A shapeless thing wanders about the walls of an old building - the thing has seen these walls, this outline - all of it many times over by now. Molding light-grey bricks, with the tiniest pores in all of them constantly clogged by a phantom rainfall, the ceiling was tall, tiled, somehow it knew that this was one of the lower floors, not an inch of sunlight or even moonlight peering through the cracks of the ceiling-tiles. It was darker than even a moonless night - yet it could see little dust-dots peering through around its vision and disappearing into the darkness before it as the dots came into the center. It put a hand towards the molding brick, a strange insect-like hand. Segmented, draped over with an exoskeleton down to the tip of every individual clawed finger. The stone felt cold, so cold the mold would simply be wiped off or taken off like it's peeled off skin, limping by the pull of the world downward, yet still keeping as much of its old shape as it could under such dire circumstances. A warm feeling brewed beneath its exoskeleton, an almost nostalgic warmth in the middle of this building's artificial cold.

As it walked along its feet made sloshing and sticking noises - stepping into barely liquid puddles or marks of still-sticking streams of blood coming from tiny openings at the base of the walls, little sewage openings that lead to who knows where. It always wondered what the origin of these constant, steady streams was. Time and time again, not for one trip, not for one moment, had the bleeding of the walls ever stopped. It never dripped from the ceiling, only the sides - nourishing the smallest of plant-life growing in-between the cracks of the stone at its feet, the grasses at this point have gotten a deep red color...that doesn't make sense, not at all! Even to the thing it was appalling though it knew it had to move onward.

Every trip went like this: it passes a wet, cold corridor with a red-stripped floor, hearing and feeling a phantom rain graze upon its shell and the walls, dripping into the crimson and making it ever so slightly into a liquid - as it would've been instead of its slimy, thick consistency. Then, it'd pass by perhaps the deepest of abysses one could pay attention to - among the wet brick and shivering mold, the wall to the left of the thing suddenly disappeared - in its stead a wide room that had barely any space in it to walk on, its center consumed by a gaping hole, perhaps that same hole devoured the former ceiling of the room. The above floors' streams of blood all unite to pour and pour into the abyss - and yet still, no light at all. Relying only on the edges of its vision to see the whirlpool into nothing. It never stood around here too long - something in that hole freaked it out way beyond reason. Sometimes it sat around, the first few times, to look down it - it'd swear to any one man that it saw an open mouth at the very very bottom, glistening teeth peering through the Black.

Then, after that abyss, the hallway continued - as if nothing happened at all before then, as if no great hole was there breaking apart the hallway mere moments ago. The thing knew what to do from here: "Just down this hallway" - it thought - "and I can go back...just a little more...", the thing continued moving, at the end of the hallway the 'exit' lays. Though even it knew that it was simply another entrance, the silence from before had been broken, the thing's antennal-ears now full of the sound of cicadas and thick flowing liquid. The hallway would soon, just as expected - begin to morph. It was a light pulse at first, then it began to whip parts of it around, as if breathing and cramping up all the same. The moldy bricks soon became gone, now replaced instead with reddish bruised lumps. On some trips it'd try to turn around and leave - but that rarely worked - and when it did, what was it going to do anyway? Going back the way it came lead to endless darkness, to a point where even the corners of its oddly amazing vision could no longer see anything. And that abyss...it's not going near that thing's bottom any time soon.

This time, as it moved through the strange red lumps and the few bones melded with the floor and walls - instead of seeing what it usually would, some weird yellow light that called to it, it saw that the hallway just went on and on. Eventually, the hallway or, rather, the intestine it was walking through arched downward. With no better choice, and very intrigued with these new developments of its trip, the thing goes down. The floor steadily growing steeper with every step, at some points the thing would swear the halls were moving around to try to throw it down by force. The artificial cold of this place grew as well, and that nostalgic warmth in the thing's chest grew as well, something here was odd. Whenever it breathed out there was no fog present, but it could feel that it was cold. The walls pulsed, each time getting smaller. The thing could feel them lessening, their exoskeleton adjusting, brushing up against itself, making a horrible metallic screeching sound as they had to push their own body against itself to even fit in the intestine. The pain in its elbows and knees became evident, beginning to hurry down the increasingly smaller intestine before it became crushed. Rushing through, clawing at the walls to keep them away, making the thing it entered bleed from within - until it saw only darkness before it. Cold brushed across its face, its four eyes tearing up from the wave of cold. A wave of realization, unnaturally true, comes to it - "I'm going to fall.", as it tried to reach for anything before it became too late. The intestine squeezed and squeezed, leaving juices and blood on it, from which it would at last slip...

