A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

Four thumps echoed throughout the house, like knuckles impacting on wood. Somebody was knocking at the door. Vincent knew he should get off the couch to see who it was, but he was distracted. Distracted by what? He could not remember. When he didn't answer, there came four more knocks. He didn’t feel like getting up and going downstairs to see who it was.

“Go away” he groaned before resuming his task. What was his task again?

“Knock, knock, knock, knock.”

He would not answer, they would have to give up and leave him be. It was pleasant here. But a fist appeared in the TV he was watching, a shadowy silhouette that interrupted his show. It rapped against the glass four times. Damn they were persistent!

“Fine! I'll open the fucking TV!” he said.

In an instant, he found himself kneeling in front of the television and opening the screen.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The electronic plasma flooded the living room with its ionized energy, becoming one with his flesh. His entire body was transmutated beyond physical form, escaping the constraints of his mortality. His consciousness was no longer constrained by the limitations of flesh. No, Vincent became a being of pure energy and digital code.

He stepped into the television, looked back through the screen and saw his couch, but it was no longer a couch. It became an audience that watched him on the television, people he did not know ate popcorn as the projector beamed his image onto the screen.

A vague part of his consciousness quailed at the contradictions, but not for long. Soon he floated away until he was beyond their perception, allowing another program to take his place, hiding him from view.

Four beeps emanated from the watch on his arm to mark the time. When he looked at it, he saw that the hands were drifting away from the center as though lost at sea, and the numbers were either missing or out of order. After pressing the faceplate, the watch began to gibber in a foreign dialect. A woman was speaking to him.

“Sirai.” she said.

Sirai? Where had he heard that word before?

The realm began to weaken as though something had attacked whatever laws held it together. Vincent's ethereal form wavered and he felt sensations returning to his body. No, he didn't want to go.

Let me rest a little bit more. he thought.

The woman spoke again; her voice bounced off of his mind and shattered the realm of dreams apart. He stirred from his slumber and opened his eyes, expecting once more to wake up on Earth.

When he saw the stucco walls of Xalix’s home again, there was a moment of disorientation, then he wanted to scream. He should not be here, he should not have awakened. This should have been over. He should have woken up in the sterile room of some hospital, not this place. Judging from the look of the sky outside, the sun had not quite risen yet. But birds were beginning to chatter.

“Sirai...”

What the hell? Vincent abruptly sat up and felt several joints in his back pop.

“Sirai....Sirai...Sirai...” the phantom repeated before retreating into silence.

“Dammit,” Vincent whispered, “I don't understand you. Speak English like the rest of my 'friends' or go away.” The phantom didn't say anything more to him. “I swear if you guys start speaking Xalix's language to me, I'm going to hurl myself off that cliff.”

“Well, you should get up. Rise and shine, Cupcake,” Dave said.

“No, I shouldn't. I'm going back to sleep.” Vincent laid his head back down and closed his eyes.

“Cordell, get your ass out of bed and get moving.”

“Dave,” Vincent said, “look, I'm sorry for losing my temper yesterday and you're probably right. But it's too early for me to deal with...this,” he gestured with his hand to everything around him. “I shouldn’t even be waking up here. I should be waking up in my own bed back at home.”

“Miserable failure,” Dave whispered.

“Right.”

Vincent ignored him and tried to fall back asleep. He drifted on the edge of consciousness where he seemed to flit between a state of wakefulness and slumber. He could still feel his arms and legs, yet at the same time his thoughts became incoherent and dumb.

Occasionally, a whisper would threaten to break his spell, but eventually he delved back into sleep. The sun woke him when it warmed his neck. It was not enough to get him out of bed, but it did break his slumber. Xalix could be heard in conversation with somebody, most likely his children. Judging from the aroma wafting through the doorway, these creatures made food.

“What do you think they made,” Dave asked, “eyeball soup?”

“I'm still in a bad mood. Don't talk to me.” Vincent said. He really did not like the fact that he had to endure a second day of this...whatever this place was. The last thing he wanted was for Dave to put ideas like “eyeball soup” into his head and have his schizophrenia fulfill that prophecy.

Vincent planted his feet on the floor, but he didn't stand up. Not only was he not eager to join his unusual hosts, but he did not want a repeat of the previous morning. Furthermore, the muscles in his arms and legs were incredibly sore.

