After they'd ate their dinner, they walked to the inn. People sat around a table that curved around the innkeeper, who polished some cups. Some logs held the thatched roof steady. Dusty clay made up the walls. A small mirror lay near the innkeeper, reflecting sunlight onto the roof. The inn seemed cramped. A small kitchen connected the central room. People squeezed into every corner.
Darrell got wine, watching the window while he drank, and sat there sipping as they looked for a guide. David smelt the wine and moved his chair back. He watched the alcohol drain from the glass and splash Darrell's lips. The thick glass bumped against the table and went up again.. The innkeeper pulled up a chair and sat while he continued polishing. Yellowed glass with cracks that edged around each of the cups. They waited for a while. Osmond seemed to have some courage and called the innkeeper.
David shook his head and relaxed in his chair. Time slipped away from them now. Time, that would've been spent on finding the Prophet, but they lazed around... Time... Time... Time... He hated time... When people sagged and skin folded, time would be there... Always time... He wanted a place where time had no matter, where time had no place, where time didn't exist... But always time... Time.... Time...
Bernard drank along with Darrell, drinking and drinking until the entire inn smelt of wine. They continued waiting as the sun fell and was replaced by the shimmering moon. Clouds covered parts of the moon but glowed blue as light streamed through. David watched Darrell drink. He'd eaten some more of the flat-cakes. Some of them had crumbled, but they tasted alright. Osmond talked to Bernard about his notebook. More strange pictures from journeys around the world. At the end was the drawing of the temple. Osmond had almost fully colored it in. Some water had leaked onto the paper. But the drawings were still intact.
They went outside with Bernard, and they sat in the night air. Bernard smelt of wine while he looked at the moon. David stood behind the two, eating some bread and flat-cakes when Bernard perked up.
"Right there!" Bernard said to David, spitting drink out from his mouth, "It's a quack! Rubbing herbs on a child's head, how'll that defend against the Plague?"
He saw it. A man rubbing herbs on a child's head, brushing the child with leaves.
"Well, maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. Doesn't look too bad of a quack."
"But herbs? Not magic! I'm a magi, I've made draughts,all from Gotund and Galtrand, but herbs! Hah-ha-ha-ha-ha! As they say, the otter that quacks is no otter at all."
"Show me then, show me a draught"
"Right", Bernard said, grabbing something from his bag, "Although.. It's very dangerous, handling these things, too much of Galtrand and Gotund, and-Poof!- an early coffin for me. But. I've been pious for the Prophet. Not a chance of poofing! for me."
He pulled a bronze box out in a daze, and opened the lid.
"Pulling out blue Galtrand and red Gotund, both with soft glows..."
Then, he dashed his hands in again. But he saw no glow, no object, nothing. Only Bernard's hands glowed in the moonlight..
"Pinching a bit of Galtrand out, and then a rock of gotund....", he pinched the invisible things into the clay crucible. Then he added a cup of water.
"Now I need a fire, a small one, to heat it up", Bernard looked around.
"I don't think you should practice magic in this public place"
"Nonsense, no, not a blacksmith, they'll want me to pay, or pay me... ", Bernard looked down, "I don't need heat....I'll do it without flames then! Yes, it'll work."
"The tellurides coming, Bernard, Bernard? Bernard!?"
Bernard placed the crucible on the ground, and shook it. He placed his feet upon the lid, and waited.
Light ran out, dashing into the air, rays of it ran outwards, scattering into the moon. David looked away into the tower of the dead, making them glow with red, blue, gold, all in colors spiraling into the center, forming black, all of it...
"You can't practice magic here!", the telluride floated down, "This is a public place!"
Bernard looked away, turning to the others, a frantic look between his eyes.
"Well...ok. I will....When we get on the road then... When we're on the road...", Bernard closed the lid, and put the can into his bag.
The telluride flew away, and they were left alone. Bernard folded his hands, and put his crucible back with unsteady hands. Darrell stood up, and Osmond did too.
"Let's go forward", Osmond said, "Then, we'll set up camp, and rest."
They set off into the night, where the clouds glowed, and the moon shone. Bernard stared silently at his bag, and Darrell stumbled throgh the night. The air thickened with smells of wine. After that, they went on the road, past people, past leashed dogs, and more. Bricks loosened, and they left footprints along the Prophet's glowing trail.
When the moon glowed a little less, they dined on bread and drank water. After that, they drank more wine, and went to sleep.
All, except for David, who hadn't fallen asleep. He went and lay on his mat. The stars shone brightly, enough to read a book. He pulled the Book Of Stories out. Worn pages and a dog-eared cover. He flipped through each one until the illustrations passed by and he reached the end. But instead of a blank page, there lay something else instead.
