Drops drip from the ceiling. My roof needs patchwork. There are other things to do. A little boy. He says to me “Why do they do what they do?” I pat him on the head. “Something is wrong with them.” I say. Something is wrong with them. I know there are people in there. I’ve watched them, studied them, and observed them. They have thoughts, but the thoughts are drowned in blood lust. If I could only remove it, they could think. They could become people again. Then no more blood.

But my experiments fail. Thirteen failures. Formula #3 doesn’t work, just like most of them. Formula #10 makes the host more rabid. Formula #12 kills the host. That one has potential. But no, no more killing. Fix it, I will fix it. I will fix them. Make them think, heal their minds.

- “Doc” Vorran Date: 11 years post poisoning, mid Gresoch

THE FOREST SOUTH OF THE OUTLANDS:

I am the shadow that binds them with fear at night. I am the monster of their nightmares. I am the creature that slaughters their children. I am feared, hated, and reviled. I am a nightstalker.

We are the mistakes of a civilization. The curse of a god and the seed of demons. We are a pandemic in need of purge. That is what they think of us. They might be right.

I in no way claim to be better than my brethren. I do not claim to be a hero that will change the world. I do not aspire to unite the clans or end our problems. I cannot even with honesty say I do not think about killing, I do. We all do. It is the inner dark thoughts of our people. That instinct in the back of our minds that tells us to kill, always kill.

I am of the Blood Bane clan. It is the smallest territory, but not weak as so many believe. The Razorbone view us as puny and soft. They think we should die for our “weak ways”. I disagree. For the first time we have a leader who thinks with his mind and rises above the kill calling to him.

I am twenty-five years alive, not that it matters to us. Skysingers put too much importance in age, something I have never understood. How do I know that? I watch them. I break “The sacred law” as the sky singers put it. I will admit it is hard to blend in during the day. I manage.

It began a while back when the days were still warm, I felt a pull within myself. I needed to find something but did not know what. I could feel it was close if only I could look for it, I could find it and the feeling would end. It drove me awake for nights in a row pulling me to the brink of madness. But I had searched the entire territory, it was nowhere. How do you find something when you do not know what you are looking for?

On a day when I could not sleep, I ventured out past the village. Secure within the depths of the forest very little light gets through the dense canopy. The Moon Mother looked on me with disappointment and fury, I could feel that I should retreat to my home until dusk. But that thing was out there, I knew it, and I felt closer to it under the light of day.

I followed the pull away from the village into the frays of the forest. More and more rays of light pushed through the canopy, their hot touch stung. In my fervor of looking I stumbled into a clearing I had been in many times before, but this time it was overcome by the blinding light of the suns. It was the most painful thing I have ever done, being exposed to light, not just dusk and dawn. We, what do they call it? Cheat? Yes, that is their word. I have cheated before, but the colors of the rising and falling are nothing compared to the painful heat of sunlight in full.

I ran back to my village with spots in my eyes, I was afraid I would go blind. I made it back to my home and lay down in the comforting dark refuge asking the Moon Mother for forgiveness for disobeying her. She clearly was punishing me. But I could not stop. I rested, recovered, we have hardy bodies adept at healing. The next day I went out again, I intentionally went to that clearing pushing myself into the light over and over again. Day after day I tortured myself.

I had stabbing pains in my head for weeks. My eyes burned. I stopped sleeping. It was misery, no wonder the Moon Mother forbids us from the day, it is for our own protection. Even still, the light burns deep into my skull and it is difficult to see. But it is better, with each day it becomes better.

Many say the light will burn us up, or cook us from the inside. None of that is true, I have found we can live in the light if we choose to, it is only a matter of our strength to bear up under the adaption. That is knowledge I have kept to myself for now. If we could come into the light, how would the Skysingers stop us? The answer is they could not. That thought troubles me, so I keep this knowledge to myself. So far, I think none have tried to adapt to the day, none have had the motivation that I do. The driving need to find it. The desperation to make the pulling end.

My search led me into the heart of those daypeople. I observe them, maybe they have what I have been looking for. They fascinate me, I have heard my entire life that they are weak, soft, and pitiful. They barely count as prey, easy kills. But I wonder, if they are so flimsy, why are they still around? If we are so much stronger than they, why are they able to kill us?

