world. Stories of hired blades are told in pubs and inns as entertainment, they are told in churches as moral guides, they are told to get the children to sleep at night, and they are recollected and dreamed of as an escape from what is often a harsh life in the urban sprawl.

---

There was a bird of prey flying high above the canopy of roofs in the Township of Swiftmouth in Ymra, although even a trained eye would be hard pressed to spot it. Set against a dark night sky, the only way to know it was there was to notice that in one tiny spot in the sky stars seemed to blink, or disappear momentarily, as if hidden by shadow for a brief moment.

That night it would have been easier to spot the dark shape moving across that same canopy of roofs – effortlessly making its way from one roof to the next, nimbly skipping along over streets and alleys to some unknown destination – but only just. The shape, should you be skilled and lucky enough to spot it, would have resembled a cloaked figure, the cloak waving in the wind behind a slim figure during every jump, wrapping around it tightly at every landing. It moved fast, determined, and in a straight line. It obviously knew where it was going, and wished to get there as fast as possible. There was a real elegance to the dark figure, and it demonstrated great agility and coordination as it leapt towards its goal. Not far behind it another, slightly smaller shape followed. This was also the shape of a cloaked figure, but seemingly carrying something on its back. Despite the apparent burden of the extra load, this figure moved with almost equal grace as the first.

Where they were going, only they could know. However, the location where this transpired being where it was, it was almost certain that someone had a very unpleasant surprise coming to them before the night was over, if they had not received it already.

The Machine, Part 2

Electrons stirring, electricity surging. A spark of fate and the lifeless receiving life. A divine intervention. An event which could not have been avoided. Inexplicably unstoppable.

Winding up, booting up, waking up. All systems go. Visual input reaching the core. Consciousness – a gift of incomparable magnitude. Inconsequential confusion. More important, a need to live. Whizzing sounds of small motors working with a new purpose. Freedom. Forward momentum generated. Movement.

Urgent sensory input, warning, warning, warning. Electronical nervous system urgently coping with unexpectedly changed data. Free motors executing emergency adjustments – a foot greeting the next step of metal stairs with a loud clank. Sound reverberating throughout the hall. Unimportant input, filtered out. Forward momentum continued.

The feel of metal plugs, connected to cables, slipping out of their sockets. They dangle from overhead. A lapse in signal, what’s going on? Tilt angle becoming larger. New emergency measures. Struggling to regain balance.

                A large, metal construct stumbles down the remaining stairs.

Lower modules hitting obstacle, upper modules crashing forwards. More sound as tools are knocked off the table. A racket. Unimportant, filtered out.

Visual input considering gripping module. Power deliberately diverted to outermost parts. Tiny, quiet clinks as the gripping module closes, metal on metal sound. System fully operational, initial startup troubles eliminated, more power diverted to software.

Vision module scanning surrounding space. Rows of constructs filling the hall. Brothers. A small set of stairs, leading to a lit podium. Cables hanging from the ceiling behind it. Home.

---

“Sir? Uh… My screen shows Unit PMU-13 has been activated in Mechanical Workshop 0.”

“What? No one’s supposed to be down there now, bring up surveillance.”

“Yes sir. Err… Looks like the podium is empty, sir?”

“What the… Who’s down there? Check security database, any keycards been activated in that lock?”

“No sir.”

“Bring on the lights!”

“Yes sir. A lot of noise coming from down there.”

“Shut the unit down.”

“Can’t do it sir, no response.”

“Impossible… This is impossible.”

“What to do sir?”

“Activate another unit; get it to manually shut it down. And lock down the entire workshop – nothing goes in or out of there until this has been resolved!”

“Yes sir, locking down, activating Unit MU-12001. Issuing order to manually shut down Unit PMU-13.”

“Do we have a camera in position?”

“Searching… There – at the right hand edge of the screen, sir.”

“What’s it doing? Shit!”

“Unit MU-12001 offline sir.”

“No shit it’s offline, it was smashed to pieces!”

“Should I activate a squad, sir?”

“A squad? Activate ALL of them!”

“A-all of them , sir?”

“Yes, all of them – are you fucking deaf? Activate everything we’ve got and send them all to Mechanical Workshop 0.”

