Far, far away from the Plague. Away from the great pit that they held bodies in. Away from the sickness that left them helpless. Away from the fires of the Plague. None of those sickness... Not anymore... The Prophet, with his magic, would remove the worries of the Plague. From his position, David saw nothing. But, when their steps walked and trudged. The Prophet would let them into his abode. There, they would be welcomed, and he would give them eternal life. A droplet, a horn, an oilskin of immortal liquid. All worries would fade from his mind as he sat in peace. No death... He would remain with a grey beard, living his life... Soon the Prophet would arrive with his splendors and powers, more powerful than all of the magi.
But, he remembered the stories of horrible climbs. But he had little chance to encounter that. They'd walk past those stories.......But the beasts ahead.... No, bad luck like that wouldn't come to him........He snapped out of the thought and stood up.
The fire had gone out, they'd already begun packing, he ran to Osmond and Bernard, who was red-faced from sitting near the fire all day. He continued in thought as he rushed through the grass, and stomped through flat mud.
Bernard's stare, mumbling about his dreams. Soon his dreams would match the dreams of the Prophet. Pnoaphales would fix them all, give them everything, all things. Immortality and life forever in the world. Back in his youthful fervor. Back to feelings of wonder and the world with its freshness and newness. Back to his curious self, back to himself. He'd travel into nature and then buy a ship to travel the world...
They would go on empty stomachs for the rest of the day until a village came into their sight. Denton's thievery left them with no food and no water. The only things Denton had left were Darrell's sword, some supplies. It was only by chance that Denton had left his box of vials and the Book of Stories. Without them, he wouldn't have tried to go forward. He'd kept the Book Of Stories for years and years, ever since he'd left the Men Of Deer. Before many, many things, he'd held it in his hand. He looked at it's dog-eared cover and faded pictures. Many pages he'd repaired with glue.
They ran past the rocky jaws of the mountain, with pillars jutting out in teeth-like formations, and onto a field. Wheat split and revealed thin stalks. Rabbits chewed, robins dug and pulled at worms, and cattle migrated past them. During this time, Bernard held a clay crucible and pulled invisible things out of it. He muttered, grumbled, and did magic by himself again and again. Eventually, that sound faded from his ears, and it seemed like they were walking in silence.
Then their journey began, and they saw and began to follow the footprints. Each turned fresher with distance. Now, they passed a stream, flies stood thick, and David's stomach growled at the thought of food. They reached a small clearing in the forest and rested. Silence continued as they sat and rested. It continued until David spoke up.
"Why don't you perform some magic, Bernard?", he pulled out a stick, and waved it around, "Hizzak! Bizzam.... "
"Sure" Bernard reached for a pebble, "Here I go."
David watched him glumly tap the stick against the pebble.
"Now, watch as it disappears", Bernard pulled the pebble out. Then he hid it in his pocket.
"Er...Why don't I tell a story?", David said, pulling out his Book Of Stories. He flipped a page, and then arrived at one of them."I'll read aloud then."
"The Story Of Mercurus and His Quest:
"
Mercurus was cast out into the world. Sent into alchemy, into it he went as a chemena, away from the magi and the himare. Along his way, he encountered the five shrouds. The first shroud let him see Galtrand and Gotund. The second shroud let him see the soul and the body. The third, fourth, and fifth remained covered over his eyes.
After that, into his created world, where he sat near a furnace, tongs, hammers, bellows, resembling a blacksmith's workshop. Mercurus lived near farms and peasants. He wore rags and drank mud. His stool creaked as he worked.
Tools filled his home, all light and fragile, with clay crucibles, clay pots, and clay pans. In this place, he worked to cure and revive, as a doctor does. His work left metallic-smelling smoke hanging in the room. At night, his home would glow with the lambent light from the Galtrand, Gotund, and Quand. In the day, he'd sit content, near the window, working again. Day and night, never a change.
Until the Prophet came, giving all things to all people. The Prophet arrived, walking to the village, with his crowds of followers, and now, throngs of people outside his window. Mercurus's eyes never beheld the sight. For, he was too entranced by his work.
But, he managed to witness the Prophet. It happened after he set off toward the market, away from his home of clay and reed roofs, onto the road. Past the crowds of people, into the center of the city.
There stood the Prophet, performing magic, spouting blue, red, and gold from his fingertips, facing his back to him. A pile had formed below his feet, with gold coins imprinted with statesmen, with gold cups, with gold plates, with gold pots, all in piles. Giving it all to the masses, from his fingertips, while the Prophet performed magic.
Inside Mercurus's mind, a fire ignited.
There it lay, gold, all over the ground, produced by magic. All the gold, made from magic itself. All from magic. With that amount of gold, he'd buy a new home. With that, he'd drink the wine and beer of nobles. With this, he'd wear gold.
He went back into his home, where he set his glass flasks and vials onto the table, getting to work. To make gold from Galtrand, Gotund, and Quand.
