#+ i'd be less drained and tired when i return home ! ! which means more time on here since im also in break !!!

[cubtales]

୧(՞o̴̶̷̤ ̫ o̴̶̷̤ ՞)و if you see this know i love u very much!

[rivervixen327]

The Slayer

Summary ↓

Six months ago Stevie Hoffman was just your regular highschool student, above average grades, head cheerleader, class president and the president of the year book committee. But all that changed the day she turned sixteen, that day the wool had been ripped from her eye's and suddenly she was thrust into the world of the supernatural. A world she had to singlehandedly keep at bay, along with her over barring Watcher at her side ,all while she tried to keep her identity a secret.  unfortunately things are about to get a whole lot more complicated when Thaddeus greystone shows up, with information about the big bad apocalyptic Ark Angel who just rolled into town looking for trouble. and a secret, one that involves Stevie Hoffman.

Characters ↓

Thaddeus greystone - " I didn't choose to be this way, a monster."

Stevie Hoffman - "Go to hell, the council doesn't get to decide who I love"

Louisa Corns - " I really do hate that bitch"

Gregory Cerberus - "Wow they really don't make em how they used, huh"

Kathy Davenport - " wait let me get this straight, you're vampire slayer and my boyfriend is the wolf man"

Mickey st'john- "sorry my favourite time of the is coming up"

Pete Hoffman- "Back off dad, you screwed up way before you cheated on mum"

Tory Rivera - " So can he like, ya know smell you're period"

Professor Lionel Coleman- " I'm her Watcher it's my duty to train her, to protect her, it's not yours"

Mrs Mary Hoffman - "Hunny I know you don't want to talk right now, but when your ready my doors open"

Cameron Fields- "Look babe I've been trying to get in good with her click, but the witchy girl is making Impossible"

Sara Davidson - "Hmm, she's different to the others, why?"

Angela Thomas - " So you're the slayer, smaller than I thought you'd be"

Delilah Spence - " Long time no see, tell me Thaddeus how is immortality treating you"

Ezekiel - " You think you have the power to beat me little girl, I am power"

Jedediah - " We were friends once Thaddeus, perhaps one day we shall be again "

Mathias - " Come home Brother our father misses you greatly"

Philip Hoffman - " Hey she's my daughter too, I deserve to know what the fuck is going on with her"

Hey so I'll post the prologue on Tumblr if you want to read but don't have a wattpad account.

_________prologue↓_________

Prologue

1

Ezekiel's feet pounded the gravel flooring of Paris, the night air thick as he chased down his latest prey, the slayer. He had kill meny in his time since his fall from heaven, this one would mean just as little as the rest. The slayer rounded the corner into a pretty french graveyard, away from the prying eyes of the mortal folk.  personally he couldn't care less if the mundanes saw what really lurked in the night, but she was a slayer and very good one, one who had evaded him and his clan for years, so yes it made sense that even now as her death was approaching she kept to slayer code.

The slayer stood rooted in her spot, watching as two more men appeared from the crevices of the graveyard. She knew in that moment that her death was near, but she wasn't scared to die. For a slayer her life had been long, most don't make passed the test. So yes while she was only 43 the slayer knew she had lived a long Life, one in which she was a hero to meny. Going out in Paris seemed beautiful to her, the tower in view it's light's glistening, as the Ark Angel and his followers surrounded her. The Slayer knew what he wanted, but she wouldn't give up a fellow sister, especially one as significant as she would become.  For centuries the council had told it's warriors of one who would have the power to end the raign of Ezekiel. That the Slayer would have the power of immortality, though it was an impossible task it was a task each was Given, to understand what the prophecy ment by immortality. And for centuries no one had figured this out, until now, until this moment now she the middle aged women stared her death in the eye's she understood the prophecy.

In her minds eyes she could see the next warrior, the girl was young much like she used to be. But she also happened to be completely untrained, though to the slayer perhaps this was a good thing. The girl would be surprise to Ezekiel and his band of merry men, he wouldn't be expecting the next warrior to be small and untrained knowing nothing of the supernatural world. But the Slayer knew this girl would be well protected, with friends like she had. With the Watcher who would soon be chosen to prepare her for the battles ahead, one who would love the her like a father loves his daughter. Surely the council would frown upon such a thing, but it was something out if their control. And she had him.

He was a surprise to the women at first, but now visions had become clear, In Death that often happens, now she could see the Slayer clearly and she knew the girl needed him. There had been a Reason her first date six months ago had been such a chaotic disaster, it was the same reason all the other dates had ended the same way. It was clear now, she was destined to be with him, it was as though they're Union was written in the star's. she was Reason why he had left his master's side over a thousand years ago. She was Reason why he only killed when he needed to, the universe was trying to tell him something. It had become clearer to women now as her death approached, the shadows in her vision's had been him. He was forever watching her, making sure she was Safe. He had loved her since the beginning of his immortal life. Now the current slayer for however long she had left knew this would be hard for the pair of fated lovers, it was forbidden but she knew somehow in the end it would work out. She knew the slayer would be safe and protected by all around her that cared for her. And she knew that the girl would protect them too.

