Humi Procumbere

     The rapidity of his blinking good eye did not change the specter before him, though he varied the rate. So many...blink...so many bodies...blink, blink...all those little kids...blink-blink-blink...all those wretched birds...long, slow blink...all those...fires...no blink, just a closed eye. He weaved as he toiled with the infinity of experiences that he’d suddenly become privy to when Iphi—that stupid bird, that phoenix—bit him. Nothing. Not one single scrap of her enlightenment existed to help him rationalize the Burning Grounds. “Why?” he croaked.

Incunabula Doctrinae

     After minutes of pacing between Preston’s desk and the door, the novice cook thought she’d lose her mind. Sitting down in the chair next to the couch where the Messenger lay sprawled, the young woman took time to really observe her unconscious charge. The Messenger’s wavy blond hair covered half of her sickly face which currently matched her pale tunic and contrasted sharply with her partially unbuttoned black jerkin. On the ground next to the couch lay a dingy old knapsack, its seams stretched, a couple unraveled. What is in that thing? the girl wondered. She reached toward the bag, then stopped herself, you can’t. That’s the Messenger’s. Sitting back in the rickety chair, she could barely hear it creak with the noise from the kitchen. How can she sleep through all that? At that last thought the cook leaned over again, flipped up the top of the bag, and stared at the contents. Of course she has a shit ton of notebooks, the cook chuckled. First, she glanced from the door to the Messenger. Then, after holding her breath for a count of three, she repeated the action. When she couldn’t stand it any more, she knelt down before the bag and gave the middle notebook a solid tug which caused her to rock back. Inhaling, she pushed herself off the ground, weaved, and then eased into the chair. Flipping open to a random page, the nosy little cook read: