The Constellationist pt.1

Shadows twist and coil within the limitless void. Writhing and twisting coils fueled with depthless malice constricting to warp the space between.

I felt it all around me, within me, thus abhorrent alien lust that poured endlessly from the darkness. A coagulant mixture of avarice, wrath and a sickening cocktail of emotions beyond my ken overwhelmed me, drowned me and gutted my scream before I could make it.

Dark, so very dark, this twisting nether weighs heavy, a blackened veil of night without stars. But all is not lost…

A single pinprick of light breaches the storm and finds me. I swallow it and it consumes me.


Fingers twist with casual precision, weaving expertly my unruly flaxen hair, rapidly tying it down into two comfortable braids. A whimsical melody hums gleefully across my lips unbidden, but not unwelcome. A shiver of excitement overtook me while I impatiently fastened my warm fur lined coat. I had woken filled with energy that morning, though I considered it silly, my excited for the day, my eighteen birthday was irrepressible. Though I was hardly a child any more, I couldn’t help it, I loved my birthday.

I slung my satchel over my shoulder, running over my mental checklist quickly. Father must have already left for work, I realised trying not to feel forgotten, he’s been exceptionally busy with something lately. Krystal, my Father’s wife, would be home this evening and had promised me a present from her journey, I remembered fondly, I missed her. Before stepping out into the hall, I placed my hand on the dimly glowing panel, and the door closed and sealed with a quiet hiss behind me.

I made my way along the path, my mind drifting into a daydream as I tried to imagine the mysterious origin of the spire. Marcellus, our community’s priest and my father’s advisor, said that it had been built by the gods long ago when they still walked the earth and that they had left it for us, their children, to preserve in their absence. I had adored those stories when I was a child, but now they were too vague and moralistic to satisfy me. Where did the gods go? Why did they leave? Why did gods need to build a tower anyway? I preferred the stories my friend Francis invented, I smiled as I remembered some of them.

My pace had slowed, distracted by my fantasies, images of ancient civilization and secret sorcerous architects cast aside by the beauty that faced me beyond the spire. Looking out over the forest below, my hand rested wistfully against the transparent spire wall. The gentle morning sun swept across the valleys below, shining its light over the silver rock formations and the thin mist cover below us that blanketed the emerald tree tops, just highlighting the encroaching golden browns of approaching autumn. Sighing happily, I turned away from the view and continued on my way, my shoes clicking delightfully on the walkway.


The doors recognised me and glided apart to permit my enterence into the workshop. As I waited for the light to gradually light the room I inhaled deeply, enjoying the esoteric scents of chemicals and magic that mingled in the air.

Depositing my satchel in the back room I heard Henry’s familiar voice booming from the forge, “Arielle, is that you girl?”
“Yes sir” I called back, hurriedly setting the store. Setting the wealth of accesories we sold. A variety of trinkets, jewellery, curiosities, as well as armour and weapons.

Henry asked emerging steadily, wiping his gloves on his heavy apron and pushing up his glasses, rubbing bloodshot eyes with the back of his wrist, “Gods blood, Arielle, you’re here early aren’t you?”

I grinned in amusement, Henry was a tall, broad man, with a well maintained, sharp white beard, who had a head for his work and not much else, “No sir,” I replied with militaristic glib, “It’s nearly 6, my usual starting time.”

He grunted in muted surprise, his mind seemingly already departed to the task he’d just left.
“Any shipments or orders today, boss?” I asked, seemingly surprising him with my continued presence,
“Hmm, yes, I think so,” he waved his hand absently towards the ledger.

“Working on something interesting last night, sir?” I asked, this time directly, dropping my pretense of work, Henry was aloof but it was rare that he found a project challenging enough to ensnare his interest so completely.

With a considered pause, “Actually yes,” he replied and turned to look at me directly, “Would you like to see it”

Author: Zairron

I'm writing to build a habit, practice, and be creative.

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