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Description

  Listen close, child. Listen to our voices as we slip under the door like rainwater. The flames of your hearth burn red and green but never purple. We have heard the complaints, scratched them on the walls of your bedroom while you sleep.

    Don’t mind the paint. We didn’t think you’d care.

    Child, you don’t get enough potassium in your diet, always leave the kitchen faucet leaking, and talk in your sleep.

    The citizens of Osio tell us many things with room for improvement.

    Did you know down by the market square is a man who sells white kidney beans? Purchase a bag and have three at noon and four at five.

    Did you know that a fomorius lives in your faucet? The troll's sweat is the leak, and its call is the drip, so make a bridge out of wood and break it over the kitchen sink.

    Did you know that conch shells remember voices as well as wind? Bring one from the beach and leave it on your bedside table. Then, in the morning, listen to the wisdom of your unconscious words.

    Simple problems require simple fixes, but, child, the citizens of Osio tell us you leave your bedroom door ajar.

    Come with us as we crawl up the wooden trim and slip through the doorknob. Do you feel that satin kiss, that lacy web, that sticky sheet? We do, and it’s like a damp comforter next to a warm fire.

    A mother loam nests here, cleaning her toes and strumming her back legs. She wraps her children in white cocoons and hangs them from each tumbler. We slide along her spotted belly and scratch the itch near the back of her head. Child, she tells us scandalous things about when last you locked your door.

    Listen close as we tell the tale of Numian Lux, who left doors standing open like you.

            Numian Lux was a man from the far east who traveled west beyond the great desert. He was fluent in many languages and carried a bag of trinkets that would make even the most hardened thief scratch their head.

    A bottle of dirt from the shores of Cancordia where the twins built the city of Luminock and sunk it below the frigid sea.

    A broken scissor with a handle shaped like a lion’s head found in the metallic forest beneath the body of a man who cut wounds so deep the bleeding never stopped.

    A spool of thread that glows like moonlight knit into a quivering lip that snatches flies from the air like spider’s web.

    That’s right; this man is a collector with a discerning eye. Numian Lux is responsible for more than half the inventory of the crescent moon. Look at the dull iron ring he wears on his hand. We slip beneath the band like the sweat from his brow and read the inscription etched into the metal.

“He existed when matter knew only darkness and will remain long after it returns.”

    We know these words, and now, you do too. The familiarity tickles the tip of your tongue and burrows into your ear. Can you handle the nagging itch, that strange sensation of déjà vu? Slow your heart. We know these words stir memories of places and times you couldn’t possibly know. Such is our gift.

    Do you see the fields of wheat where men slaughter lambs to conjure sparks? They set a forest ablaze to send a message to an errant ruler.

    Do you see the stone altar where the woman in red tears out her eyes and wraps the bloody cavities in white silk? We promise you, child, she sees far more now than ever before.

    Do you see the ship’s mast swell from a timely breeze as sailors drown the deckhand in a spit bucket? They couldn’t live with themselves, and two still hang from the crow’s nest untouched by rot.

    “He existed when matter knew only darkness and will remain long after it returns.”

    These are words of the Occult. The wakening dead hide in the shadows and offer power for a price.

    Prices come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes a kidney is worth more than gold, and sometimes gold is worth more than a kidney. Mortal worlds are ruled by subjective scales tipping from one extreme to the next. Yet, no matter the price, few do so without hesitation when the time comes to pay. The bigger the debt, the harder the due.

    That’s right, child. Numian Lux’s discerning eye was not a gift of genealogy but divinity. Divine rights come with hefty prices, even for those with deep pockets. Ask yourself, child. What do God’s value when flesh is as paper and gold mud? We will give you a hint. It’s something that all mortals possess, from the highest ruler to the lowest pauper, something that has more value with less and less with more.

    Come, take a closer look at this man’s ring. Do you see that reddish-brown stain caught within the etching? No, that isn’t rust but clay. You see, this man has killed, burying his brother shallow in the marshes beneath god’s finger where the red soil is so thick he broke the handle of his shovel.

    Do you see the scratches along the iron band? Scratches caused by broken fingernails, metal pokers, and bent tweezers. You see, this man was afraid, trying to pull the ring from his finger to undo a binding contract. Look at how his knuckle bends to the left, crooked and shaking. They could never set the bone right without removing the ring.

    Listen, child, Numian Lux traveled west past the great desert, not searching for another divine object but to flee from that which he owed. So he crossed the great red sea, climbed the mountain forge, and settled in a halfway house in the back alleys of the city of Bruma.

    Who would ever think to look for him here? A man so embellished with wealth trembling behind the closed door of a run-down wooden shack. Oh, he locked the front door. In fact, he broke the key off in the lock and boarded up the windows. Surely his efforts were enough, but we tell you he made a fatal mistake.