There was a sticky residue on the side of his head where Xalix had secured the strange medicinal plant. Sometime during the night, it must have come off and got lost in the covers. He didn't bother looking for it. Instead, he began to practice Xalix's name.

“Shalx...” he said, “Sahix.....thalick....shlalix, Xalix.”

Okay good. Just a few more times to make sure I got this down. he thought. “Shalix. Xalik. Xalix. Xalix.”

“What are you doing?” Dave demanded.

“I’m trying to say that thing’s name.”

“You do whatever you will, son. I have to report back to base.”

“...Whatever.”

He pushed himself out of the bed and teetered precariously on his feet. He leaned forward and caught himself on the wall. After spending several hours hurling himself from tree trunk to tree trunk the previous day, he discovered a method to the madness of locomotion.

Xalix had been kind enough to leave the curtain drawn so there was no danger of tripping over it as he crossed its threshold. As soon as he started down the hallway, the conversations emanating from the chamber stopped.

Vincent stopped in his tracks and gaped. Last night he had been dreadfully tired and wounded, so seeing such creatures did not have much of an impact on him as it should have. But seeing them now was something which surpassed his most elaborate hallucinations. It was like jumping into a pond in the middle of winter: pure shock.

The two little ones sat at the table, kicking their legs while their tiny tails swished along the floor. They played with some sort of fruit while Xalix tended the fire, his back to Vincent.

“He cooks human meat.” a phantom whispered.

“Shut up.” Vincent mouthed.

Micah was the first to see him enter the room. “Xali’ka.” he said, pointing to him. Xalix turned around, said something in his local dialect and made as if he were about to help him walk but Vincent held up his hand.

Last night was a desperate situation, he thought, I'm not about to let you help me walk again.

Xalix stared at him in a manner very reminiscent of a bird, then he grunted something to the children. Theomus responded by pulling out a seat, an action which Vincent took as an invitation. Shrugging, he carefully stumbled his way toward it. Theomus and Micah both goggled at him as he braced himself against the table’s edge and lowered himself into his seat.

“Dave,” he mouthed, “this is beyond weird. Look at them. They’re acting like human children. I mean...shit, there are lots of cartoons and crap that depict talking animals, but this is unbelievable. Look, that one’s twiddling his fingers...claws I guess. And his brother is kicking his feet...and he just stretched his wings.”

“Sirai.” Micah said, pushing the fruit he had been playing with toward Vincent.

The shape resembled a grape, but it was about five times as large and its rind was a light blue. He hesitated for a moment before picking it up, wondering what he was supposed to do with it when four legs and a pincer sprouted out from its side and began wriggling around.

If a normal person suddenly had fruit come to life in their hands, it would have been tossed as far away from them as possible. But Vincent brushed a finger through the legs and confirmed they were not real. They acted as though they had been torn loose and fell to the floor, still twitching.

What am I supposed to do with this, eat it, or roll it back? he thought. The creatures were still watching him, waiting for him to do something. He rolled the fruit back and forth in his palm, examining it, before handing it back to them.

“You’re wasting good food you idiot,” Dave growled.

“Oh come on. Did you see those canines? There’s no way these things eat fruit. They’re definitely carnivores,” Vincent mouthed.

But he was proven wrong when Micah picked up the fruit and used both of his thumbs to peel back the rind, revealing a large seed underneath the milky white flesh. He squeezed the sides of the fruit and popped the seed out, and then he handed it back to Vincent.

“Those lizards have salmonella”

Dave warned as Vincent accepted the pitted fruit from the small creature.

He tried to lift it to his nose, but ended up mashing it against the bottom of his mouth. That was right, he had a snout now which meant his “nose” was further out. The reminder disgusted him, but he compensated for the distance and gave the fruit a sniff. The fragrance was subtle and earthy, with a hint of peach. Since he hated peaches, he set the fruit down and rolled it back across the table.

Sorry kid, he thought.

Xalix grunted as he hoisted a large, closed, cast iron pan out of the fire with gloves protecting his hands. He flipped it over on the table and a loaf of bread slid out. “What the...fucking bread?!” Vincent mouthed. The simplicity and familiarity of such a culinary item felt out of place in a house of bipedal lizards.

Bread was something that belonged on Earth, not in this world of winged freaks. Xalix may as well pull out some blueberry waffles and hot pockets, then do a fucking song and dance with singing birds as an accompaniment. Dragons were usually portrayed as being fearsome predators that set fires to villages and devoured the livestock. A severed cow leg would have looked more congruent than a loaf of bread.

“The lizards are still staring at you,” Dave observed. Micah and Theomus looked as though they expected him to either perform a magic trick or go crazy and kill everybody.

“You’re racist.” Vincent mouthed. He did not need to actually speak out loud. To phantoms like Dave, simply forming the shapes with his lips counted as speech.

“They aren't a race, Cordell.”

“’Specieist’ then. Anyway, I don’t think they’re reptiles.”

“Snakes, reptiles. There is a snake around here. Help me find it,” a phantom whispered from under the table.

“Quiet.” Vincent whispered, as Xalix stared at him.

Apparently, his hosts had noticed his hushed conversations. Xalix shrugged, then cut a wedge from the bread and placed it in front of him. It was loaded with all sorts of nuts and dried fruit. If it weren't for the aroma, Vincent could almost convince himself it was just raisin bread. He hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if he was supposed to perform some sort of rite such as grace. Thankfully there was no indication of such a tradition, so he began to tear his food into “human-food” sized pieces. He could feel the eyes of his hosts boring into him as they observed his strange behavior.

Micah put his snout on the table and watched Vincent's hands with fascination. The action reminded him of a dog staring at food, hoping its human owners would drop a scrap on the floor.

As he gaped at these creatures, the female phantom that had whispered to him this morning, returned and spoke in Xalix’s dialect. Vincent felt a peculiar sensation; it was as though a thousand invisible strings had descended upon him.

“Sirai” she said, “oman Teresis Moren da Siekh. Geas lok?” The strings vibrated with her voice and the air felt as though it had become heavy.

“Go away,” Vincent mouthed, “I'll talk to you later.”

The voice refused to leave. Instead it became more persistent, and it began to ask him more questions. In fact, the tone demanded them, as though she, like Dave, was another command voice. He began to rub the sides of his temples, wishing he had some ibuprofen and Vicodin on hand.

Xalix looked at him inquiringly and said his name, but Vincent held up a finger as if to say “Give me a moment.” Then he turned his attention to the voice and reminded her that if she wanted to talk, she should speak English or shut up.

But it wasn't until Dave said “For the love of all that is good, would you shut up woman?!” that her voice faltered. Vincent almost laughed at Dave’s outburst and the female phantom's very human-like reaction of shock and surprise.

The invisible strings immediately left him, relieving the oppressive sensation. It was as though somebody had popped a balloon. In fact, Vincent would not have been surprised to see bread crumbs blow across the table.

After they were finished eating, Xalix retrieved a large roll that had been lying against the wall and set it on the center of the table. He spread across the surface using the backs of his palms. It was a map, inked masterfully and artfully depicting mountain ranges, lakes, roads and ravines.

The names were labeled in a dialect consisting of geometric shapes and dashes. The two young ones helped finish spreading the map. Xalix handed Vincent a piece of charcoal and waited.

What...Vincent thought as he held up the charcoal and shrugged, I don’t know what you want me to do.

Xalix used two fingers to gesture at Vincent’s eyes and then he tapped them on the map. When Vincent still did not react, the creature sighed, took the charcoal from his hands and leaned over the map. “Kula...” he rumbled, rolling the L as he circled a special place on the map. “Kula...Sinyagh de Lorix.”

“Uhh...”

“Kula,” Xalix repeated, tapping the circle with his claw. Then he gestured to the room. “Kula.”

“Uhhh...kshh...ku...lra?” bits of spittle flew from his mouth.

Xalix sighed and looked around the room for something to use. When he saw what he wanted, he left the table and returned a moment later with some crudely shaped clay figurines. He held them up and named each one: “Micah,” and gave it to Micah. “Theomus” he said, naming another figure, and gave it to Theomus. “Xalix.” He named the third figure and held onto it.

Okay...Vincent thought. Was the creature really trying to get him to learn its ear-torturing dialect?

“Micah, Theomus, kula unt,” Xalix said to the young ones while gesturing to the map. They put their figures inside of the circle and he placed his with theirs. “Vinsch,” he named the fourth figure, and handed it to Vincent, who tried his best not to break it under his clumsy grasp. “Kula unt.” The creature tapped the map with his hand.