I hid in bushes, burrows, outbuildings they do not check every day, things like that. I watched, listened, observed. In my search for whatever I was looking for, and I was close I could feel it, I listened to their conversations, their fears and hopes. Their highest fear is us; I could not help but feel pride for that. I have never killed a skysinger, not that I have not killed anyone, just not skysingers. My father, Arken, counsels against it. He forbade me from joining the hunting parties growing up.

He was not opposed to killing. He believed that carnage has a time and a place. Hunting parties encourage mindless slaughter. I can quote word for word my Father’s axiom:

“A death cannot be undone; one must think before they kill lest they suffer unseen consequences.”

These people, they fear us, and for good reason, yet they leave the safety of their walls to live out here by our kind. We kill them without mercy intending to drive them away, but they stay. If anything, there are more of them along our border now than ever before. They do this despite their fear because of their hope. Their hope that somehow living out here will bring them freedom. Freedom. They put their families at risk to be free to live how they choose.

An interesting concept. We have all the freedom in the world. We may go where we choose, when we choose, if we wish to “cheat” do not get caught by the daypeople. We kill who we want, when we want; though things have changed in recent years. We have the ultimate freedom these skysingers yearn for. But they feel compelled to buckle down their own people with rules.

It is odd, these rules that constrain the freedom they fight for is what keeps them alive. We have all the advantages. We have strength of body and numbers, we have power. Yet, we live in huts in trees while they have cities and walls. I suspect my father is onto something. There is a time and a place for all things.

I push aside the animal skins that close off the doorway to my home, they are blue with silver speckling and come from the backs of fand. Inside, my home is one room with a hole in the ceiling I pull myself up through to the loft where I sleep. The walls are made of logs I cut notches into and roped together. This building is new to us, our leader Wikon taught us a new way of building when he claimed the clan forty years ago. Before then we lived exactly as the Skysingers expect, huts made of branches leaning against each other in the mud.

On the floor I have stacks of books I have taken from hunting parties that “found” them. They saw them as useless and gave them to me in trade for some rope. I do not know what they say, I cannot understand the shapes and squiggles upon the pages, but some of them have pictures. There is something about them that fascinates me. Something so skysinger. Writing down your thoughts and stories to trap them on paper. Creating something solid and sturdy, like their walls.

I pick up a book flipping through the pages, this one is my favorite. Though I do not know what it is about. There are drawings upon the pages, I see pictures of what I assume are mighty warriors. Their faces are brave and firm with their weapons drawn. The warriors are knee high in mud pushing forwards against the dark shadows of an enemy. From what I know of them I assume those shadows are us. I flip forwards towards the end of the book, I stop at the picture I have seen so many times before. A man and a woman hold each other close planting their lips on each other.

I pause and run my fingers over the image, there’s a feeling between them I do not have the words for. It makes me feel something I cannot quite understand. I have seen this picture so many times and only found it confusing, but today I see it as something different altogether. Before my eyes the hair of the woman in the drawing changes to a beautiful shade of purple. I grin at where my mind takes me, but then shake it from my thoughts. I must stay alert tonight.

I flip to the end of the book, the final picture. I see a woman standing alone clad in armor with the gray shadings of blood across her face. She looks, broken. I feel broken for her.

Tucking the book under my arm I step towards the cupboard where I keep my food, dried meat and fruit. Some like to eat straight from the carcass, I prefer mine with a bit more preparation. Grabbing a stick of meat and some berries I balance the things in my left arm and pull myself up into the loft with my right. I lie in the comforting darkness filling my belly and preparing for the night ahead of me.

In the distance I can hear the tune of a horn blowing among the trees. My only neighbor Jar’kog. We are hermits adjacent to each other, we both prefer to live on the outskirts of the village far from the center of action. For myself, I prefer to be alone, around others I can feel the life drain out of me. I much rather hunt alone, run the forest alone, look at incomprehensible books alone. There is a great advantage to the isolation, there are few eyes to spy on my exploits. Jar’kog knows I sneak around in the day, but he does not care. Nor does he say anything to anyone for he, like me, prefers the quiet solitude.