    What compels you to leave your bedroom door open? Are you afraid of the dark? Deep down, are you hoping that mother and father will save you from the monster in the closet? All you have to do is scream, cry for help, and they will come. But, if you leave the door closed, well, maybe they won’t make it in time.

    Child, mom, and dad aren’t coming back, but if you’re afraid, we are here, so close the door and shut it tight.

    Don’t make the same mistake as Numian Lux.

    Not even we understand why he did it, but when he fell asleep with the sheets tucked under his chin, his bedroom door was left swinging wide open.

    Listen close, do you hear silver bells? No, these are not the elegant chimes of a wedding ceremony but the high-pitched squeal of a tuning fork struck against the anvil. The lords of the gate have come.

    Do you know of our cousins? They are the dukes whose dominion is absolute upon geometry and wax. Can you hear their whispers, that silent authority? We can, and it’s like a quiet stream and a hushed promise.

    Numian Lux woke upon a hard stone floor, his bed nowhere in sight. Surrounding him were thousands of candles monstrous in size and shape, burning with a strange white light. Wax fell from the tips of pillars two stories tall, gathering into a river that flowed into a vast valley of empty honeycombs and masterless fog.

    Look upon the distant geometric shapes that drip with hot wax and shield your eyes from the glare of blinding white light. Child, know that you stand within the shared soul of a god. We have come to the headwaters of the boiling river Sidra a gift from the Ashen Fog to her children who rule over the binding labyrinth. Above you are a thousand hands that hold a thousand silver bells used to put out the white lights that flicker and fade. Then, from the shadows, come shining hexagons pieced together into glowing disks and clicking mandibles. Look upon the rolling bloodshot eyes of the true lord of the gate and trace the silver veins along its cornea. Know, child, that in our cousin’s souls runs a gilded sentient wax that drives their lust for contract.

    Listen close, do you hear silver bells? No, these are not the elegant chimes of a wedding ceremony but the screams of a man who owes a great debt.

    Wake up. We’ve returned to the halfway house with the leaking roof and loose floorboards. But something is different. The doors are not locked, and the windows left open with no bed or bag of trinkets. The only thing that remains is a tiny wax figurine of a man with a bent finger and an iron ring.

    Heed his lesson well and remember, child.

    Tragedy often comes to those who choose to leave the door open.

Description

  Listen close, child. Listen to our voices as we slip under the door like rainwater. The flames of your hearth burn red and green but never purple. We have heard the complaints, scratched them on the walls of your bedroom while you sleep.

    Don’t mind the paint. We didn’t think you’d care.

    Child, you don’t get enough potassium in your diet, always leave the kitchen faucet leaking, and talk in your sleep.

    The citizens of Osio tell us many things with room for improvement.

    Did you know down by the market square is a man who sells white kidney beans? Purchase a bag and have three at noon and four at five.

    Did you know that a fomorius lives in your faucet? The troll's sweat is the leak, and its call is the drip, so make a bridge out of wood and break it over the kitchen sink.

    Did you know that conch shells remember voices as well as wind? Bring one from the beach and leave it on your bedside table. Then, in the morning, listen to the wisdom of your unconscious words.

    Simple problems require simple fixes, but, child, the citizens of Osio tell us you leave your bedroom door ajar.

    Come with us as we crawl up the wooden trim and slip through the doorknob. Do you feel that satin kiss, that lacy web, that sticky sheet? We do, and it’s like a damp comforter next to a warm fire.

    A mother loam nests here, cleaning her toes and strumming her back legs. She wraps her children in white cocoons and hangs them from each tumbler. We slide along her spotted belly and scratch the itch near the back of her head. Child, she tells us scandalous things about when last you locked your door.

    Listen close as we tell the tale of Numian Lux, who left doors standing open like you.

            Numian Lux was a man from the far east who traveled west beyond the great desert. He was fluent in many languages and carried a bag of trinkets that would make even the most hardened thief scratch their head.

    A bottle of dirt from the shores of Cancordia where the twins built the city of Luminock and sunk it below the frigid sea.

    A broken scissor with a handle shaped like a lion’s head found in the metallic forest beneath the body of a man who cut wounds so deep the bleeding never stopped.

    A spool of thread that glows like moonlight knit into a quivering lip that snatches flies from the air like spider’s web.

    That’s right; this man is a collector with a discerning eye. Numian Lux is responsible for more than half the inventory of the crescent moon. Look at the dull iron ring he wears on his hand. We slip beneath the band like the sweat from his brow and read the inscription etched into the metal.

“He existed when matter knew only darkness and will remain long after it returns.”