After some hesitation, Vincent began to put his figure next to theirs, but Xalix grabbed his wrist and stopped him. He moved the figure across several mountains and settled on a city next to a large body of water.

“Meldohv Syredel. Lok kula?” When Vincent did not answer, Xalix moved the figure across the body of water and settled on another city.

“Rydic?” he gestured with a sweeping hand to the entire map, “Kula?”

“Oh!” Vincent realized what he was asking. “Ku...ya” was the best he could do at pronouncing the word. “Kuya...” he pointed around the room. “Kuya...” he gestured for a piece of charcoal. Then he drew a very crude sketch of Xalix's house and pointed to the room around them. Vincent repeated the word in the form of a question.

“Vol!” Xalix said, slapping his hands together in what Vincent took to be an expression of satisfaction, “Vol! Kula de Vinsch?”

Kula was not the name of a place but rather it must have been their word for “home” or “house”. “Where is your home?” That is what he was being asked. So this creature wanted to know where he was from and it wanted him to point it out on the map. Vincent picked up the figurines and set them on the stool beside him.

He grabbed the edges of the map and began to flip it over, but Xalix put his hands down on the map and protested. “Shyce,” he said, “Kula...de Vinsch?”

“Uh...shyce!” Vincent said, surprised at how clearly he enunciated the word. He surmised it meant “no,” so he repeated it, looking Xalix directly in the eyes. “Shyce...” He continued to flip the map over onto its blank side, grabbed the charcoal and began to draw a large circle.

After he closed it, he began to draw the Americas, the oceans, the polar ice caps. It was a crude representation of Earth, made worse by inhuman digits used to draw them.

“Earf.” he tapped the planet, then he circled the approximate location of Michigan. “Kuya.” Underneath it, he drew a head, eyes, chest, arms, legs, feet and hands. “Vinsch.” He said. A strong gust of wind gently pushed open the front door and licked their feet. On its current, Vincent thought he heard laughter, but perhaps it was just the way the air hit the leaves.

While Xalix struggled to interpret his drawing, Vincent spent the rest of the day learning how to walk. The creature’s home resided in a small glade, with the trees being no more than about 30 yards from his house. But it was plenty of room for practice.

Of course, he first had to assure Xalix that he would not try to run away. It was odd considering the previous night; the creature was terrified out of his mind. But now he was adamant that Vincent stay within sight. Fine...whatever.

At first, he pretended that the thrown balance was due to him carrying a heavy backpack, not due to wings and a tail, that way he could try to forget about his transformation. But it was difficult to ignore the sensations he was receiving from those extra extremities. However, doing this was better than staying still and letting his own mind torment him.

When he was still, he was given time to consider this impossible reality, to process the transformed form he now walked in. It allowed him to entertain the possibility that this was actually happening. And that...that made him feel like screaming, like going berserk and destroying everything he saw.

So he had to do something, he had to keep moving. Activity kept the mind fresh. He did not want to consider what had been done to him.

“Stagnant. You are going stagnant.” a tree whispered to him as he grabbed its trunk.

He thought about the times his parents took him skating, he first clung to the rail and pulled his way along the perimeter. Then he would slowly push off and see how far he could go before crashing to the ground. He sidled along the trees, pushing off one trunk and stumbling towards the other. Every time he tried to go a bit further without support. His feet gripped the grass and pushed him forward. By mid-afternoon, he was able to walk about in seventy-foot intervals.

His pose was undignified, his legs splayed wide to accommodate for any shift in balance and his hands ready to catch his fall. Every now and then, Xalix would look through one of the windows to make sure he was all right, before returning to whatever it is that these creatures did in their daily life.

After returning indoors and washing his feet in the basin, he accepted some food from the bizarre host. Their morsels were fragrant and loaded with strange spices to the point of almost being cloying. After eating, he went back outside and continued his labors. Around evening, Dave demanded his attention.

“What?” Vincent whispered.

“How do you think the Packers are doing?” he asked.

“The...the Packers?”

“Yes. The superbowl is on.”

“What...what the hell? No it isn’t. It’s not for another few months. And the Packers...I have no idea how they’re doing. You’re not supposed to be rooting for them anyway.”

“Who won last year?”

“How should I know? I don't watch football.”

“Dammit Cordell!” Dave growled, “you should have recorded it!”

Vincent shook his head, then sat at the base of a tree trunk and gazed toward the sky. The purple celestial peered through a veil of fire. He plucked one of the blood-tinged blades of grass from the ground and began to grind it between the tips of his claws. The grass stained the texture of his claw with mottled green and red.

The backs of his hands had a smooth gloss to their texture. It was a strange juxtaposition that simultaneously implied both rough flesh and sleekness.

“Look,” Vincent said, “look at my hands Dave. Look what’s happened to me, to us. Who the fuck gives a damn about football? All I care about is how long it will take for me to recover and wake up. Sports are the last thing on my mind. The longer I stay like this, the more...the more it's going to damage my brain. It's not good for us to be here.”

He waited for Dave to respond, waited for another outburst. Silence answered. The sun cast its fiery tinge on the forest, painting the ground with the trees’ shadows. A blue mote of light winked dully a few feet from the ground before disappearing. It was followed by similar motes of light. Fireflies. Or at least the world of this place’s version of fireflies. What was it that Xalix called that continent on that map? Admoran?

“I’m trapped here,” he whispered, “Dave, if this is a dream, I wonder if it’s even possible to wake myself up. But if this is really happening, then we have got to figure out a way to get back home.”

He positioned himself so that he had room to lay his head against the tree trunk and rest. The trunk was small enough so that both of his horns could flank it, preventing his head from sliding to one side. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the forest.

Crickets were beginning to chirp, only they did not sound quite like crickets. Birds continued to sing, only they did not quite sound like the birds he knew. The smell of foliage and pine wafted past his nose, only their aromas were slightly alien. This world came so close to emulating Earth, but it was different enough that Vincent could not mistake it as such anymore. It was a strange contrast that threatened to drive him crazy.

As the evening began to turn red, the fireflies came out in greater number. Their population appeared to multiply every time he opened his eyes. They formed lines of 5 and danced in the air. Their lights appeared to mark their existence, their meaning. When their lights went out, they were lost to him. When they came back on, they existed once more. On...they were alive. Off...they ceased to exist.

“Logic,” somebody said, “the duty cycle is the interval in which a machine is off and then on. A computer cannot count to nine. It can only see if something is on or if it is off. Is it true? Is it false? Is it a 1 or is it a 0? Is the gate open or is it closed?” His world became a simplified reality in which all questions had only two answers. Is it real? Is it false? Does it exist? Does it not exist? Are you good? Are you evil?

“Holy smokes Mr. Cordell! What did you do here, put this in a microwave?” his professor asked, holding a circuit in his hands. The silicon motherboard flowed through his fingers like a viscous liquid. The next moment it was solid. The lab was filled with the sound of chirping crickets.

“Yeah...sorry,” Vincent said, vaguely aware he was in a dream. “I was hungry.” In reaction to his snark, the entire classroom began to tilt, causing him to lose his balance.

With a gasp, he woke up. Streaks of vibrant red cut through the shadows as the sun neared the horizon. Micah and Theomus were standing in the yard, staring at him with their pointed faces. A line of the glowing insects came to rest on Micah's snout before he shook it, scattering them.

Vincent frowned and planted his hands on the ground. Several joints popped as sat back up to regain his posture. A cramp shot through his back, indicating that his wings had been compressed in an uncomfortable position.

He regarded Micah and Theomus with more consideration than he had since his arrival. Why were they staring at him? Perhaps there weren't many people around this part of the country.

“Do you think they hatched from eggs?” Dave whispered.

“I don't know.”

The brothers whispered to each other silently. Not that their hushed voices made any difference, Vincent still did not understand their language. Micah thumped his tail against the grass, perhaps out of excitement, or fear, or perhaps it was some sort of reflex. It was impossible to tell.

“What do you think they're saying?” Dave inquired.

Vincent rubbed his temples. “They are discussing whether or not they should wait until I go back to sleep before they hit me with a rock and eat me, or if they should go ahead, take their chances and attack me right now.”

Theomus turned back to look at him, then he sat on the grass. Micah followed his example and took a place next to his sibling. Apparently, they'd decided that spending the rest of the evening watching Vincent counted as entertainment. What did they expect him to do?

“S-sirai.” Theomus said.

“Hmm?” Vincent grunted.