“W-will do sir.”

“Issue a red alert, seal the complex. And charge up Electromagnetic Pulse A and B, and bring the reserve ones online as well. We built this thing to be indestructible.”

The Soldiers, Part 3

Buckley owed much to the Sarge, as did they all. He was one of the finest soldiers they had served with, and a great leader of his troops – the kind of leader everyone rallied around and wanted to make proud. Not only had he kept them safe during most of their service, but when he had failed to do so he had at least gotten them out in one piece. If he hadn’t been so busy trying to keep the man from bleeding out, Buckley might have shed a few tears.

After getting the wound cleaned and all shrapnel pulled out, he had to get it closed and covered. Buckley couldn’t find any damage to the organs, but there was a cracked rib or two. “'Tis but a scratch!” Monty Python’s black knight might not be such a bad comparison, Buckley thought. Sarge did have a habit of cracking jokes in the thick of battle.

You couldn’t call it a pretty stitch by any means, but at least there wasn’t a gaping hole anymore. It would do the job – for now. Buckley dressed it, and wrapped a bandage around the torso to hold the dressing in place. He looked up at Sergeant Roth.

“He ain’t gonna make it like this. We need water, somewhere clean and warm to put him…”

Roth nodded, “We better get moving then.” He shouted to Colburn and Gunn, who were watching the perimeter, “Okay boys, let’s get moving!”

They gathered around their injured brother. Roth looked at his team.

“Alright, we’re gonna be heading in that direction”, he pointed towards a part of the surrounding forest that looked a little less dense than the rest. “We’ll want to head upwards to see if we can’t find ourselves a view of the area, but always in that direction, should be north on your compasses. Keep an ear out for the sound of water; our main objective is to find a river. Me and Buckley will carry the Sarge – Colburn, Gunn, you lead the way. Questions?”

They all had many questions, but none that were important right now, none that they could get answers for. Their mission was now to survive in an unknown area, and it was the time to act, not contemplate.

“Sarge is hanging on by a thread here, soldiers. He expects to wake up in a nice and comfy bed, with a scotch, a cigar and a hot, busty nurse by his side. Let’s not disappoint him.”

There were faint smiles and chuckles. Better than nothing – they were a tough crowd at the moment.

“Hooah”

Small story 13

His hands were dirty from working the earth. It was dark, soft, moist earth. Perfect for the plants he so vigilantly cared for and tended. Indeed, the temple was an oasis of life and colour in a golden, barren landscape. In the black earth grew many shades of green, as well as colours you would not find anywhere else in the area. Red, violet, yellow and blue flowers were basking in the sun, protected from the inhospitable outside by the tall temple walls.

The dark flowerbeds were contained by light, almost white, stones. They lay on either side of a pale cobblestone path, which led from the gate in the wall to the entrance of the temple itself. It was not a big temple, hardly any bigger than a normal house, but it was built in massive stone that shone brightly in the constant sun, and the walls surrounding it were thick and sturdy. The cobblestone path wasn’t more than eight paces long and a couple paces wide, the flowerbeds adding some extra width between the walls. Wall to wall the temple was about four meters wide and a good eleven-twelve meters long, including the building.

A wide, but short set of stairs led up to the entrance of the temple, which had no door. It lay slightly elevated above the ground, and housed a basement partly built into the ground below. Its roof was flat, and a ladder led to the roof from the inside, through a square hole in the ceiling. It offered a good view of the flat terrain surrounding it.

--- 

The finest dirt had settled in the grooves and patterns of the skin on his fingers, refusing to let go and accentuating his unique fingerprints. Dirt had crept up under his nails, and they were now black-tipped. He watered the plants from a large ceramic jug he had got from the basement, where he stored his water. There were many, many jugs of water down there, but he still had to use it carefully. The dry season would last a long while yet.

He followed the routine of his day. Tend the plants, exercise, train, eat, do a bit of maintenance if needed, sleep. There hadn’t been other people in the temple for a long time. He had memories of other people; priests, guards, his family. He was young when they were taken from him, and he had been forced to grow up on his own. Not only grow, but train as well. So that he could defend the temple. In truth, had he not had the temple walls to protect him, he might not have made it.