Navlosh's entire body flickered in bed, jumping slightly as he found himself feeling every individual nerve dart through his body - the sensation of a fall, unmistakable, yet terrifying all the same. It's been seven days since he initially started having that awful dream, but only today had he managed to see something new come of it. For the first few days he wasn't even aware of the recursions of the dream, but once he realized it he tried to perform strange little rituals - 'dream-control' was often something one was born with, what an interesting thought though! Shaping your dreams, moving them around like a stick moves water - but to Navlosh the change was never the focus, whenever he'd try to perform dream-control, he thought of that example. But all he remembered was that the water will come back to its place after the stick is gone, and so no matter what dream-controllers did or what he did, his dreams and theirs will end as they were intended to end.

He looked around his room with a deep sigh, the place in his dreams wasn't too far from his room - stone bricks ordained the walls with a creaking wooden floor which he was always afraid of falling through, his ceiling was a straw roof. If he was thankful for anything here - it would be his window, showing the view of the distant mountains. He often found himself looking through that window for hours on end, imagining what it'd be like to run around the snow, what it'd be like to fly towards the very tip of the mountains, looking at Night's Edge from above, then at the Sun goddess, then at the Moon god, then at whatever lied beyond those tall, tall mountains. To gaze upon Ulshen's Mountain - named after the god of fear from beyond the peaks, to look at the Rotting peaks, which the elders of the settlement once said were large trees full of life, before the snow came and ruined them entirely, some say the former inhabitants of the 'eldretrær' are alive, giant wolves, which Navlosh only ever saw when people from behind Ulshen's mountain came by, bearded deer-dragons which he never saw, striped snakes with the head of a bird and warm, flaming feathers over them - some said the creatures had six eyes, some say they had golden beaks, but he never saw those. And then, while he was in the deepest of fantasies, thinking of why a mountain would be named after a god of fear - he had to see eye to eye with reality once again; he returned from the cold snowy peaks, he returned from flying freely and almost feeling the wind in his hair, to back into his room.

Decrepit, old, the blanket he was covering himself with was eaten away at by clothes moths a long time ago, when it was still barely warm enough for those insects to roam about. His bed was constantly creaking, it was a surprise the wood hasn't completely fallen apart into shards. A table and chair made of rotting wood made itself known as well, just next to the window. The creaking floor had all sorts of things thrown on it, clothes that were damp, boots with holes in them, rotting food placed down to feed the spiders in the corner of the room. Sometimes, Navlosh swears - the spiders in the corner of the room try to patch up his blanket. He's never seen them do it, but he's so certain of it that he can't imagine it's simply because of the large holes in the blanket, which is usually left hanging down from his bed; as he has very little time to make it or get ready at all - his work as a sexton of the only church in the settlement took most of his day away from him, and the rest, the free time he had, he had spent in the library. He often borrowed books from there, having not much else to do. The librarian, or, rather the former librarian's apprentice who similarly to him took over at an early age, Marrine, was a pleasant person - she never seemed to mind Navlosh returning any of the ancient books from the library a bit late or a bit damaged, he had a habit of staying in the library after finishing his duties to simply have someone to talk to. Besides him, Marrine and their mutual friend - a man named Arnae, the library was essentially a quiet, terrifying echo chamber for the young librarian, or so she told Navlosh.

This wreck of a home was left behind by his late mother - Navlosh himself, at least according to his mother, is a son of a travelling sorcerer. The man settled down here but, at Navlosh's birth, he was lost to the cold. It's been 2 years since his mother's death, and 16 since his father's - he's a man now, as all his age were - though girls always grew faster, or so his mother said. Any girl at his age would already have a husband. He heard it's different beyond the mountains, boys became 'men' at 20, or whenever they first swing true steel. Stories of 12-year-old lords that wield giant swords always confused him, the world beyond the mountains must truly be horrible if a 12 year old can swing a sword and be pronounced a man. But, judging from the people who came from beyond the mountains, he had reasons to doubt that this was completely true. He wasn't ready to be a sexton, he never was - being an apprentice of one was interesting, he got to make plans, draw up sketches to discuss, deliver letters, take care of the sexton himself. But, being one now, he had to be at the church almost constantly for the first half of the day - making sure no damage was sustained last night, making sure nothing was stolen, ringing the bell, then taking a stroll through that horrible, horrible graveyard. He wasn't ready to be thrust into this role - the previous sexton gave him the title as soon as he turned 16 - that wasn't even a year ago! And now he had to do all the things he had to do both as an apprentice and as the actual sexton - until he finds an apprentice of his own. The last sexton became one at 33, he was an apprentice since he was 16 - he had time to have a wife before he became a sexton and, Navlosh? He didn't even have more than two people he could call friends.

