The Words Of Night-Creeper

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Eifulu Ithen stared at the book intently. It was strange. Nothing like this had every been found in all the worlds. They could not touch the book, the men that found it. One man had and his life was taken from him, his screams echoing around the ancient chasm. So it was brought, carefully down the mountains, to his residence. The magic that radiated from it made him buzz. It was like his masters Magic, jet black light pouring from the pages of the book. Slaves had been used to carefully bring it infront of him, placing it on the table top. Carefully, he lifted the cover with an iron rod. They were words, but none he had seen before. The other books around the table were of many texts, as he was responsible for translating many books. And each page seemed to swim, the letters or symbols arranging themselves with a whimsical fashion. He leant lower, the tip of the tentacle jutting from his face shaking slightly. Then slowly he picked up a quill, the words arranging themself into something more tangible... The first page settled, and Eifulu's hand moved slowly, curvey writing documating what he sensed from the letters... And found he couldn't stop his hand...

At the heart of all there is a kingdom, of the Gods and the First. Our Father, Creator of All, was once a child there. Born from a Goddess Mother and a creature called a Nameless, he was seen as a creature of Grotesque. He was tormented for many years, never being allowed outside the palace walls, never knowing if one of his bodygaurds was his father or not... He ran away, during the cover night, using his powers to escape both his mothers Mother's senses at the Nameless. Our Father then went to the City beyond, where all manner of creatures and men live. Here, while being threatened by a great horned Beast, he met Ghastly Bespoke. The Tailor took him into his home, gave him food and shelter where he could hide. Our Father, in his immese gratitude, worked for Bespoke. It was, Our Father says, the best decade of his life. One night, as he was securing the shop, he heard a noise from above. A theif was in the Safe room, stealing from Bespoke. Our Father gave chased up to the roof, on witch the Robber had no where to run but to the ledge. He began to fall and as Our Father reached out to him, his hand became a blade of the Nameless. The robber fell, with a large hole in his chest... Our Father was put under Trial, a council of the Highest Race used as both Judge and Jury. When Our Father explained, trying to say how he had try to save the man and not kill him, they did not listen. They saw a chance to rid the Kingdom of Gods of Our Father. Unable to kill him, as the Goddess Mother forbid it, they would imprison him in a Barren Kingdom of Nothing, after stripping him of his Power. Our Father described to me the place where they imprisoned him in detail. He said that there was a giant stone ring, sticking up from the ground. A blue fire burnt inside it. Around the entire hill side stood men and women in black clothing, as if he was being buried. Our Father was stood before the stone ring, a line of Druids taking and sealing his Magic into the closet and strongest thing they could. A white Mask. Our Father was led up the steps by his mother, stood infront of the blue fire and heard someone talk loudly behind him. Then there was a ripple of black and beside him stood a Nameless. It looked down, an Inky black featureless face staring passively. Screams came from the crowd, as more appeared, their arms turned into blades that cut and impaled. The Mother Goddess did not look freightened, but smiled at his side. The Nameless held something in its hand, a white mask. He handed it over and for a moment he could see a smile, a smudge of black. And then the Creature spoke unto hi-

There was a sudden knocking on the door. If he could have scowled, Eifulu would have. His hand stopped, the page covered in neat spidery hand writing, with little inks blots here and there. He had wrote it, but he... hadn't read it... Sliding out of his chair, he moved slowly towards his door... And the tip of the Quill glowed black...

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Eifulu returned to his seat, carefully picking up the quill and dipping it in the Ink. The tentacle turned to page and seemed to twitch. The words had changed. No longer was it the passage he was reading. No longer was it about this Father. It was a diary. A journal entry of someone known simply as the Scribe. The letters were familar, just readable... The letters flowed slightly to a certain date... It wasn't one he understood. But he moved the top sheet away, taking another and quickly scratching the writing.