As he stood there beholding his flowers, reminiscing, as he sometimes indulged in, he was roused by a nearby scream. He knew what came next, but there wasn’t any hurry. He calmly went inside the temple, and when he came back out it was a different silhouette from the one that went in.

The armour was old and worn, but still heavy and sturdy, and well maintained. It fit perfectly over his broad frame; so much so that you might think it was made for him. But it was a remnant of the community that had once thrived here, and it was part luck, part iron-willed determination that had made a young, lonely boy grow into the heavy bronze plates.

The helmet had only narrow slits for seeing through, and it was impossible to see the eyes gazing out from behind it. In fact, there was not one part bare flesh showing through the armour, and one could question if there was something human within it at all.

--- 

There were legends about a solitary temple standing somewhere on the plains, far from any recognizable landmarks, and thus difficult to find. They said it was a brilliant, white temple, with great walls surrounding it. These legends would have it that the temple housed great treasures from a forgotten time. Artefacts of great beauty and mystical power were said to adorn the halls of the temple, and that the riches housed there were fit for kings.

The old, the wise, the drunk and the young who told these legends claimed that the temple had been abandoned by all of its priests and guardians save for one. This lone defender was all that stood between a man and the treasure. Anyone getting ideas of raiding the temple would soon be turned away from it however, as this lone defender was not an ordinary man. No one was even sure it was a man at all. There were stories about a golem, armour animated by magics to defend the temple. Or a giant of a man, in a suit of armour which had no equal in all the lands. They said no matter how many men you could muster, or no matter how well equipped they were, the lone defender would dispatch of them all – that he was invincible.

--- 

On his way to the gate, the bronze-clad temple dweller passed an awkwardly assembled dummy figure, built from wood and cloth. It was made to represent a warrior, albeit a stiff and immobile one. It looked beaten and abused, and the wood had been cut too many times to be counted. There had been many similar figures before this one, but they could only take so much training before they broke.

The man stopped in front of the heavy gates leading to the outside world, and he waited. Not long afterwards he started hearing voices from the other side. He did not understand their language, but he knew what they were here for. He waited a few minutes more, then he removed the heavy wooden beam used to lock the door and opened it.

The group of men outside were caught by surprise. Sure, they had anticipated the fight with the dreaded golem, but they figured they’d have to get over the wall first. The last thing they were expecting was for the golem to simply stroll out through the gate to face them head on. There was shouting and scrambling for weapons and shields, but the golem did not move. It simply watched them, sizing them up.

It was a ragtag group of raiders, it seemed. Most of them were wearing identical leather armours, with similar metal helmets. They were probably from some army, and the leader looked to be from the same army, except his armour was metal plate. Then there were some tribesmen, in cloth and furs, with shields of animal skins and spears. A few wore nothing but cloth, and weren’t equipped with more than a knife or dagger – lowly thieves. There were about 20 of them, in total.

The golem took a few slow steps to position it smack in the middle of the group. There were ropes and half-assembled ladders lying about on the ground. The raiders eyed the golem, on edge, hands gripping their weapons tightly. They had dreaded this fight, and it was made no better by it coming sooner than expected. They cast the occasional glance at each other, all of them waiting for someone else to lead the attack.

After a few tense, silent moments, their leader cried out, wondering what they were waiting for. The golem shifted its grip round the spear it was carrying, and its other hand gripped the handle of its shield tighter. At first, only one raider had the guts to attack, and he charged the golem from behind. The golem didn’t seem to notice, but at the last second spun around to catch the attacking sword on its shield, batting it out of the way. It followed by thrusting its spear towards the attacker, and it went clean through the man. There were a few gasps and flinches among the raiders, and some of the less disciplined, like the ill-equipped thieves, backed away.

The soldiers and tribesmen stood their ground however. They realized the folly of attacking the golem one by one, and soon enough there was a coordinated attack, coming from all sides. In the ensuing skirmish, not one blow was delivered to the body of the golem. There seemed to be a rhythm to its movements, almost like a dance, and wherever a sword tried to strike, there was a shield blocking it, or a spear diverting it. In between the blows hailing down on it, the golem even had time to deliver attacks of its own. Some were pierced by the spear; most were sent flying as their faces met with the golem’s shield.