Arnae Brin was a carefree man, he was 5 years Navlosh's senior and had shoulders so broad that Navlosh often called him 'the wall that runs', a nickname that Arnae gladly took as almost a second name. He had a tendency to always mimic the noise of an avalanche as he came towards Navlosh - first he'd hiss into his fists to make a deep tumbling sound, then he'd shout 'boom!' when he got close enough, solely to make fun of himself. Arnae was surely twice Navlosh's height, twice as wide too. He had a bit of a beard which he tried his best to grow out - dark as night, just like his hair. He was often made fun of for having curly hair but, to Navlosh it always seemed nicer than just having flat, boring hair. His face was sharp, whenever he wasn't laughing or smiling he looked like he had a plot against anyone and everyone - he lost part of his lip to the cold, alongside two fingers and an ear. His golden-yellow eyes were almost soulless ever since he lost them, he was around Navlosh's age back when he lost them. His eyebrows were sharp, downward facing, so he always seemed angry or dissatisfied. Right now, he was at Navlosh's door - recently he'd been simply letting himself in to either wake Navlosh or help him with any duties he had at home.

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"Ey, Naves...are you awake yet?", his voice was deep, like a bear's growl - he got used to both the image of the man and that growling voice of his, seeing as everyone else in the village was either too silent, too old or too stupid in comparison to Arnae, he was one of the only two Navlosh could really communicate with without feeling some kind of rush in his heart or panic in his hands. Navlosh quickly got out of his freezing bed, stumbling to the door to open it for his large friend - the rotting wood of the door creaks open, slowly so as to not possibly damage it. He looked up at the large man before him: "Good morning, Aree." - that was another name Arnae went by, it's what most of the settlement called him, since most of the still-living were around his age, they got to use the nickname he had since childhood, a privilege he allowed Navlosh to have as well. His grim golden eyes looked around Navlosh's house before even entering, his half-lip smacks against itself as he clicks his teeth.

"Oh you just woke up. Want me to take care of the houshe for ye, Naves?", a generous offer that came from Aree every morning, he was always a helpful sort - some say that his family helped make Night's Edge; a long, long time ago, when the people of Night's Edge still belonged to the other side of Ulshen's Mountain, Aree's ancestors were some sort of warrior-clan who helped the people travel here. The blood of the first-moon flows through the Brin's veins, no matter how diluted - a thing Aree used to say before he met the second family of Brins who came through the mountain not too long ago. To his horror, they were all fat, greasy, gross with silver and gold jewelry barely staying on their fat, sausage-esque fingers; "The people from behind Ulshen's mountain have no idea what the cold is like", he found himself thinking back when Aree first brought him and Marrine to welcome the Brins from over the mountain. Navlosh would usually decline, but Sundays were always hellish for him, so he figured he'll repay Arnae's kindness somehow. Maybe he'll take a piece of bread from the church and sneak it towards Arnae when that damned bald priest wasn't looking, maybe he'll help Arnae learn how to read, or even better - how to write. Navlosh, Marrine and very few others were the only literate people in Night's Edge. Despite it not doing them much good, the rest of the settlement did have a sense of awe at the fact they could decipher such alien symbols and even write in them.

"If, you won't mind Aree - I need to go and help get everything ready in the church.", Aree sharply inhaled through his teeth - "Ouuuh...ye'h, I'd not wanna piss off that bald fuck eithe', get going, I'll take care of the houshe!", his accent was odd. Apparently it's the same way people from beyond the mountain talked, he tried his best to get something good and useful from the Brins from beyond it, and apparently this is the 'proper' way to talk, though to Navlosh it just felt very...dumb. He didn't like that forced, almost pretentiously rough accent the other Brins had. Either way, he didn't have much time to lecture him on the rude accent or to give him guidelines for cleaning the house, besides one - "Remember, don't throw away any books you find, I need to return them to Marrine or this might be the first time she throws a book at me.", Aree chuckled, his dry throat making an almost wheezing sound from the act, waving his hand to the rotting door: "Of course, of course. Come on now, don't keep the Fat Boar waiting."