Though, even a hermit needs to hear another voice once in a while. I finish my food and set the book aside leaving my loft and ducking into the outside through the fand skins. A deck sweeps around my house with logs roped together. I look across the way to see Jar’kog’s home with the same setup. I bite my lip in thought for a moment and nod making my decision. Turning towards my house I untie the rope affixed to a pole by my door. I grip it in my hands and leap from the deck by my toes.

My body soars through the air, the wind whips at my hair, the cold stings at my face. My body arcs through the air landing steady on Jar’kog’s decking. I wrap the rope around a pole by his door. Bending down I push the skins aside and enter.

There Jar’kog sits with his hands holding his strange shaped horn. It has eight holes speckling the top and his fingers move in wild motions to cover and un-cover them as he blows into it. The tune stops when I enter and he shoots me a frown of annoyance.

“Challenged again?” He sighs and puts down the horn. “How many times is that now?”

I shrug. “Since the air was warm, six. Total? twenty-three.”

Jar’kog whistles with a shake of the head. “You think they would learn.”

I smirk and sit down by the old man. “Is that why you never challenged me?”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “No. I only would rather not kill you.”

I chuckle. “You think you would beat me?”

He looks at me unamused raising one eyebrow. “If I can kill an aalamon, I can take on a sprout like you.”

I frown. “Big words. I have won twenty-two now. I am no sprout.”

Jar’kog smiles and leans back. He looks me in the eyes, I am nervous. I always am, but I push it down inside and cover it in stone. Being anxious of what is ahead will do no good, it will only soften my edge. I must stay sharp.

He nods. “Did I ever tell you of my fight with an aalamon?”

He had, many times. But this is how this conversation always goes and we both know it. I shrug. “Tell me.”

“It was long ago, but not so long I cannot still snap your neck if I want. Keep that in mind sprout.” He glares at me.

I had seen them before, Aalamon are the truest prey there is. Fierce black reptiles, taller than any of us, smart and strong. Enormous, onyx, and they only come out at night. The only way to see it is by watching the silhouette against the back drop of the glowing moon grass. They eat insects; you would think a killer that fierce would eat the strength of other creatures like we do. Strange. Regardless, it will protect its nesting grounds to the death. I look up to see the large black head on the wall, Jar’kog keeps it as a reminder to young hunters that might challenge him.

He is the oldest of our clan but he is still strong and vigorous. No one dies of old age. I am unsure how long we can in fact live. There is so much infighting among our people, kill or die. When you become frail, you perish.

He speaks into the silence with eyes as severe as the day he severed that head. “Brash, stupid, hunters. Need to prove themselves and will die to do it. I killed many and I wanted to end it so I went to the southern border along the big water and found an aalamon.”

If you can kill something like that, something that has killed so many before, you never again have to worry about challenges. I can see the image in my mind of a young Jar’kog with his feet in the sands of the coast and an abyss of a cave in front of him. Spectators line across the rocks above looking down at him, screeching, hooting, mocking. Moon grass peeks through the sand in patches glowing under a full moon. All Jar’kog can see is the shape of the creature moving against the glowing grass and bright sand.

Jar’kog’s voice lays over the scene in my mind. “The aalamon use a decoy. Its tail can make a hunter think it prowls where it does not. When the hunter turns to attack what is not there it strikes.”

Aalamon claws are the strongest material we know of; it can probably challenge the hardness of the skysinger metal. It makes for an unbreakable blade. My mind comes back to Jar’kog’s home, he holds up a thick black claw between his fingers and lunges it forwards stopping a finger width short of my chest. It is his prized possession. The thick black skin that makes up his door is a trophy of prestige and respect; it is a symbol that he is unkillable. Or at least was once.

His voice speaks into the air as my mind is taken back again. “I was patient, I studied the deaths of others. I was ready.”

In my mind I see Jar’kog waiting amidst the glowing beach for the aalamon to find him. We call it The Pit, an area enclosed by rock wall at the mouth of an aalamon cave. The only way in or out is scaling the rock, so if a hunter is too wounded, they will not make it even if they win. We have met at that place of killing for generations, for the most part the water washes away the bones.