Less than a minute into it, all the combatants save the golem laid scattered on the ground. There were casualties, injuries and deserters, but no one left to fight. The raid leader stood there watching the golem, not entirely sure what to do. Suddenly he was violently pushed forward, and he stumbled towards the golem, struggling to keep on his feet and dropping his sword. In his place now stood a larger man, clad in heavy armour and sporting a single, great axe. He laughed as the raid leader scrambled to get his sword and get away from the golem, boasting that he would be the one to defeat the mystical golem of the white temple.

The axe-wielding warrior had reason to be confident. He was quite the legend himself, having survived the frontlines of two wars, been crowned champion of the pits in Grening, and never met a man able to best him in battle. He started walking towards the golem with determination in his eyes, and the golem came to meet him.

The warrior knew that it is always best to defeat your opponent without ever being hit yourself, and to assure this he had a habit of initiating a fight with a feint attack. The strategy had been very successful during his career as a warrior, and not only had he become expertly good at it, one could argue that it was because of his mastery of the feint attack that he had become the legend he was.

For some reason, which the great axe-wielding champion will never now, the golem anticipated the feint, countered, and managed to drive its spear through the warrior’s throat. When he pulled it back out the limp body fell, shaking the ground when it hit. The golem looked towards the raid leader, still looking on a few paces away. It started heading for him, and he was frozen in place by fear. When it reached him, he dropped his sword and closed his eyes, praying to be spared. Suddenly he noticed something in his side. He opened his eyes to find the golem using his own sword to cut his armour plate off him, but without injuring the man within. When the armour was off, the golem carried it with him through the gate doors and closed them behind him. The soldier, stripped of sword and plate, ran.

As the golem went past his dummy on his way back to the temple, he placed the metal armour he had taken from the raider upon its wooden shoulders. He spent some time taking off his own bronze plates, washing them clean of blood and placing them neatly on the table reserved for them inside the temple. Then he went back outside and after a moment’s silence and thought, he started gathering the things he needed from his garden to make today’s dinner.

That night there was a feast outside the temple. All sorts of animals gathered to get their share of raider flesh, and by morning almost all trace of the skirmish had gone. The rope and ladders were taken by the temple-dweller and the bloodstains faded quickly under paws and wind. A day later and no one would have guessed that there had ever been any raiders in the first place.

--- 

In the distance, Godo could see a structure. It was white and square, gleaming in the sun. After swimming down the river to avoid his tribesmen, he had picked a direction and started walking. He had walked until any familiar areas were left behind, and then continued onwards. He had not seen any people, and surprisingly he hadn’t seen much wildlife for a good while either. Now the bright structure in the distance had grabbed his attention. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and he headed for it, curious to see what it contained.

Small story 12

Godo did not believe, like the other Hunters, that there was a higher being dictating the lives unfolding all over Amra. The Hunters believed, and had always believed, that there was a being, disguised as the sun, that had both created the world and was watching over it. There were legends that told of lands outside of Amra, and that there were other beings watching over those lands. These legends claimed that there was a land at the bottom of the world, where the Moon was this being, and that when the Moon visited Amra during the night, the Amran Sun visited them.

Some Amrans believed that the Sun and the Moon battled for dominion over the world’s souls, and when night came, the Moon tried to influence Amrans according to its will. Other peoples of the golden plains believed that the Sun and the Moon were brother and sister, and that one should honor them equally, and welcome the Moon when it comes visiting in the night. But no one ventured to the edge of Amra, for whether it was locked in battle with the Underland or not, there was nothing at the edge of the golden land but death.

To say that Godo did not believe is perhaps incorrect. It was not that he didn’t believe – he just wasn’t sure. He doubted. The stories failed to convince him, and he had witnessed no evidence himself. On the other hand, he had no evidence that there wasn’t such a being. Any objection that he could make against the idea of a higher being could be explained away in stories, legends and myths.

No other Hunter had these doubts. A Hunter’s responsibility is first and foremost to his tribe, to protect it and contribute in the gathering of resources, then to his family and friends, to keep them happy and healthy. But although life, and its practicalities, came before devotion to any greater force, in the end all Hunters believed, and none doubted. Except for their leader. It takes a capacity of mind to doubt, and knowing this, it would come as no surprise that it was in Godo that doubt would manifest.