The Fat Boar - the local priest whose name Navlosh didn't care enough to remember was a terrifying, blubbery creature with constant harsh expressions, his eyebags were almost scaly, dark with weird yellow tips on each piece of skin. Some say he's a descendant of Bjarte Myuren - an old philosopher from Night's Edge who died around the time the settlement was being finalized. He was known for many things, meaning Navlosh had him to thank for all of the customs he was to adhere to. Bjarte's teachings said that the gods saw Night's Edge differently from any other settlement, thus there was to be one church for the gods that Night's Edge saw them as, and one altar for those from the outside who come here, he had acknowledged the gods were the same - but the customs were not and as such they were to be done separately. What would some philosopher know about religion and the work of a sexton? , Navlosh often found himself wondering while working. He found the outsiders' views on religion interesting - rather than calling the Sun as she was, Sulgerum, they exclude the e and write it Sulg'rum, with such an alien pronunciation that whenever Navlosh tried to pronounce it his tongue would turn into a strange knot and spit would fly everywhere. Sulyg...Sulj...Suljgrre...bah, no matter how hard he tried to pronounce those damned names it didn't matter. The priest on the other hand knew them so well, alongside knowing the accent from beyond the mountains and speaking it as if he were born in those distant lands. He looked like one, too. His stomach grew over almost to his knees - giving him such names as the Fat Boar or the Little Avalanche by the children. He was well over 40, a miracle to anyone living here but most consider the Fat Boar's home to be a separate village entirely. He often visited beyond the mountains and whenever he returned he'd bring with him slaves - frowned upon even in Night's Edge let alone the outside world, Navlosh knew they were slaves but to everyone else they were 'devoted servants' who were taken aback by the faith and came back with him to help the church flourish.

The unfortunate truth was, most of the illegal slaves would die on their way here, their bodies left behind for the Cold to undress and skin alive. Those poor things lived mostly in the church, but the unlucky ones would live in the Fat Boar's personal residence. Navlosh has only ever been there once, the Fat Boar's residence consisted of a lavish house with two floors and an attic of some sort. Made with all sorts of materials from beyond the mountains. There was also a byre - though its purpose of holding cattle had long since passed it, the last time he held any sort of cattle it didn't take long for dogs to pry their way in and eat the poor things, back when it was still not too cold for dogs to stay outside - one couldn't keep any sort of animal for themselves. It was either don't have it, or share with the dogs. Thus leading to the byre being moreso chambers for the Fat Boar's servants. The inside of the large manor was something Navlosh never saw at all, but the byre itself seemed to be in better shape than his excuse for a home - when he was still an apprentice it wasn't anything new to imagine himself being in the former byre, it'd be an improvement all things considered. Straw beds and pillows, warmth - only deficit was being around the Fat Boar...which was to him almost worse than death.

By the time he finished imagining how the Fat Boar's death would, in this moment, maybe be the best possible thing he could experience - he found himself before Bjarte's larger church; the one devoted to the gods of Night's Edge. It wasn't nearly as big as the library, no, even the bell tower was just barely smaller than the library's spire. If you were to ask anyone besides the Fat Boar - the library was the actual church of Night's Edge, it's the more useful of the two excuses of a church present anyway. Navlosh had great ambition whenever he first became a sexton - though his plans of grandeur, expanding the church, ridding the church bell of rust; but even the smallest of things such as polishing an altar or trying to add to it proved to be near impossible under such circumstances. He finally began to understand, after some time of course, what his former master had taught him - why he didn't expand as much as Navlosh imagined he could. The Cold doesn't love man or what he makes, it won't love you either, at the time useless rhetoric which he finally understood was far from useless. The Cold truly did hate Night's Edge - every time he tried to build something, to aid the church, it'd freeze over or be blown away by the harsh winds; t was near-impossible to work as a sexton, at least here.