He picked it up. Not this page, no, it hadn't been there before.... He examined it, and read it to himself:
The infinite tower, with splendor. It gleamed, tall, and extended into the clouds. In the center stood a single pillar, a cylinder of stone, wood, and bronze. This structure stood because of the leaning beams that held it in place. Sometimes, it would creak in the wind and groan as the builders hammered in nails and climbed up the scaffolding. The building extended past the sky. It went into infinity. Eons and eons, it had taken. With generations heaving the stone up into the tower, and thousands of people watching it take place. Never-ending excitement for them all. The tower itself stood for Protennesen, the great being that made up everything. Protennesen was infinite in wisdom, infinite as the tower. The tower never would stop lengthening, for the tower needed to reach into infinity, it needed to reach Protennesen himself. For now, it lay beneath the brain of Protennesen.
Each floor of the tower stacked above another until the final one. The final unfinished floor. All of the floors were designed by different architects. All of the floors were dressed in different colors. Red, yellow, black, green, blue. Blending into each other until it resembled a rainbow of hues.
Towns and cities sent their finest to build the tower. Great people, people that enjoyed the heights and bore the weights.
For 50 years, the tower never swayed, never creaked, never moved, solitary on Pnoaphales. Around it, people populated a village of builders, architects, and surveyors. With houses of clay and reeds, with a rectangle wall, with crops and farms, with a telluride who flew around the village. It was a deerman, who favored long talks and nice views. He lived in a tall tower near the village. Each house accommodated many people, for the infinite tower required multiple hands to keep it together. Below the village, a quarry stood, filled with marble, bronze, and limestone. Miners lived beside it, and they dug out resources for the tower during each day.
After 50 years, the tower grew to overshadow the village and its people. It almost matched the height of Pnoaphales with ninety-nine floors. Each of those individual floors held art. Paintings, statues, all beauty, meant to be sent to Protennesen. The first floor held the most beautiful of them all. Each of them was picked by philosophers and the artists themselves.
Then the hundredth floor, with builders surrounding it on scaffolding, with ladders covered on all sides. The final one sparkled with gold. It made up the walls and the art. The hundredth floor. Taller than the first floor, full of ornate carvings, full of immortal joy. Each design, crafted by meticulous artists.
It rained as the builders placed and hammered the roof. Moonbeams shone onto the final floor, and it glowed bright, even at night.
It poured down onto the village and the tower stood tall. Even as water trickled down into its walls, even as wind battered the structure, even as the earth shook. Thunder rolled across the sky. A light brighter than the sun filled the sky. White light lit up the village.
Soon, the tower shook with the ground and the lightning. Rocks ran down Pnoaphales, and they tumbled into the tower. An avalanche of snow, rock, and sand piled onto the tower. The tower shook. The people ran. The builders watched. Dust and stone covered the village. The tower shook again. It creaked and then it groaned. The metal shrieked, the stone fragmented, the supports fell. The tower, along with it's floors, toppled. Each of the stacked floors separated, tumbling onto the ground. Only the first floor remained.
In the aftermath, each village and town blamed the other for the collapse. For the gods hadn't sent those disasters to collapse the tower. Something else had caused the infinite tower to collapse. Nothing else. Only the Men of Deer and the Laphanists, who'd lived atop the mountain. They'd pushed those rocks down onto the infinite tower. They'd obeyed the urges of the Abyss, and worshipped those evil gods with vigor and happiness. They'd become Abysians..
They hunted down the Men of Deer and Laphanists. Crowds of them, raiding monasteries, sanctuaries. They burnt down forests, and set the world ablaze. Wailen was crimson for a time, full of smoke and flame. Then blue as the oceans filled with ships.
Thus, the Men of Deer retaliated with water. Triremes of wood, filled with Men of Deer and Laphanists. With builders who stacked the boats, adding tiers of oars. They planned for days, splitting the power among the remaining nomad tribes. With three leaders, Attira, Lavacus, Perimenes, each with their own army. Then attacking the borders of Wailen. Unguarded, they torched and burned every village they saw.
The Callous War commenced and...
David stopped there and he turned away. His hands quivered. This again.... A reminder of Laphanists and the Callous War. The horrible, horrible war... He looked away. Not again.... He remembered, after a long, long time.... The memories of moving away, gone from the nomads, into villages with people, smoke, and plague, and the smell of rot.....He didn't need to see that paper again. Never again... His hands buried it into a separate bag, and folded it's contents away. Not today... He looked away, then sat underneath darkness. He looked up, trying to find some stars, even some light. They had all gone away...
He closed the book, and folded his hands together in a praying motion. He bent his head down, staring at the grass he lay on, and whispered words to himself. Nobody else heard him as he prayed to the Prophet. Nobody else heard him as he prayed to Protennessen. Nobody heard him for a long while. David prayed for luck, fortune, success. He prayed for other things, and let secrets loosen from his mind and into words. Moonlight spread over the sky, and some stars brightened, but fell into the dark.
His hands reached into the bag again, and he pulled a new vial, untouched, and drank its contents. Then, he dreamed...
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