Where does an idea come from? Sometimes, ideas are born out of suggestions, some other, from a memory. There are actually times, tho, when an idea is born out of insitinct, or a wish. Or a will. And Lazar, that morning, really really wanted to go out for a walk. He did not know where this desire came from (he usually spent his days reading, or writing, or arguing with his wife Liliane, bless her heart), but a small part of him admitted that the reason was probably... time. Today was his birthday, and he wanted to see if he still had his usual gait, even after all this time.
He took his wide brimmed blue hat and his dark green scarf from the coat hanger near the front door, put the keys in his trousers, shouted goodbye to his wife from the doorstep ("Go to hell you old coot!" answered the woman) and got out of the house with a confident stride, unconcerned about his age, towards the nearest path to the woods. He was no spring chicken anymore, that's for sure, but the cruel mistress had spared his good looks (even if his joints did not get the same treatment) and his thick mane of grizzled hair that framed his clean shaven face gave him a weird... royal feeling?
He loved living near the woods. He bought the house, oh, so many years ago but he was still certain that it was the best thing he bought. Yet. The birds singing to each other had woken him up gently that day. It was a good day. Right now, only the sound of his steps on the path flanking the river could be heard and this, this made his blood run cold. Normally, the woods were full of sounds, calls, creaks, the sound of the wind between the leaves of weeping willows and majestic oaks. Not even the sound of the flowing river could be heard, in that moment. Lazar froze in place, and started looking around, with the river on his back.
"Oh, there you are, finally!" said the enormous silver- maned lion who was looking at him straight in the eyes. The beast's paws seemed not to disturb the surrounbding vegetation, and their mane fluttered without there being a breath of wind. All was still.
"I've been waiting for you for a while, you know?"
Lazar was gobsmacked. The lion was taller than two mans together, but its voice... Their voice was more similar to that of a young woman than that of a giant. Well, a young woman with a passion for Ratchpeki for pipe use, that's for sure. He tried looking for the courage to speak. Really, he really did look everywhere for it, but it had probably ran away bringing some sweat droplets that now covered the old mane brow.
The beast spoke once more.
"Are you, or are you not, Lazar, son of Laza, son of Laz, son of La, son of..."
"Yes, yes, please, stop, yes! It's me! You don't have to recite my whole family tree, for the love of the six numens!" blurted out the man, all of a sudden. Sure, he was before a predator, but one of the things he hated the most (even more than the Numenuptials) was the onomastic convention of his family which, going by the duke's registries, went back to 1315 after the Night, in particular, to his grand grandfather Nothing.
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"Yes, yes, concerning the Numens" continued the silver lion "well, me, Erad, father and mother of changings, keeper of the regular size of the universal belt, commander of the legions of the legions of HHVHHBRJN, is here in the day of your hundred moon, your tenth birthday, to tell you that in the coming moons you will have to complete a mission so utterly important I myself feel humbled by its content: as written in the Riveira's scrolls, "Lazar, son of Laza, son of La, son of L, son of Nothing, will be the end of the old Numens and the start of the new ones, so that the world will no-"
"It's the thousand moon"
"As i was saying, so that the world will no-"
"It's the thousand moon, you dim witted feline! I'm one hundred years old today, not ten!"
"A hundred, you say."
"One Hundred years old."
"A Hundred?"
"Yes."
"Are you really sure about it?"
"You could ask my wife, that's been bearing with me for eight hundred moons."
"And the... the flower of your youth? The potential? The heroic energy of the little-"
"The flower has dried, the potential used up, and the heroic energy gone three hip joints and a heartbeat rune ago."
"Well. Well well. This may, may, be a problem. But, oh well. There's that."
The lion hit Lazar with their paw. The limb went through the man, like it was made of smoke. An ashy glow covered him, and he started coughing.
"What in the Night are you doing, you wretch! I want to keep my lungs clean until the flames of the pire!" shouted the old man, who was not afraid anymore, just very, very disappointed.
"Here, Here, no worries, the covenant was made, if you breathe ten times in rapid succession and whisper my name, Erad, letter for letter, the sacred lance of undoings will appear, you must kill the numens in fifty moons or another Night will come, thanks and have a good life, bye!"
The lion disappeared as they were never there in the first place. Lazar was still, staring at nothing, while the woods started making noises again. He took a deep breath. Then another nine in quick succession, while enunciating the beast's name. A small crack in reality appeared, and from there, came out a silver lance, delicately adorned with sigils and runes and weird letters. It hummed, filled to the brim with power, and hovered a foot from the ground.
A sigh escaped Lazar's mouth. He took off his pointy hat, reached for a hidden pocket inside, and took out a small, black pipe. From another pocket, more hidden this time, he took out some ground Ratchpek leaves. He filled the pipe with them, snapped his finger, and lighted the leaves. He took a long, long breath of smoke. He grabbed the lance and looked at it intensely until it morphed into a seemingly innocuous walking stick.
"Well, way to start my second century. I don't really think my dear wife will be pleased with my impending departure. Oh well", he said, and with a spring in his step he started going back home, alone.