He walked towards the churches doors, the Fat Boar was already in - he could tell. The stench of garlic and raw meat emanates from the very doors of the church where he kissed the hardened wood before entry. That custom was something only the Fat Boar had done, and Navlosh wasn't going to adhere to it, no matter the Boar's persistence. He set his foot into the warmth of the church, though it was still pretty dark outside all things considered - the church was lit up with candles and lanterns galore, showing every single piece of it and making it exert an almost ethereal, yellow glow. It was the only building in Night's Edge that had extensive decor - murals, pillars chiseled with the symbols of each god that the residents believed in - a circle with two lines going through it vertically and one fatter one halving the circle horizontally to make some sort of cross - a symbol of Rerrel Ammamito, the promised one who banished the First Death and made many countries flourish beyond the mountains. There was as well a combination of the alchemical symbol for copper, mixed with the arrow usually associated with iron with a third appendage peeking out from the upper-left side of the center circle which combined all three. Half the circle was chiseled out, making a downward facing crescent in it with a triangle containing this fusion of signs - this was the symbol of Viriruzili, the 'man-made' god of humans, war and many other things that people associate with it. It was said that a thousand years from now - the east had waged a Great War and that the god of humanity had risen from the deep pools of blood left on the battlefields, being born from warfare - as far as Navlosh knew, it was a shy yet angry god. The last of the symbols present - a circle with a heart-esque shape. It held within it an outstretched blob, appearing like a headless man holding his arms up above his torso. With the head being replaced with what, to anyone but the Fat Boar - was undeniably a vaginal opening. This was the symbol of Akenara, the god of intimacy, love, attraction and even said to be the protector-god of rebellions. This one was always interesting to Navlosh - it is said that Akenara is forgotten beyond the mountains, that man had killed the god of love as they spread themselves not out of love for one another, but for duty or necessity or simple pleasure and coin. It was difficult to imagine a dying god, let alone one who was killed by mortals.

The church was small all things considered - Night's Edge only had around 40 people left and at most half of those actually came here. Of course, seven days before the festival, those who came all that long way to experience the customs here would jot the population up to 50 or even 60 if they were unlucky. Even 5 more people is a lot more mouths to feed. Though the church often served as a home for visitors - its red carpet and various paintings depicting gods and their feats were something outsiders were familiar with, that's how their churches looked too. Navlosh doesn't remember it, but from what the previous sexton, Master Jhakub said - before the Fat Boar came in, this church was...much different. Symbols of all the gods were present: Ulshen's pillar - a symbol of the god of fear, Sulgerum's dotted triangle - the sun goddess's symbol, the Lucurran crescent, symbolic of the lord of fate and the Moon, alongside many others, Navlosh knew only the names of a few gods - it was all Jhakub told him before his passing and the Fat Boar - who now sat before him with his angry, scaley eyebags and his deep yellow eyes gazing into Navlosh's soul, the boar squealed into his face with his deep growl of a voice, now squealing with anger: "You couldn't be here sooner?", his voice full of poison: "I need you to get everything ready, I'm just an old man Navlosh. I can't possibly get it all done by myself."

He looked around - usually, a few people would already be in. Today... there's nobody. Nobody at all. That's strange, but they're probably welcoming their relatives from beyond the mountains or, some kind of distant great-great-cousin of theirs. Or, they're just sleeping...or, something? Who knows. Though he didn't see the need for such a rush. Incense, coals, the books, everything they needed to prepare would take less than even two minutes of work. But alas, the Boar's not famous for his patience. Navlosh was already somewhat used to the temper of the Boar, if nothing else: "Father, nobody came. And if they haven't yet, we both know they'll take their time.", a response he knew almost like his own name at this point. The Fat Boar would usually be pacified by it but today it seemed like even he was on edge. Sweat dripping from his bald, shining head down his blubbery face and onto his white robes, his eyes wide enough for the whites in them to be seen. He'd wave his hand around as he spoke: "Get it done, Navlosh."

He'd sigh, holding a hand out and kissing the priest's. The priest had a smell of fresh roses - some sort of perfume that nobody ever saw the priest putting on. His hand was powdered, leaving a thin trail of some weird-tasting thing on Navlosh's lower lip afterwards: "As you wish, Father", he said almost disheartened: "Anything else that must be done?". The boar thought, putting a hand to his chin, he looked outside the tiny windows of the church, through their copper bars: "The graveyard. Make sure those outsiders don't get any funny ideas. The dead are dear to me, Navlosh. You know that."

He sighed, nodding his head as he began to prepare his mind for the lengthy hours of looking over frozen rock: "It'll be done as you wish, Father."