Jar’kog stood with confidence. He held nothing but a single blade. Skysingers, anyone can shoot something with a flying metal stick. The true art of killing is with your hands. Jar’kog stood still, waiting. He could hear a low growl enter The Pit ready to slaughter him.

“I knew what I saw was the tail, I had seen the trick before, and learned.” He points out as I see the picture unfold in my eyes. “I stayed still, I waited.”

The tail whipped around again, and again. The aalamon was getting bored and frustrated. At once the tail knocked out his knees from under him and he fell to the ground on his back with his knife gripped tight in his hands. The aalamon moved in to rip out his throat. When Jar’kog felt the warm breath on his face he thrust his knife upwards. It dug into the mouth and up into the aalamon’s skull.

The picture dissolves from my mind and I come back to the present. Jar’kog waves the claw in front of my face. “They say I killed it wrong. That I did not battle the aalamon like a true moonrunner. But remember this, the kill is what matters. Not the method.”

I nod deep in thought. “That is helpful.”

“It always is.” He raises his eyebrows. “Now get out of my house.”

I come to my feet and leave the house pushing the skins aside, they flap shut behind me. I untie the rope gripping it in my arms and leap from the deck. My body slides down the rope coming to contact with the soft forest floor. I have been challenged, again. It begins to grate on my nerves. It is because I did not join the hunter parties, because I will not kill the daypeople, because I have never challenged another person. I do not see the point.

I kick a rock as I travel towards the center of the village. I have the same darkness inside as everyone else, but it feels hollow. Killing never satiates it, it never fills that void. So, they kill more, and more, with this need driving them to continue to butcher everything they can. But to what end? If killing cannot seal this hollowness, if this hunger can never be satisfied, then why start in the first place? Though I am young, I am understanding the wisdom in my father’s words. The consequences of killing are not in those you kill or leave behind, it is in the mark you put upon yourself. It is in every kill that the hunger grows stronger.

Above me I see the green glow of vorla vine that wraps around the ropes of the bridges in the trees. The glow is easy on our eyes and ideal for our vision. Along the floor I see the golden glow of the green geckle with its small round white caps popping out in clumps. Our world was meant to be seen at night, so much of it glows. Were it hot time and this canopy in full foliage the leaves would glow too.

While I walk, I see other homes like my own, there are more of them as I get closer to the village center. I look up. Ropes climb high into the trees that lead to other homes with the glowing tendrils following them.

Astonishment overwhelms me the first time I saw the leaves in the daylight. To think colors can become that vibrant, that bright. I had never seen anything like it. Of course, that was during “gresoch” as they call it, we just call it hot-time. Now that “lune” or dark-time is upon us the leaves are more of a gray.

I reach the center of the village and an arena is spread out before me. It is a circle of glowing moongrass with ropes enclosing it. Already many have gathered to watch the fight. On opposing sides sit long oval shaped ponds. They glow purple with the luminescent algae that floats along the water’s surface. Under the glow shimmering fish swim oblivious to the world. The fish are poisonous, the only reason they still live.

The center of the village is the brightest with a thick carpet of moss covering the ground that glows a dim blue. I feel the feathers of it tickle against the bottoms of my feet. The blue and green glow throws lighting against my gray skin. I approach the arena and my head is high. I wear the leather belt my father gave me for my first challenge. It is brown with teeth from all my kills. Kills within this arena. The belt has seen the successful victory of many opponents for my father and does the same for me. I have added twenty-three teeth to the belt. I will add a twenty-fourth tonight.

Our clan is different from the others, our leader crafted rules and a sort of order. Before him we were a chaotic band with no unity. We killed each other for food, out of anger, for mates, whenever we felt like it. We were outnumbered by the other two clans and had no other strengths to defend ourselves. So, our leader built the arena. He declared it a law the only legal killing was within the arena after official challenge. It is a battle to the death.

I have memorized the arena law which is recited every evening. With every law, there must be adequate motivation. There are shadows that walk among us. They are the Banes. Moonrunners that have trained with the utmost control, stealth, and lethality. If we attack someone rather than challenging them, we simply die. Without warning, and a white mark drawn on our cheek. The mark of the Banes. It is a circle with a diagonally slashed line through it. The Banes enforce the leader’s law, they do so quick, quiet, and without warning.