Why did they call him Sirai? Was it some sort of title of respect? Theomus asked a question, but Vincent lifted a hand to grab his ear and indicated that he could not understand. The brothers got into another whispered argument. The tone was one Vincent had heard plenty of times on Earth: I told you so! He can't understand us! Idiot! No, you're an idiot! No you! You are an idiot crap face! Ummm, I'm telling!

While they argued, he plucked a blade of grass from the ground and began to tear it down the middle until it became two separate blades. Then he aligned them back together and did the same thing, turning two blades into four. He was amused to see Micah and Theomus pluck their own blades of grass and begin to emulate his pointless fiddling.

Both of the creatures concentrated on splitting their blades into smaller and smaller pieces. Theomus had already split his grass into hair-like thin blades. They handled their grass with expert precision, as though claws did not inhibit their sense of touch.

Theomus was staring at his blade, then he turned and stuck it in his brother’s ear. He made some sort of high-pitched noise and gave the blade a twirl. Micah pulled away, slapping his hand to the side of his head and itching vigorously. Theomus aimed for his brother's nostrils, but Micah shoved him away.

There were several playful shouts as both scuffled. The chaos was cut short when a small snort escaped Vincent's snout. He managed to turn it into a cough before the creatures realized he had laughed. Why he wanted to hide it, he didn't know.

Micah and Theomus continued to stare at him. They wanted him to do something obviously, but what? They should be afraid of him, they should worry that he might get up and attack them. But still they waited and watched, as though expecting him to perform some sort of trick.

He plucked a third blade of grass from the ground and trapped it between the sides of his thumbs. He raised it to his mouth and blew.

Both of the brothers flinched at the shrill whistle and stared at him in astonishment. Both of them plucked two more blades from the ground and tried to emulate Vincent's whistle. The only noise they were able to create was the sound of spit, blowing raspberries. But after several tries, one of the Micah managed to get his blade of grass to whistle.

“Lok rehnt?” Theomus asked.

Micah showed his brother how to do it and soon they were both filling the night with ear torture. When Xalix came outside to check on them, the brothers rushed to show him the new trick. A branch to his right whispered Vincent's name, but he ignored it. The brothers continued to blow their grass whistles until Xalix put a stop to it. After he went back inside, the brothers continued to gawk at Vincent.

“Ey.” Vincent said, grinning.

He lifted up his hands and proceeded to demonstrate a trick he would perform for his niece. It was a cheap little trick where he made it look like he was pulling his own thumb off. Micah tilted his head while Theomus gasped. They tried to recreate it, but could not figure it out, so he did it again.

Both of the creatures shuffled forward on their knees to get a closer look. They spent the next few minutes fiddling with their fingers trying to replicate the illusion. Vincent watched in amusement, a big stupid grin stretching across his snout.

While the two creatures tried to uncover the secret to the party trick, a line of the blue fireflies flew close to Vincent. He tried to reach out and grab a few, but they scattered and darted away. Theomus saw this.

“Hos shoki!” he exclaimed, getting up.

Micah, who was still trying to figure out Vincent’s thumb trick, looked up at his brother, who was now stalking the line of fireflies that Vincent missed. Instead of reaching out to grab them with his hands, Theomus extended his wings out in front and used their webbing to corral the winking insects into one spot, trapping them where his hands could grab them.

They both proceeded to run through the yard, using their wings like fishing nets to capture all the firefly lines. In moments, their wings were covered in the insects, becoming dragon-shaped constellations in the darkening night. Theomus scooped a handful of the critters off his wings, clasped them between his palms and handed them to Vincent.

“Whoa...” Vincent uttered lamely as he reached out to accept them.

Blue pinpricks of light crawled up his arm, tickling his wrist and a reluctant smile spread across his face. As the bugs explored his arm, he had to admit, there was something truly endearing about the two young lacertines. Interacting with them made him feel almost childlike. They continued to catch the alien fireflies, seeing how many they could trap in their wings.

The two youths became walking lanterns, their membranes illuminated from within by dozens of pulsing lights. Eventually, Xalix called them back inside. Frowning, they shook their wings, scattering the fireflies into the night, where they rose like embers before reforming their lines. Xalix swept them inside the house and looked in Vincent's direction. It was difficult to tell what sort of expression the creature wore across his snout, especially since it was getting darker by the second.

