“Marked by the forbidden age… quite a literary sentiment. Does it not have a storyteller’s flair about it? Two professors, aging and grown arrogant in their habits as the aging do, stumbling on to something truly forsaken?”
“A world of its own deserves a calendar of its own, don’t you think? Well, deserved or not, this is the one I devised for Canno!”
“I want this story to hurt you.”
“Aside from the all-new words, I’ve altered most of the details I kept, so even if you read one of these three when I first posted it, I promise you it’ll be fresher than ever”
“I mean creative work that seeks to fill its audience with visceral, abject, unrelenting terror. That’s my horror.”
Hinrich smells of the road: faint wood and oil-traces laced by sweat and a certain something I’ll name manhood. He’s warm, and close.
“Then,” I press against him, “I want you to look. And I want you to see.”
“The radiant current, creations yet uncreated? You feel it?” Azru asked once, as she rested her hand on the child’s head while they looked out upon a foggy morn. A cool wind coursed over the bogs and tousled their hair. “That is magic, my dear one. You have the Gift.
“My friends–former friends after reading this, I hope–have sometimes joked that I sound like a supervillain.”
“The child was born beneath a blood-red moon that scourged a stained-glass sky under midnight like the breaking of the world. The blighted orb’s glow spread as ten thousand smoky tendrils through the latticework seams of–“
“But of course, there is none other to speak for me.
What cowardice would it be to pass my meanings through another’s words? The visions I speak come through…”