A body found with the Bane’s mark is promptly disposed of and forgotten. The law strikes them from the memory of the people. It is as if they never existed at all. A fate worse than death.

I duck under the rope and step into the arena, I can already hear the hissing and chanting from the onlookers. To them, tonight might be the night when the unbeatable one is struck down. So many of them hate me, but I do not blame them. Neither do I return their loathing; it feels like a waste of my time. Some might think I see myself above them, they would not be wrong. Arrogant? Yes, but also true. I feel like I am different than these people, better, these moonrunners that live for nothing more than the thrill of a kill. There must be more than this, there must be somewhere to go from here. Killing and surviving cannot be all we have. What would be the point of surviving?

Staring across from me with glaring red eyes and rabid teeth is my opponent. Itok. He has hated me for a while. I do not know why but I do not suppose he needs a reason. His pack are all hunters. They boast of their brawn and I do not care. I suppose my lack of respect and awe is what has led me here today. But I will not pretend to respect someone who does not impress me. I can outfight Itok with ease, I can take down a wild zigon in half the time he can, I am more powerful and I am faster. Why would I respect a person that is inferior? Why would I pretend to be impressed when I am not?

Into the arena marches our leader, he stands a head above me with a presence even larger. His long white hair falls down his torso like a sheet of ice with teeth tied into it. He wears the bright white fur of an albino zigon and the black chest piece and gauntlets of an aalamon. He does not need them but they remind us all of his power. His intimidating eyes look out upon the crowd almost as if daring them to challenge him, no one does. We are brutal, but we are not stupid. He holds his tall wooden staff decorated with bones and at the top as a center is the hardened eye of a solena. The most prized prey of all. The eye once plucked out turns to crystal and reflects rainbow streams in the light.

Our most intimidating leader stands tall and proud, light from the purple pond nearby reflects in the eye of his staff. His voice, deep and clear, speaks to us all.

“Arena Law, without it, we cannot survive. We fight for strength. We fight for survival. The law is: All challenges must be accepted and must be fought. All challenges must battle only inside the arena. No full grown may challenge the young nor are any pregnant eligible until after their young is born. Any violation of this law leaves you at the mercy of the banes, of which there is none.” Our Leader looks straight into the eyes of me and my opponent sealing in his words, there is no going back now. He raises his thin but muscled arms into the air and booms with a thunderous voice. “Let the fight begin!”

He jumps into the air pulling into a backflip that lands him on the observer side of the rope. It is time to kill, time to prove myself, again. It is the frustrating task of every nightstalker to prove their strength in some way, either by joining the hunter parties, bringing home valuable resources for the clan, or working their way through the blood of the arena. My path has been chosen for me, for I have challenged no one. That is what makes me look weak. They say I am soft like the daypeople, it is not mercy, they are not worth my effort is all.

There is a separate arena for the young ones who may challenge each other if they wish; the rules apply to them as well. It is something I do not agree with and have tried to put an end to. The memories try to flash into my mind but I push them under. More examples of my weakness to them. But if I am so weak, why do I never lose?

The challenge has begun and like every other fight, we have no weapons. If we are to kill it is to be how our ancestors killed, with our bare hands. My father instructed me in the efficient ways to end life, his training was relentless since the day I could walk. A crucial mistake is when one charges in through blind rage. “The kill begins with the mind not the weapon.” His words fall upon me like a curtain with the beginning of every fight. He taught me it is just as important to dodge a blow as it is to land one.

Itok charges towards me with his claws ready to slice my throat. He screams a vicious call while his body moves across the arena in an unthinking rage. I do not move. His arms are tense and ready to fly while one foot stomps in front of the other. I remain still. He smiles thinking he is sure to win, in his mind I am no competition, easy prey. His claws slice through the air making their way towards me and at that last second I jump into the air. Above his head I twist and on my way down behind him I grab his head and spin it until the neck cracks. His body falls to the ground in a heap. He never even knew what hit him.

In silence I step along the crumbled body, crouch down, and pull a tooth from his head. I tie it to my belt and walk out of the arena, and the village center, without ever looking back.