He awoke me, stood beside the bed. The mask shone in the darkness and his clothes seem to Out-blacken it. The face that was forever grinning looked slightly sad now. He seem to be sad... And then I realised I was not wearing my own. I snatched the silver masterpeice he had made me and fitted it on my face qucikly, sliding my bandaged legs to the floor. I picked up my thin white robes, hiding my bandaged body as if I was naked. I felt ashamed, ashamed that my Master had seen me so, even though he was there at my birth. Even though he had took me from my weeping mother, took me... He told me of them. Here, while I sat in this chair, he sat upon the bed and spoke softly, even though his words were like weights on a rubber sheet. He told me of how my father had been like me, had been deformed. But he was not weak, he was stronger. More bones, a more prominent spine that stood out of his back. He suffered from Elephantism, huge limbs. Massive feet... A head that was a barrel more then a skull. Then he told me of my mother. Her beauty, her eyes, but how she had been wrong on the inside. Organs in places where they shouldn't be, her mind twisted... Two horrible mistakes that created me... My mother had died soon after child birth, internal bleeding. He didn't say it, but I bet it was of a broken heart, in more ways then one. Then my father threw himself into the Nothing, threw himself off his balcony to kill himself. That was why He took me from the Mansion, surronded by so much pain and brought me here, upon the edge of the universe. To this tower, where He visits so. Where He tells me of the worlds outside and where I write His books. We sat in silence for a while. He didn't say anything else, but his mask stared impassively at me and mine to his. He must have been thinking of something to say, something to tell me. As if to reassure me. And I wondered aloud, Why had he told me? He said because I was the most valuble mind in all of existence. His was nothing compared to mine. I didn't believe him and he must have known, because he crossed the room and placed a new book on the table top, with a new quill and a new ink well. "Write me something," he said. "Write me a Tradgedy. A Comedy. Write me something... Please." And disappeared. Now it is morning, the four suns have risen, I see the desert that spreads out from beyond my window. The red baked sand sizzles in the sun, but it is cool in my room, a gentle breeze catching the corner of the book now and again. The volumes that line the curved walls seem to hum a gentle lullaby as I finish the book. Exactly enough pages. And I pride myself on it being one of the best stories I have ever written. He will enjoy it.
He rarely enjoys little else these days.

Eifulu reached out a hand to turn the page, his fingers barely inches from the pearly white page. He stopped suddenly, as if coming out of a trance. No, he would die. He couldn't touch it. His hand snapped back, the Tentacle from his face receading slightly and almost shaking. He was unsure of himself. He pushed his chair back slowly, moving the paper away from him carefully as it was armed. Crossing the room slowly, his robes washed behind him, he thought of going outside for a short time. And if time permitted, hunting for a glove...

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Eifulu returned to the room, just as it became dark. He was wearing one very thick looking glove, with iron finger tips. The thing was freshly made from the nearest blacksmith. Eifulu had drawn the designs for it and left it with the man as he went about his own personal errands. When he had returned, the man had just finished laying it... He had given him a book, one of the more useless ones about Smithing and how to improve your skills, nonsense. A slave was ordered to touch the book using the glove upon his left hand. Gibbering and shaking he had... And had not died because of it... Eifulu ran his metal finger tips over the page, words moving under the light pressure like they were water... It had change. Was still changing. He changed pages and picked up a quill, carefully dipping it into the ink before begining to read The Scribes words, by a flickering candle. The Scritching was the only sound in the night...

He told me of Blackholes today, His chair next to mine, His black clad elbow brushing against mine as He pointed to small bits of the pictures. They are Stars, He said, each one a dead star. He showed me one of a Star making the transition... The Blackhole was on the left, sucking the fire from the small Sun to the right. It travelled in a curved line until it entered the Event Horizon. Then it spun in a pretty yellow spiral before disappearing into the middle. He told me that everything that entered a black hole was crushed. Even light. They ate everything until it was crushed into nothing but an Atom at the very bottom. I asked him what happens when Blackholes die and he laughed. It was nice to hear him do so. It had been so long. The mask lay on the table, in the corner, furthest as it could be away from me while also being needlessly close to Him. It didn't hurt me that he didn't trust me. Infact, showing me his face was more trust then He ever given to anyone. He would laugh at that, if I said it. I kept it to myself, my scribbles of the Anti-Star keeping me busy as he continued to chat. I can't remember what he said, I did not listen much. He could have told me the secret of all existance and I would think little of it. I was lost in space, millions and millions of miles above my seat, lazily drinking some sort of concoction as he watched an undestriductable force of nature being born. It was the reverse of a Super-nova, not an Implosion... But something that always ate, always nibbled upon the buffet table of the Universe. He told me that, with a grin upon his face. And me, The Scribe, almost stopped writing. I will have to [s]kis[/s] give that name up and become The Wanter, or The Piner... Something like that, anyway. He insited that we eat after wards. I tried in vain to decline but we went downstairs, to the unused lounge. He cleaned the dusty table by hand, leaving the mask propped up against a candlestick. I sat on the far end, far from Him. He moved the chair, placing it next to mine. I didn't want to take my mask off. We had a small arguement before I finally agreed. The mask was removed and placed carefully behind my plate. We ate and he reminded me of a Black hole for a few moments. I, a super-nova, he my opposite. In a hundred more ways. He lit the candled and then he smiled at me. When I reached for my mask, he took it from me, holding out of his arm. I leant forward to retrive it and he moved it further, until I realised was closer to him then I had ever been... In his eyes, those orbs of black upon black, I saw myself reflected. My eyeballs stood out, the flesh around them black and weeping. all my flesh was black and weeping. And even when I recoiled in horror of myself, my teeth glinting in the candle light as my hands came to my face, he was still smiling. Not in mock laughter, but... Proudly, it seemed. As if he was glad that I hadn't thought of myself as a monster for a while. And he handed over back my mask and left me... I feel like sleeping now, it has been a long day. And he could visit tommarow. I need...
My beauty sleep.

