Coffee...

How many times hadn't he studied the situation? He was now at the point that none of it made any sense. How many times did one have to look at something to and understand? Before it became less than sum of its parts? It was soul-destroying doing it over and over again.
Torrullin sighed as he turned from the view of the ocean. So. There was a Timekeeper. How did that really affect him? Or Elianas? When all they had was time? They were the real timekeepers for pity’s sake. As he wandered into the stone dwelling he knew Elianas would agree with him. How not? The man had more secrets that any other- he would certainly see the need to step away from this.
He found the dark man in the kitchen where he thought to, brewing coffee. Elianas, for all his faults, had one major vice- the dark and bitter brew. And he wasn’t alone in that.
Torrullin smiled as he entered.
‘That’s a new blend.’
‘Fenu,’ Elianas muttered.
A raised brow. ‘how in hell did you manage that?’
A quick smile. ‘I have my ways.’

A bundle of rags

A bundle of rags, that was their first impression of the obstacle in their path. As they had to step over it to continue on their way, they came to a halt before doing so, a moment’s curiosity that sought appeasement.
Lowen, a hand covering her nose to mitigate the stench emanating from the bundle, squatted and poked experimentally at it using a stick near to hand.
Her gasp of horror caused Torrullin to lean down, grip her and drag her aside. She instantly struggled free.
‘Stop it, I’m not a child!’
‘We swore to keep you safe,’ Torrullin said.
Meanwhile Elianas had knelt. He looked up as Lowen jabbed Torrullin in the stomach. For once he didn’t find the ongoing battle between Torrullin and Lowen amusing.
‘A woman,’ he murmured. ‘A few days dead.’
Sending Lowen a warning look, Torrullin crouched down. Together he and Elianas turned the bundle of rags over, both men gagging.
They stared down at a thin face. Any trace of beauty was lost in the ugliness of death.
‘Hunger,’ Elianas said. ‘Probably collapsed here never to rise.’ He surged up, swearing. ‘We are days from the city; how bad will it get? How long before we are numb?’
‘The real question is: how do we make it right?’ Lowen said.
Torrullin said it. In a voice filled with understanding, he murmured: ‘Lowen, this cannot be reversed.’

Dreamscape tunnel

The tunnel elongated, the kind of action featured in dreams where nothing was as it seemed. The trunk walls curved strangely, first bulging out and then curled inward to form an impenetrable ceiling. All light extinguished...and returned in spotlights. Every sense of comfort vanished.

Elianas laughed in disbelief. So many ages he’d had, and the taunts came in the form of a dreamscape? He had expected more. He’d expected challenge.

He stalked forward, every step revealing his disdain for this mundanity.

Whispers dogged him, inane sounds that contained little meaning and merely served to underscore ordinariness. If someone desired to frighten him and throw him off the scent, this certainly wasn’t the manner in which to achieve it. Where was imagination? This tunnel lived in the nightmares of children only.

He walked on with a smile, expecting dreadful creatures with fangs and vicious intent, perhaps even an otherworldly screech or two to round the whole off.

It was the rain that changed perception.

It began with a drip, drip, drip on the very edge of hearing.

A smell of earth.

Elianas came to a stop. A storm would be more fitting in this type of dreamscape- rain, slow drips finding chinks in the armour of the tunnel ceiling, signified...reality.

What did it mean?

Granite slab

Seven children sat on a granite slab, cross-legged, hands relaxed on knees...and entirely unmoving and expressionless. As if formed from waxen rock. All wore red, silken tunics that shivered and folded in the breeze, the only movement.

It was eerie.

Torrullin crouched before them, scrutinising each in turn. All were blond and blue-eyed, all boys. Flawless skins. Angelic perfection.

Uncanny.

‘You must activate them.’

Torrullin glanced up as the birdman stepped in beside him. They, like the living statues, threw no shadows. A sun glared from on high...but he couldn’t now deal with that strangeness as well. He faced the children again.

‘Activate them. Are you saying they are manufactured?’

‘Manifestations.’

Torrullin rose and stretched. ‘I hesitate to ask.’

Quilla smiled. ‘And yet we shall not leave without solving this mystery.’

‘Fine, my feathered friend. Manifestations of what or who...and how is this perfection even possible?’ Torrullin waved in the general direction of the statues. ‘I have never seen a real child this unflawed.’

‘It is unnatural, isn’t it?’

‘Quilla.’

A shrug from the birdman. ‘I do not understand the how, but as to what? For it is what.’ Quilla sighed and looked up at Torrullin, squinting in the bright light. ‘These are voices trapped in form, unheard voices...more correctly, unheard messages.’

‘That implies thought, people...’

‘People long passed on. Leaving behind messages so important they have manifested in the guise of youthful angels. And before you ask, because even a man dead to every feeling would pause before this perfection.’

Torrullin nodded and stepped closer to the children. Reaching out tentatively, he touched the hand of the central boy, and then rested his fingers there, closing his eyes.

‘Faint resonance,’ he murmured moments later, and removed his hand and opened his eyes.
‘Not alive, but not dead either. How do I activate them?’

‘I assume Elixir needs to listen.’

A baleful stare. ‘I hate it when you do that.’

‘I know,’ Quilla laughed.

‘Listen,’ Torrullin muttered, ‘and hear.’ He abruptly glared at the birdman. ‘Important messages? Damn it, Quilla, you know how paths change when something untold is made tangible.’

‘Yes. And yet here we are.’

‘And we shall not leave without solving the mystery. Curiosity gets us into trouble every time, and still we grab the cat by the tail.’ Torrullin swore under his breath and folded down to sit in a cross-legged manner that mirrored the boys’. He didn’t say more and Quilla didn’t interrupt the process either.

Absolute silence descended, broken only by breath and sweat tracking lazily over cheeks.

Both spooked when the seven angelic manifestations abruptly slapped palms against chests. Their hands froze in that lifted position.

‘Oh, my,’ Quilla breathed out. He cleared his throat. ‘They are activated.’

Torrullin stared at the central figure. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

Quilla closed in. ‘Perhaps it’s proximity.’

Snapshots?

What are snapshots? Here, for me and for you, a snapshot is a piece written out of context from the main Tales. It may or may not be incorporated into the story somewhere, but meanwhile it serves as a prod into creativity...or is simply a fun exercise!