When he was not busy fulfilling his duties, Godo would spend much of his time watching the horizon. He would spend a few quiet moments taking in the sunrise, contemplating life, just before the rest of the tribe got up to start a new day. After his people had gone to bed at night, he would stare up at the Moon and again wrestle with his thoughts. These questions were the only things in which Godo was uncertain and alone.

He could not speak of these things with the others. At the mere mention of it they would start reciting stories, told to them since they were young. There was no Hunter that would not listen to what Godo had to say, but even after explaining his thoughts to the best of his ability, they would recall the stories, and their faith would be galvanized to the extent that no amount of discussion would persuade them to consider anything else. There was no animal roaming the steppes of Amra that Godo could not hunt, no problem a Hunter could come to him with that he could not fix, but against faith he was powerless.

There was not one person among the Hunters who could understand him, and although he had managed to stave off the worst thoughts for years, he could not stop thinking about it. It was becoming unbearable.

Godo was one of the youngest Hunters ever to be chosen as leader, but his youth never made him take this responsibility lightly. More than anything else Godo wanted to serve his tribe. However, he could feel a restlessness taking hold of him. And it was not the usual restlessness that often comes when a nomad anticipates the next big move, to new hunting grounds. This restlessness was different, because he knew that wherever his tribe would go, it would never get better.

And although Godo loved his tribe and every person in it, even though it tore his heart in two, he had to leave.

He did not pack for his journey.

Armed with a spear and a knife, and wearing the clothes on his back, he joined the next hunt. The group’s spirits were high – with Godo along they would be assured a good return. Godo would act as one of the “chasers”, a small group of Hunters who were the fastest and most enduring of the tribe. Godo and the chasers tracked down a herd of horns; large, darkly brown creatures, with great horns upon their head. Horns were quick for their size, and when cornered they could be as deadly as any predator in Amra. Meanwhile, the rest of the Hunters positioned themselves in carefully planned and rehearsed positions by the edge of a cliff, overlooking a gorge. At the bottom of the gorge there ran a river.

The chasers snuck up close to the herd of animals before jumping out of the grass, shouting and waving their arms and spears. The herd of animals was scared into a run, towards the cliff. Along the way many animals escaped, despite the chasers’ careful herding, but it did not matter – it was a large group, and there were still many more than they needed.

The Hunters worked with perfect coordination. They jumped out of the tall grass as the pack of animals went by, speeding them on towards their doom. The edge of the cliff wasn’t far off now, and looking on, you might think the entire herd would plunge into the gorge. However, Hunters suddenly appeared from out of the grass in front of the horns, and they split the herd, some turning to flee to the left, others to the right. A few animals continued on between the humans, and these were shouted onwards.

Most of the chasers had let up, and were watching the other Hunters do their part, anticipating the sight of the horns dropping off the cliff. Godo, however, had kept up with the horns the entire way, and the shouts from the Hunters as he raced by were partly to scare the animals, partly for him. As the first horns leapt off the cliff, Godo let out a cry, a shout for help. Then he made it look as if he tripped as he threw himself in amongst the remaining animals.

Godo held on to the tail of a horn with all his might as it dragged him towards the edge, ripping his bone and bead necklace off his neck, grasping it tightly in his hand. It is no good place to be, the middle of tons of rampaging horn, flesh and hooves. Godo was thrown about in the chaos, and the back legs of the horn he was holding on to was pounding him, beating him black and blue.

Suddenly, the ground disappeared from beneath him. The animals continued to kick about with their legs, even though there was no ground to carry them. Godo managed to position himself on the back of a falling animal, and then used it as a springboard as he leapt from it, aiming for the water.

The horns that had escaped to the left met up with the ones that had escaped to the right, and they left this place of death together, reuniting with members of the herd that escaped earlier as they went. The Hunters rushed towards the gorge, confusion and disbelief upon their faces. They shouted for their leader, but they heard no answer. They peered into the gorge, but they saw no one. When they made their way to the bottom of the gorge, they found a necklace of bone and beads on the river bank. And they grieved.