    We know these words, and now, you do too. The familiarity tickles the tip of your tongue and burrows into your ear. Can you handle the nagging itch, that strange sensation of déjà vu? Slow your heart. We know these words stir memories of places and times you couldn’t possibly know. Such is our gift.

    Do you see the fields of wheat where men slaughter lambs to conjure sparks? They set a forest ablaze to send a message to an errant ruler.

    Do you see the stone altar where the woman in red tears out her eyes and wraps the bloody cavities in white silk? We promise you, child, she sees far more now than ever before.

    Do you see the ship’s mast swell from a timely breeze as sailors drown the deckhand in a spit bucket? They couldn’t live with themselves, and two still hang from the crow’s nest untouched by rot.

    “He existed when matter knew only darkness and will remain long after it returns.”

    These are words of the Occult. The wakening dead hide in the shadows and offer power for a price.

    Prices come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes a kidney is worth more than gold, and sometimes gold is worth more than a kidney. Mortal worlds are ruled by subjective scales tipping from one extreme to the next. Yet, no matter the price, few do so without hesitation when the time comes to pay. The bigger the debt, the harder the due.

    That’s right, child. Numian Lux’s discerning eye was not a gift of genealogy but divinity. Divine rights come with hefty prices, even for those with deep pockets. Ask yourself, child. What do God’s value when flesh is as paper and gold mud? We will give you a hint. It’s something that all mortals possess, from the highest ruler to the lowest pauper, something that has more value with less and less with more.

    Come, take a closer look at this man’s ring. Do you see that reddish-brown stain caught within the etching? No, that isn’t rust but clay. You see, this man has killed, burying his brother shallow in the marshes beneath god’s finger where the red soil is so thick he broke the handle of his shovel.

    Do you see the scratches along the iron band? Scratches caused by broken fingernails, metal pokers, and bent tweezers. You see, this man was afraid, trying to pull the ring from his finger to undo a binding contract. Look at how his knuckle bends to the left, crooked and shaking. They could never set the bone right without removing the ring.

    Listen, child, Numian Lux traveled west past the great desert, not searching for another divine object but to flee from that which he owed. So he crossed the great red sea, climbed the mountain forge, and settled in a halfway house in the back alleys of the city of Bruma.

    Who would ever think to look for him here? A man so embellished with wealth trembling behind the closed door of a run-down wooden shack. Oh, he locked the front door. In fact, he broke the key off in the lock and boarded up the windows. Surely his efforts were enough, but we tell you he made a fatal mistake.

    What compels you to leave your bedroom door open? Are you afraid of the dark? Deep down, are you hoping that mother and father will save you from the monster in the closet? All you have to do is scream, cry for help, and they will come. But, if you leave the door closed, well, maybe they won’t make it in time.

    Child, mom, and dad aren’t coming back, but if you’re afraid, we are here, so close the door and shut it tight.

    Don’t make the same mistake as Numian Lux.

    Not even we understand why he did it, but when he fell asleep with the sheets tucked under his chin, his bedroom door was left swinging wide open.

    Listen close, do you hear silver bells? No, these are not the elegant chimes of a wedding ceremony but the high-pitched squeal of a tuning fork struck against the anvil. The lords of the gate have come.

    Do you know of our cousins? They are the dukes whose dominion is absolute upon geometry and wax. Can you hear their whispers, that silent authority? We can, and it’s like a quiet stream and a hushed promise.

    Numian Lux woke upon a hard stone floor, his bed nowhere in sight. Surrounding him were thousands of candles monstrous in size and shape, burning with a strange white light. Wax fell from the tips of pillars two stories tall, gathering into a river that flowed into a vast valley of empty honeycombs and masterless fog.

    Look upon the distant geometric shapes that drip with hot wax and shield your eyes from the glare of blinding white light. Child, know that you stand within the shared soul of a god. We have come to the headwaters of the boiling river Sidra a gift from the Ashen Fog to her children who rule over the binding labyrinth. Above you are a thousand hands that hold a thousand silver bells used to put out the white lights that flicker and fade. Then, from the shadows, come shining hexagons pieced together into glowing disks and clicking mandibles. Look upon the rolling bloodshot eyes of the true lord of the gate and trace the silver veins along its cornea. Know, child, that in our cousin’s souls runs a gilded sentient wax that drives their lust for contract.

    Listen close, do you hear silver bells? No, these are not the elegant chimes of a wedding ceremony but the screams of a man who owes a great debt.

    Wake up. We’ve returned to the halfway house with the leaking roof and loose floorboards. But something is different. The doors are not locked, and the windows left open with no bed or bag of trinkets. The only thing that remains is a tiny wax figurine of a man with a bent finger and an iron ring.

    Heed his lesson well and remember, child.

    Tragedy often comes to those who choose to leave the door open.