It is quiet, but the village seethes with rage and frustration. The challenge was quick and bloodless and satisfied no one. They crave the blood bathed ragged battles of two people rolling in the dirt sodden with red liquid. That is what the people want, and I will never give it to them. If I am to feel this unsatisfied hollowness within, then they will feel it too. If I am challenged, I will kill you quickly and without the dignity of valor.

I leave the glowing village behind making my way back towards my home, despite the night being young. My mind is angry and spinning in emotions that threaten to distract me. I cannot stop the hate building up inside, these loathsome people, my people. I hate all of them, with the exception of a few. Maybe the daypeople are right, maybe we should all be destroyed, maybe we’re nothing but animals crouching in the mud of the forest. They are, I am not. I am not them and never will be.

“You fought well tonight.” A familiar deep voice rings in my ears. As if appearing from the shadows my father Arken walks in stride with me on my right.

I take a deep breath; I need one every time we speak. “What do you want Arken?”

I glance to my right to see the powerful moonrunner walking with his hands clasped behind his back. He is taller than me by half a head and twice as broad as well. He is a tree of a man with all the power of a zigon. He frowns with his red eyes glowing in the night. “I have heard whispers. I will know your thoughts.”

I look away from him and keep my focus on returning home. “I do not care.”

He keeps in step with me, even now I could never train to become more powerful than him. “Remember the hunt a few weeks back for the trespasser?”

My body tenses and I pick up my pace, Arken matches it. “I remember.”

He is suspicious of me; he has reason to be. “The banes saw the daypeople leave the forest with a group of hunters upon them. They should have killed the trespasser, but one of our own betrayed us and saved the daypeople.”

I shrug as I walk trying to make my mind go cold. “That was a bad decision.”

Arken snorts through his nose. “Yes, it was. They did not see who it was, but If the clan finds out they will answer to the bane’s mercy.”

“Of which there is none.” I force my heart to stay steady, despite it wanting to thump from my chest, and shrug. “I will stay alert to this-“

My body is shoved from my feet by the swipe of a powerful arm. Arken grabs me by my neck and pins me against a tree high enough that I can only grasp the ground by the tips of my toes. His eyes burn with overwhelming anger. His voice is a deep murderous growl. “I know it was you.”

I return his glare with a still expression and cold emotions. “Did you see yourself?”

He snorts with frustration and lowers me to have flat feet on the ground, though I am still pinned. “I did not have to. What were you thinking?” His grip on me tightens.

I shrug with a non-committal response. “I think many things.”

He releases his grip on my throat and slashes at the tree bark by my head leaving claw marks. “Stars!” He pauses and takes a deep breath. His rage cools, but does not fade. “You are my son. I do not want harm to come to you.”

I grit my teeth. “Since when do you care if harm comes to one of your children?”

He shakes his head at me with his rage gaining an edge of hurt to it. I step past him and walk away. I hear my father’s voice behind me, he is no longer following. “I trained you for a reason. I need you to live.”

I shake my head without looking back. “I do not live for you Arken.”

“I hope she is worth it Othin.” My father’s voice rings out solemn now, not angry. “But do not allow your fascination to get you killed.”

I do not respond, but rather I drop into a full run. I bolt through the dark forest with moon rays breaching in streaks through the canopy. The green glow of the village fades into the background as I reach the outskirts and see my home in the canopy. I race to the rope and leap to it without stopping, I climb with a fury in my bones. My feet stomp onto the deck boards and my hands throw aside the skins of my doorway.

I pull myself up into my loft and push up against the boards of my roof. One board is untied by intention and I push it aside. Bright moonlight floods into the loft lighting up the piled mess of blankets. I reach over and grab the book I had left earlier flipping to the last page, that picture of the lone woman staring straight ahead with strong eyes boring into me. I imagine her hair purple blowing in the wind.

I have looked for her for months and I saw her for minutes. I broke the law for her, I risked everything to help her. I will find her again, I must. Tomorrow I will look again and I will keep looking until I she is in sight again. Something happened after I saw her, something changed inside me and ever since I have felt as if I will lose my mind if I do not find her.

Punching my frustration into the blankets I bunch them up into a pile behind my head. I lay picturing the woman I saw, knowing that those purple eyes will again fill my dreams.

I will find her. She is my harbinger; of this I am sure.