It all began with chimes, and eventually, when his cold iron form was fully shaped, the chimes flowered into brass and strings and drums. It was all an echo, kept alive like a fire tended by one on watch while others sleep. Those Mighty made by design gave voice to the chorus, but stopped singing long before their children were born. For them it was a residue that taught and promised and reassured, to be pondered over for comfort when times are hard. Othomo is a strange man. He looks back for answers, answers to questions about those above him, below him, and the tortured hand reaching through the innanis so eager to be free. If there is a mind within the eye, then couldn't there too be a hand? He clasped that hand within his own until its grasping fingers calmed.

Along the dark line at the axis mundi stalked the shadow of a tall, one legged thing that hobbled along with the help of its tail. Taller than the tallest tree, with an arm jutting out from its chest and back as well as its sides, and a face like the void itself, the Beast of the Border stood guard over nothing. Othomo shook his head over the terrible timing of this chance encounter. To face a feeder alone in the wilds? Well, he could. But he'd rather not. But he is a warrior, you say. You wonder why he is not raising Mistress over his head and sounding his battle cry? Well, I tell you, that no one tires of battle more intensely than those who fight. Oh, the irony of the thing Othomo bears being forbidden to him. The longer he waits, the deeper Hadeon's rage, the stronger Yannis's resolve, the further hope crawls from the Mornes, the colder grows the Sun. He was the lynchpin, and could not wait for this poor, stupid creature to move on.

And besides, he knew who he had to thank for this little rendezvous. Woken by the turbulent events of the Whirlwind, the feeders were all shepherded into the pale to wander harmlessly between the toes of the yottnar. To have one lurking about the ley line betwixt the realms could only benefit the old man of the hills. Othomo was warned of that lecher's machinations. Warned that he had spent his exile learning new ways of warping and twisting both body and soul, as he had warped the hearts of so many Mighty in the Whirlwind. His hills were hollow; slums for the lost of all kindreds and all natures, taken and flayed and repurposed into sad chimeras who begged for death from those they preyed on. Surely this feeder was no different. The Beast of the Border would doubtless rather be back in his deep chamber, slumbering peacefully until needed, or traversing the unmapped plains where it could do no harm. Mistress felt less heavy in Othomo's hand, a good sign. Did she pity this thing?

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The chimes... He remembered first perceiving sightlessness, then realizing that he saw his boon. He floated among the stars, opening and closing his hands while starlight coursed through the cracks in his armor. He saw his parents and heard their names, then looked on two beautiful creatures that would be his sisters. Hadeon was there before, during, and after, and when his mother tried to unite his presence his mind was inadvertently shredded. It was all Yannis's doing; the Whirlwind and its many victims.

The Beast of the Border must have caught the scent of his etheric blood, for it turned slowly and began its pained limp in their direction. The child cowered behind his leg, its head pressed against the hollow of his knee. He reached down and patted its head, then gestured to a fallen tree with a rotted trunk. He caught a glimpse of the vortex where he saved the dust town, south now and a ways east. Had he eyes, they would have squinted. He enjoyed pulling that bell tower down. The cracks in his helm ran red.