The last few words seemed to be smudged lightly, a drop of black upon them. It was softer then the other ones, as it was once water. A tear? Perhaps? He had never experienced them and most likely wouldn't... The light finished, suddenly plunging him into a darkness. For a flick of a secodn he thought he saw a mask in the darkness, silvery and round before he realised it was the moon through one of the winodws. He felt cold, shivering in his robes. Quickly he stood up, leaving the room without looking behind him. The pages shuffled and long ago, in a far off time, someone wept over them...

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Eifulu entered the room tentatively, the glove layed neatly next to the paper, the quill stood neatly in its Well. That was odd, he thought he left it dripping on the table last night in his hurry to leave. A Slave must have cleaned up while he was out. He sad down slowly, the glove gently pulled on so he did not hurt himself against the iron tips. Lovingly he stroked a page, wondering whether it was still warm from sandy deserts of far away worlds, where a man learnt the screts of the universe from a god. He wish he could be like th... He was Eifulu Ithen!. Servant of his master Haseo. He did not want-Was not drawn in by some Heathen Text! Still, it didn't hurt to read some more and write as much as he could. The Quill came over the fresh peice of pager (He hadn't noticed that the pages so far were staked off to the side.) and hovered for a moment, trying to sense what the writing said. Suddenly, it formed, almost angrily, the letter buzzing around eachother as he wrote.

He woke me in the morning, not as I thought he would be, in my arms, or stood above me. But he was angry. Terribly so, a black mist seeming to hang off him as he was bent over my desk, reading my work. Even though he had fixed me, had given me my new life, I still wore the bandages witch he begged for me to remove. I still wear the mask, hiding the blonde hair and the spider web thin cloth. But I felt bare as I watched his smooth back, the skin slighlty black and slightly blue, causing him to be a different shade to everyone else, no matter who they were. He turned and I could tell by his eyes that I had done something wrong. But I didn't know what... I tried to speak and he was on the bed before I could, hands around my neck as I cried for breath. He choked my harder, rocking my shoulders against the bed sheets and I thought for a moments that the first place I had had human contact would be also one of the last. He spart curses at me, calling me ungrateful. Calling my Spiteful. He was crying, I felt the inky stuff land on me chest as no longer was he shaking me, he hands were simply shaking. He fell upon my bed, face buried into the covers as he whipsered curses upon me. I slithered from the bed, feeling like the Snake from Eden, curling into the corner furthest away from the bed. I didn't bother to see what book he read. It was the Greek Tradgedy. After reading the play Oedipus Rex I had thought of my own story to tell, one more modern with the feel to it. One about a royal Bodygaurd to the King and Queen. The Queen had a child by the ugly, clubfooted king. And it was that the Bodyguard was in love with her but had no way to relate to her... Then she died in childbirth, he blamed the Father for so desperately wanting a son. He Kills the father then takes the child from the kingdom, harbouring it in a hut in the distance mountains. While still a baby, the Bodygaurd broke its legs to stop it escaping and the child grew up with deformed legs, unable to stand. Every night the Bodyguard went out to drink in the nearest town, to whore away, leaving the Crippled Prince. One day. the Crippled Prince finds the Bodygaurd's old Greek Soldier Uniform and using only his deformed legs he walked back to Greece to Reclaim his throne... Only to be turned Begger by the Gaurds at the gates... The story heads with the Prince laying, bleeding to death on a path, knowing that right know the Bodygauird would have returned from his whorig and was probably missing a prince. Scribe guessed he only read up to the certain point about the baby being pryed from the dead fathers fingers and brough out of the land. I stayed in my place in the corner, watching the two shoulders blades on the bed jerk in sobs. I shouldn't have wrote it, but if had only understood that the Prince understood that the Body Guard crippled him for his own good... He got up, a few minutes later. He found his mask and he put it on staight away. His clothes soon followed and he began to leave. I reach for his hand and he did nothing, just pulled from my fingers.
I fear I have may have killed the spirit of my Soulmate.