The first day, he set off with Galtrand and Gotund only. Hours, he spent, filtering and dispersing into vials and crucibles. Yet, no result, none at all, nothing to see. Instead, only a flask of liquid, which glowed blue and felt hot. He set it down on the tray and rested.
The second day came with many surprises. He added Quand, and when he poured the flask into a crucible. It solidified into solid bronze. Shining, solid, bronze. He touched it, and a metallic ring ricocheted off the walls. Again, he repeated it, and again, out came bronze.
On the third day, he added more Galtrand and poured the vial into a crucible. It shook and fell apart, and shattered. One shard caught itself in his hand. He had to bandage it with rags and rest.
On the fourth day, he added more Gotund to his mixture, and out came liquid silver. It flowed faster than water and shone brighter than the moon. He dipped his finger into the mixture. When he pulled it out, a silver finger emerged. His hands hurried to cover the window, and he went outside to look for people. Paramon barred the doors to his home and went back. He added more Galtrand to the crucible. The crucible boiled and steam rose into the air. Paramon gazed at the red outline around it. His fingers crept along the edge; one went past the steam; into the crucible.
He screamed. Acid ran up a finger; burning it; dissolving it. He pulled his finger out, and he tried to shake the acid off. Mercurus almost pushed the crucible away, but he fumbled it around before setting it down.
Only a stump and nothing else. But Mercurus knew that he didn't need this finger. He would replace it with gold later on. When gold arrived, then he'd live like a king. For now, he needed to continue. Another bandage wrapped around his finger. He filled the crucible with Galtrand, Gotund, and Quand. They all buzzed, rotated, and then beat like a heart against the pot. With an ear against metal, he heard the pot ring. Blue, red, and gold lit his home, but then the light faded away. The night devoided the light from his home. The window Paramon sat near for a decade twinkled into darkness. Only him and the draught remained.
On the fifth day, he found gold. He held a nugget the size of his palm. It weighed like a boulder. He flaked some off, and he held it to the light of the window. Gold, not silver, not brass, not copper. Gold. He rolled it into a ball between his fingers; then he mashed it into the nugget. His hands rolled the nugget into a cylinder. Mercurus carved it into the shape of his lost finger, and he attached it to the stump. There it went; it gleamed and shined; beautiful; it radiated brighter than the stars.
He needed more, many, many more than the piece before him. His house; all plated in gold; he needed much more than the meager nugget before him. He needed to let all people enjoy this gold. He'd give the gold to the peasants. He'd live with them as equals. He'd let all people live with riches. He'd let them live in immortality. Everyone! Everyone! But with himself sitting atop them all...
Mercurus dragged out a clay pot, larger than himself. He poured a boulder of Galtrand and Gotund in; then some Quand. Light burst from the depths of the pot. He heated it and he waited.
The pot shook and shuddered. He stepped aside. The room lit up with blue, and then red, and then gold. Soon, he could see nothing else. They imprinted themselves into his eyes, disfigurations of light; traveling past his vision. Visions went past his mind from the deep depths. Darkness covered his eyes, then red scales. The Abysm hissed, slithered, and writhed as it bared fangs through many heads. Then, the Abysm swallowed him and he lay inside the Abyss. Salugren lumbered and held a creature in his white jaws. He stumbled and fell into a pit and into a fleshy mass. Pale creatures latched and grabbed. They held and devoured. Each stared at him with beady eyes as he fell past.
He collapsed into a heap upon impact. His eyes blurred, he saw a fallen Abysian. Massive in size and shape, but torn apart by more of the pale creatures. His hands reached forward, and he looked into the blue pit. A misshapen man, blurs, and pain shot through him until he saw the finality. The final creature, something massive, beating like a heart. His mind bore it no further, and broke from it's holds.
Mercurus stumbled toward the pot. His feet stepped forward, one by one. He moved little, swinging his legs forward bit by bit.
He blinked his eyes and looked inside. The Galtrand and Gotund, writhing red, bursting with energy, moving, twitching. He reached a hand in to dip it in gold. Below, the mixture glowed. He couldn't reach it. Mercurus lifted his leg into the pot, and he tried again. His grip loosened. Galtrand and Gotund glowed.
He fell in.
Into the red Galtrand, into the blue Gotund, he felt heat rise through him, into him. He tried to call out for someone, anyone. He yelled, shouted, but the Galtrand burned him. It covered his lungs and his mouth.
He could call no more for anyone. Already gone, he was. Gone to everyone, nobody knew.
He shouted, flailed his arms, tried to. But the Galtrand and the Gotund forced the gold to run up his arm. It covered his face until he stood as a perfect statue in a perfect form. He stood in gleaming gold. With sunken sockets and perfect detail, Mercurus twinkled. His mouth stretched across his face. His fingers grasped the wall. The statue went silent, and now, Mercurus existed forever in his throes."
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