Vincent used the tree trunk as leverage and pushed himself to his feet and followed Xalix inside. For the first time, he noticed how much extra height wings required. When they were in the folded position, Xalix's wings provided an extra one and a half to two feet above his head. Because of this, it seemed as though all aspects of his home were designed with that in mind by providing extra height to the doors, the hallways, the ceilings.

Four stone plates were placed around the firepit. A tripod holding some sort of cauldron stood over the flames, filling the chamber with an exotic, yet tantalizing aroma. The scents hinted at familiarity, yet they evaded his attempts to identify them. He thought he smelled garlic one moment, but at the very next moment it was lime.

Xalix grabbed some bowls and set them on each plate, followed by crudely carved wooden spoons. He retrieved the cauldron from the tripod and poured some sort of stew into each bowl. Then he took a seat to Vincent's right and bowed his head toward the fire, folding his wings in front of his chest. Micah and Theomus did the same, bowing their heads in mediation.

Oh great, Vincent thought, they're saying grace.

“What do you think they worship?” Dave asked.

“I have no idea,” Vincent mouthed, “Smaug?”

“Cordell, you will die a nerd.”

“What if I’m already dead? What if this is some sort of hell? What if Dante forgot to include the circle where you get turned into a fucking furry?”

Xalix’s ears twitched and he kept glancing at Vincent.

Shit, he thought. He’d been whispering too loudly.

“Naikira-na,” Xalix grumbled, marking the end of whatever prayer he had just been reciting.

Vincent could feel himself slipping away as he watched the flames lick the air. As he edged the outskirts of an incoming psychosis, the pyre became children's laughter, gaiety that took shape in the flames. Somebody was talking; perhaps it was Xalix, discussing current events.

But his words were lost on Vincent's ears. Little did the lacertine know that reality was breaking for his guest, becoming incoherent. Vincent was the outsider in this world, but that’s how he always had been.

He was sitting next to his cousins at the Thanksgiving table. He did not see their faces, nor did he see the table, but he knew it was there. Was it there? Something warm had once existed, a time in which he was welcomed by loved ones, before all the bullshit.

Soon he and his cousins would be dismissed so that they could play tag while the adults talked about politics. But none of that was real, not anymore. Was it ever real? Or were those memories planted into his head? Psychosis made his thoughts unstable, but he strove for lucidity.

“Bastard spooks. Stop stealing my thoughts.”

The conversation stopped, Micah's laughter came to a halt and they all stared at Vincent. He gave no indication that he was aware his thoughts had been spoken aloud. Instead, he continued to stare into the fire, its flames reflected from his eyes. Xalix said his name several times, but earned no reaction. He was too lost in his silent psychosis to be reached for comment.

Somebody snapped their fingers in front of his face, his eyes drawn towards the clawed hand. They eventually found its owner's face, a snout beset with black scales and marked by an orange upside down triangle. It was a visage lined with conspiracies and impossible contradictions, as if he beheld the offspring of insanity itself.

“Rider's dung, what ails you, boy?” Xalix said.

Vincent's ears twitched. Something important happened, but what? Something significant had just occurred, but its meaning was lost in a world of static. They said his diagnosis was severe, that he was one of a kind. Early onset schizophrenia was very rare. Bad luck, they supposed. It would only get worse...only get worse. But something very important had happened, so why couldn't he focus? What was it that had transpired?

“Boy, you just spoke Meldohn...”

It happened again, something extremely important. What was different now? Why couldn't he focus? Why wouldn't they shut up and give him a moment of silence? Would it be too much to ask? He tried to find calm, he tried to remember what it meant to practice logic. Be objective, be rational. Dragons, they did not exist. Xalix was a figment of his imagination. He was a conspiracy.

“Who's Xalix?” a phantom whispered, its inquiry bouncing off the clay enclosure.

“Boy, if you do not suffer the Bane, then what ails you?!” Xalix snapped.

But before he could react, a tingling sensation spread throughout his body, as though thousands of invisible fibers were descending upon him. They coursed with some sort of potent energy, unseen by his eyes, but felt by a sense he could not identify. It was not sight, it was not smell, it was not audible, nor did it have taste. He could “feel” the fibers. He just “knew” they were there. They pulsed with a single command.

As soon as it struck, Vincent felt the world fall out from beneath him. His eyelids became heavy and his arms went limp. If Xalix had not stopped his fall, his head would have struck the ground.