Ezekiel finally came into view, the Slayer shut of her minds eye, her concentration now of the Ark Angel and his followers coming forwards  from the Shadows. The women was now surrounded but she had no fear of death, it was a natural part of life.

The women dropped her stakes, using her now free hands to push back she knoted blonde locks from her face.

"Arh, i see the women has come to her senses, tell my slayer what do you know of the prophecy" the man's voice was thick with gravel, his yellow eyes hooded as  they remained trained on the Slayer.

"I'll never tell you" spat the women, in a flash Mathias had pinned one arm across the blondes chest, while his free hand tangled itself into her hair, pulling back her head. The warm flesh of her neck exposed.

"You are brave, for a dead women,  aren't you ?" The ark angel closer now, so close he could hear the blood pumping in her veins. She wasn't stupid, she knew he was trying to intimidate her but it wouldn't work she wouldn't give the young girl up.

"Nothing I'll tell you nothing" Ezekiel growled like a primitive animal, before taking a few strides backwards.

"Go ahead boys, but remember to share." Within a blink of a eye, the slayer felt two pairs sharp teeth sink into either side of her neck. Both vampire's lapping up the blood as sweet as nectar. The older man forced his children to stop when he saw the women wanting to speak.

"STOP, she wants to speak." Both vampire reluctantly realised the women allowing her sputter out her last words.

"You'll never beat him, you Ezekiel of Lazarus will never beat him, you are not strong enough."

"Who, is this you speak of, girl answer me" the man's face was a mixture of confusion and desperation, to know who the Slayer spoke of.

"Someone you thought was long dead, you're Greatest creation," with those words the women was dead.

Ezekiel was confused, In his long raign on this earth he had turned meny and meny of them he considered his greatest creation. But through the ages they had all died, well those except Mathias and jedediah. On some level he knew that the pair were living because of him, they were faithful to him, to cause and of course he knew why. He had found jedediah two thousand years ago dying, the blood had been two hard to resist and soon enough he was drained of the sticky red liquid. At the time his first turn had convinced Ezekiel to bring the man back and of course he did. Matthias was different he was young compared to jedediah at only just a thousand. He and come looking for Ezekiel, evidently he found the the ark Angel in question, at the time he happened to be grieving the loss of his child. So he turned the young Man, his pathetic attempt to recreate his masterpiece.

"Father_father are you okay"

"No I think I have discovered something imperative, you're brother Jedediah may still in world after all". Ezekiel stated, the younger man froze taking a step backwards.

"Father it can not be, you would've felt his presence long ago, if he was still with the world you could feel him" Mathias spoke up licking the rest of the slayers blood from the corner of his lips. He had never met his master first creation but he had heard the story's, if they were true he was something beautiful but fearsome to be-hold.

"Perhaps, the distance of time has severed our connection, my son would've come home to me if I'd called, if he knew I was still living." Ezekiel frowned as a old wound had been opened.

"Father, maybe he did know and he simply didn't want to return to your side, that if what the girl said isn't true, father she could've lied" Jedediah said remembering those last few months before his blood brother disappeared, before the human had come with proof of his death. It had been trying times, his brother grew bored of being locked up like a child, he grew tired of the constant killing. The blood that followed them, how cruel they're father had become. How his eyes longed for more than blood and satisfaction the kill gave him. Jedediah knew his brother was capable of more, maybe evenlove if he found the right person. So he thought maybe his brother had planned that night, to escape and then disappear from the face of world.

"No my son would return to me, I know it" all eyes were on the Ark Angel as he spoke.

"Let's leave we have a Slayer to find"

2

It was late afternoon when Stevie Hoffman started on her way home, cheer practice had gone longer then expected, giving her less time to get ready for tonights party. Tonight her family and friends would be celebrating sixteen wonderful years with Stevie in the world. We'll all except her father, he would be seeing her on the weekend, since Mary and Philip got divorced the redhead saw her father less and less. Though she supposed it was natural he lived in California now and she still live in Willow falls, a small town just outside of Pennsylvania. But that didn't mean that Stevie didn't want him here for her sixteenth, but both her parents had assured their daughter it was for the best so Stevie dropped it.

The redhead decided to take a short cut through the cemetery, maybe she'd stop and see her grandparents graves before heading home. This was nothing out of ordinary Stevie often came by to see her grandparents, sometimes it help to talk to to them, if the day had been especially bad. And today had been, the boy who asked out had suddenly changed his mind and copped off with a blonde a year or so older than her.

This always happened to her, the redhead felt like she was destined to be lonely forever. Stevie continued down the gravel path to her family crypt, but from behind her the girl Heard a branch snapped under someone's feet. Now sure this could've been nothing but the redhead could've sworn she was alone. Turning Stevie saw nothing, so she shook it off and headed further down the track.

The girl however didn't get far because before long had been shoved to floor, with a man in his late twenties maybe early thirty's on top of her. The man's face was filled with rage, his eyes wide with hunger. He craned mouth down to the girls neck, but as his large fangs grazed Stevie's neck she brought her knee up to his groin, connecting it hard. The man tumbled a little to the side in pain, the girl shoved him the rest of way scrambling to her feet she ran.