A slave gingerly entered, speaking in a slightly soft voice. "Empire Haseo wishes to speak to the Faceless, Master." The preist stopped his scratching at the end of the last scentence, looking up at the slave. Slwoly he rose, nodding once or twice and speaking through a thick layer of Slime... "Very Well. Thank you for tidying up last night." He left the room slwoly, seemingly to gluide. The slave blinked, looking at the table. But, He hadn't. Oh well, Preists and their weird godforsaken ways... Upon the pages, a picture form, a smiling face holding a mask of a grinning man, laid upon a bed. In the corner, it signed in curly handwriting... The Scribe.

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Eifulu woke in the night, the image of a sandy figure crying in a corner still in his mind. It was down the hall... He could sense the pages whispering glimpses of Sorrow, glimpses of Joy. Fear, hrorror... A saga of a god mixed with the love of a Scribe. Slowly he rose, almost as if in a dream. The door opened and he walked in the darkness, reaching the door that hid the book. He touched the door with the tip of his tentacle, feeling the violent vibrations of lives long lived waiting for him. He... tried to turn away, get some well needed sleep... But he opened the door, the tentacle staring at the open volume. He slid in, hand shaking ever so slightly as he sat in his chair. The glove was put on, the quill was picked up and the ink was dipped. Then sound of his scritching filled the room as the tentacle sensed the words. These ones were calm, as if a steady hand had thought about them for a very, very long time.

I wrote you another, today. Another book. There is a pile collecting dust and tears beneathe my bed. The last place you touched me... I'm wearing them again... the mask of silver. Its never been a better fit. And I'm glad you didn't change my eyes... The Sickly Yellow color and the gangrene green. The bandages, the thin sandy hood. I can imagine I'm what I use to be. When we were just friends. When I loved you because you went and came like the wind, or the long hours we spent talking over the intricate workings of the universe. I remember you telling me about what it was like. Inside your head... You knew how I was going to die, you said. In all the possibilities of a certain future, you exist in every single one of them, your mind being split into millions of peices that travel down each seperate way. And then you told me of the past... How it was simply the same, existing in all the different possible moments throughout the endless past, a backwards reflection on the future. You said they all verge on the present, two trains going on a speedy course down the same track. And in the middle, when they crash, theres a momet of complete peace. That was the present, you said to me. Why we called it the Present. Because right now, its keeping the past and future at bay. You confused me with that. I didn't understand, until after I had written the book. Until I had saw the anger and pain in your eyes. How many times have you read those pages? How many of the words do you have etched onto the boundless memory of yours? The Memory of everying past and to come. I wondered if you would come to stop me. Maybe you would appear in a moment of despair, save me from myself and we could fall upon the bed, your breath against my skin and my lips against yours... I use to imagine you were there, on the bed with me. I would fill the pillows with the volumes and lay my head upon them, imagining the sound of your ancient heartbeat. I imagine your mask in the darkness, layed upon the book case furthest away from your reach. Your clothes strung everywhere. I had dreams of your touch and eyes, the eyes that held everything. Such Sorrow, for myself and for you... I had nightmares of your hands around my neck, where I simply did nothing and you didn't grow sad, when your fingers had simply destroyed the bones. I wonder why they didn't... You have a grasp of a god, able to crumble light in between your fingers. Did you feel too human? Too sad? Did you loose your powers beacause of that? Or did it just... seep out of you, filled with despair at the rest of the universe. Sometimes you told me how you had tried to create it perfectly. Another Kingdom of Heaven. These were moments just after we had embraced, layed breathless upon the bed, my head in curved of your shoulder and chest. How you had tried to give them it all. Love, Happiness, Intelligence. And they abused it, creating Boredom, Sadness, Hatred, Bitterness. And those feelings were much more powerful. Much longer lasting. Because they ran so rampant you took hold of them and tried them yourself, slowly loosing what you were before. But when you came to see me, when you stood in my door and watched me carefully writing with my back to the door, you said you felt yourself surface again. That was... Until I did something you thought impossible. I betrayed you. You, who kept so much hidden from me. I know you kill, murder in sudden fits of rage. And it scares me, sometimes. But what fills me with terror is that you can do it in cold blood and believe you have the right to. You are a child with a magnifying glass and the entire universe is an ant-hill.