The redhead ran as fast as converse clad feet would carry her, but she couldn't beat the man's speed. He up and like a flash had caught up to the girl. Stevie once again found her on floor, the man dragging her by the ankles. The gravel of the paving cutting her knees and hands. The girl some manage to break one leg free, kicking the man in the ankle he fell to the ground.

Stevie turned to leave but once again the man was her In a flash, the red was flat on her back. Fearing the worst, that he was going rape her. She turned her head, green eyes landing on a sharp wooden branch and in a instant the girl knew what to do. It was like every molecule woke up and told her what to do, seconds later Stevie plunged the wooden stick into the man's chest. Soon enough he was reduced to ash, his body had disappeared, as though he was never there.

From the corner stood a man holding a note pad and what looked to be a recording device. He looked impressed, but Stevie Hoffman stood tears welling up in her eyes and the realization of what she had just done. She and killed a man.

"Oh god I killed him, he's dead" the man frowned  and made his way over to his slayer.

"Miss Hoffman you need to calm down" he tried to Reason with the girl.

"No I killed someone, I just killed someone, he's dead what if he had a family" Stevie Hoffman's body trembled, where she now stood the stake still in her hands.

"Miss Hoffman, I need you calm down and listen to me. What you just killed wasn't human, he was a vampire and he was already dead" the man with note pad spoke getting closer to frightened redhead.

"Vampires aren't real,"

"Yes miss Hoffman they are and it's you're duty to protect the world against the creatures, you are the slayer" Stevie Hoffman let out a hystercial giggle before collapsing to the floor. The Watcher huffing as it suddenly became clear to him just how much help this girl was going to need.

Sighing professor Lionel Coleman collected his slayers belongings, and drove the unconscious girl home. He had spun some story of how he saw the girl being asulted by the cemetery, but had managed to to stop the assailant before anything to bad had happened. Stevie's mother had been greatfull that her daughter was brought home safely and thanked the man kindly. 

It was safe to say her sixteenth birthday hadn't turned out the way she expected and it turned out her life wouldn't be the same again. So much was coming and her Watcher just hoped she'd be ready when it did.

[autolovecraft]

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Davis, who died years ago. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not care to imagine. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Why did you do it, Birch? As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Davis.

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. Birch? I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt - II

Prefer Wattpad?

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I left the tavern in secret and walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

The air was heavy with lavender. A pebbled stretch stirred a reverie of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he had purchased for me, whose chronicles of high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six years old, tales of old Arabia appealed most. Kingdoms wrought of sunstones stark against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot star ever-visible, scorpions armoured like chargers; the sheer cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumped from the paths of unruly camels, watced the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often sulky boys preferring quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger entries, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards.

Into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales best of all. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where his pyre burned. Always when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the strand near Troy.

Before long, a trap could be heard from the middle distance, the first in a network of wagons due to arrive at Cairn Cottage to transport the priceless contents of Lady Sizemore’s library back to Sperrin, where they would be carefully parcelled and carried by train to the Royal Academy Library. I waited astride the ditch until the crude plume atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its heavy trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the driver, a wind being, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood disarrayed. A peak stole his brow but a smile waved me aboard.

The driver never spoke. There was a sense of grim penitence about all I had met thus far. Their lines of deep regret boldened every jowl and furrowed brow. Each bore the weight of his forebears in full. A place without time and silent, where happiness and sadness could last all of forever. So silent were they, matched only by monks in their solemnity, I christened this ham the abbodrice of Sperrin.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper above coin. Hundreds, thousands, of jaundiced sheets all in disorder busied every surface. Before a single penny changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in avoidance of work as should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day I required before I indulged  cryptozooligcal fancies.

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived premature. I ran to the track where the last impatient husbandman sat in stasis. 'Bound for Sperrin?' I called, already halfway inside.

I arrived at Lar's fiercely humoured. Tired, thirsty and caked in mud golemlike, my gladness at journey's end was quickly consumed by the fury of indignity, having endured the return trip atop a sewagesucker's swine van. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating a thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel and enjoyed relief akin to weightlessness by contrast. We drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, spoke of weather, I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to appear overeager, I spared him details of my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision. Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted as he pretended to dust.

'Short delay as it happens. I'd have said from the door, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.' I said, picking at a heel of bread.

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen plenty pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' Lar shot a glance at Fergus. A pale lance cleft his brow through the slitted shutters.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a bottle, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the ale splash. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. 'Listen, chap. There's something else I wanted to talk about before we go. I mean to publish an expedition diary. A chronicle of our adventures. Part scientific tome, part roaring adventure book. Your pub will be the busiest spot in the weald after this. Would you object to such?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes. Humbly, in my hand the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?' he asked.

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of another, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch for me, which spoiled any hope of a dramatic exit. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once my story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored and slipped through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things from the blind past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground where it trod.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove. He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. Groggily, I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping a cigarette loose on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' he asked. The rain beat down harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.' I smirked.

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.' he said somewhat angrily.

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left, more spritely than when he entered.