I hope you return soon. Soon after I have done it. And... The mask, on top of this book... Wrapped in Bandages... Covered in my sandy cloth... I hope you keep this as you had kept me. I shall keep the tatoo of your blackened tears upon my chest, all the way into the afterlife. Bury me on the grounds of the Mansion. Next to my Mother and Father, behind the Coservatory. I... I'm... [This bit is scribbled out, but Eifulu can't help but lean close, trying to make out the L. The V.] May you find love and peace.

"No!" Eifulu called, the words suddenly swimming out of his sight. It was the end of the passage, but he wanted to know more! Was the Scribe dead now? Or did this Night come back and stop him? He groped in the complete darkness, flipping the pages and almost hissing at them as it became the Gospel once more. He watched the snipets of language form and disappear.

He then said unto the people of the world, "You have sickened me, your creator. I gave you all and you simply burnt it, killed one another. Now I shall burn you, al-

He franticly flipped more pages. This wasn't allowed to happen! He felt a lump in his throat, a heavy heart beating as if his was broken along with the Scribes.

If the cardinal pump of the heart is within the chest, the subject has 400% higher success rate. I have been testing with using two Skulls, the outer one protecting the housing of the baisc instict, the one below holding the Cerebal cortex-

Where is it?!

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Eifulu found it. His gloved hand stopped upon a page with the Scribes name upon it. It almost seemed like a tight noose had been cut from his neck as his tentacle hovered just a breath above the page. He needed to know what happen! Without knowing it, his hand picked up the Quill, moved the page with the still drying ink and began to wrote, franticly, as fast as he read.

The sheet was tight around my neck as I stepped off the table. My mind's eye saw it tighten and heard the crack, the beam groaning its tears because of the wight. But I stepped on something stone instead. I was wearing nothing much, the bandages wrapped tightly around my body. I felt a chill like I had never felt before, coldness that I had only heard about. The stone was smooth underfoot, rain pouring down and making it ever so slippery. There was no sky, just a black dome above me, starless except for the blinking raindrops. It was heavy, almost as if someone was pouring an ocea out of massive bowl. Then I felt it, a breath behind my air, warm against the cold drops. There was nothing behind me, my blonde hair matting afainst my brow, my eyes trying to see in the darkness. A light seem to radiate of me, showing only a small circle. He stepped into it, his mask running with the tears of the heavens, a mists of droplets upon his shoulders and arms. I cried as I stood there, the bandages now clinging to me. I thought I was dead, in some sort of Hell that he would always watch me in. I called his name, but it was lost in the sound of the pattering of rain. Lost in his expressionless face. Then he stepped forward, slowly at first, as if he was trying to decide something. Then he moved again, slightly more faster, until he was strolling purposely. I saw the glint of his blade, held in his hand. And I already know what was happening, the chasm already in my heart. The blade simply filled it. He let go of it, arm outstretched still as I fell back. One leg bent, my arms strewn, the tears running down my face as the drops landed in my face. It wasn't rain, I thought. It was the tears of thousands of lovers like myself. He stepped into my vision, looking down at me through those dark holes. Then he slowly fell to his knees, my breath ragard as he took my in his arms and whispered into my ear, the last words I'd hear... "I love you." He said simply, tears sparkling under the mask. "You Bastard. I loved you. I saved you... And you broke me... I can't... I can't think right. I can't eat... I can't breathe anymore. I feel the darkness, pressing me, trying to steal me completely. Take away my face, my soul. You were the candle in the night." His shoulders shaked with his tears. And the mist rose from him, black now, wavering in the air. I asked him why. He replied by taking the knife from my heart and plunging it once more into my chest, crying as he did so, before his jerking arm became a habit. He stabbed me more times I could count, while he whispered for me to die. And as I slipped into the blackness he told me, his ceramic lips against my ears. "It is... only right I take you from this world... Since you have taken me..."

The quill stopped, pressed still against the paper. It was a slave who found the Preist much later, taking the paper from him at glancing at the words he couldn't read. He shook his head, swearing to himself as he left quickly. The large amount of blood had seeped out from under the door, where it lay in a large pool, a few drops of ink mixed into it. There was silence for a while, before a small scritching started. Like that of a Quill.

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