I’m sorry for anybody that reads this tale. I was forced into writing this, and it reflects nothing of what I feel...

A BEGINNING

In the reign of the First Chosen Akeron, in the year 10,450, the ashen Season of the Dragon, when the land knew peace and prosperity from Tempest to Bashkar, she who would spill lakes of blood came to pass. By the laws of the Venerance, Grand Venerate Kastura and his Reverents—

‘By the gone gods and their withered dicks, man! That is not how one should start a tale. Shitting lizards, that’s no way to start a history manual, never mind my story. Are you trying to drown the poor reader in a bucket of useless information? Bless me!’

The blood-spattered woman strode back and forth before the scribe with purpose, scuffing at the carpet with her crimson boots. With every loud graze of the rich rug came a flinch from the scribe. His eyes, pale as his cheeks, were affixed to the huge cleaver in the woman’s fist. Not to mention the blood dripping with vexing frequency on the fine fibres of his newly-acquired rug. A gift from his uncle, and an expensive one at that.

Four dead prosecutors lay in sprawled and severed positions across the chamber. One deceased fellow was precariously close to the fire. By the rancorous smell, he was beginning to singe.

Gulping a breath, Grigio attempted an apology with a tight throat and a tone that was far too squeaky for his liking. ‘I’m… sorry?’

The woman twirled her cleaver, flicking blood up his legs, coat, and face. Grigio forced himself to keep his hands still over the hide, but the shivering blue quill betrayed his fear.

‘I thought you were the finest scribe in the Watchhaven. So precious they lock you away for themselves in a tower. I’ve come a long way and risked a great deal coming to find you, you know.’ She came to examine the particulars of Grigio’s desk. She poked at his ornaments and his finely-ordered sheafs of hide, stirring a different kind of discomfort in the scribe.

‘I’ve shed a great deal of blood and sweat to visit the East’s greatest taleteller. Some of it my own! That is why it pains me so to discover last night’s vomit could write better literature. I come all this way for your help and yet here I stand, somehow teaching you how exactly one pens a tale. A poor shame it is,’ the woman sighed. ‘Should I slit your throat now to save me from disappointment and wasting any more of my time, Grigio? Or would you like to try again?’

His answer was swift in coming. ‘Er, another chance, if you would be so kind.’

The woman grinned a set of surprisingly pale teeth for one that looked like a brigand in stolen armour. Her cleaver, though, was inlaid with fine iridescent insect shell. ‘You’re a wise man, if not one with a bloated reputation it seems,’ she told the scribe with a jolly laugh.

‘Perhaps that is true,’ Grigio answered, as his quill rattled in the inkwell.

‘Let us try this again. And like I said before, I want grand prose that fits my grander accomplishments. A story that will sit on every shelf from peasant hut to Venerance mansions. A tale of epic proportions that will last generations.’

‘You want me to write…that?’ Grigio still highly doubted the woman had any kind of grand tale other than lies.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I–I can’t believe this is why you slaughtered your way into my tower,’ Grigio stammered.

‘Hah! Don’t blame me. It’s your fault for having locked doors and keeping so many guards. And your own prosecutors, too. You’re an important man indeed, Grigio!’

‘Forgive me, but I have to ask. Why me? I just write what the Venerance allows me.’

The woman put a foot on his scribe’s bench and leaned close. She smelled of peppermint and the stink of blood. ‘Because I’ve read the regurgitated myths they let you pen, and they might not notice or forgive the subtle voice you sneak between the lines, or the hints you hide as if they were nothing but punctuation, but I see it. Now, why is that you’re staring at me like that?’

‘I’m surprised—‘ Grigio bit his forked tongue.

‘Hah!’ the woman laughed in his face. ‘Surprised I can read? There’s that spirit I like to see!’

Grigio had never known it as spirit. His mind had a habit of speaking before he could catch up. ‘It’s just that so many of you lesser humans and Ashlanders can’t.’

‘You’re astute, I’ll give you that. Not many notice I was born in the Ashlands. I might not kill you after my tale is told, Grigio. So long as you don’t call me lesser ever again,’ she said with a beaming smile. ‘Face it. I’m here now and you’re the only one I trust with my story. Stories are fragile and dangerous; glass daggers which must be crafted carefully, and skill recognises skill wherever it sees it. Will you prove me right and live a little longer, scribe?’

‘But I know nothing about you!’ Grigio spluttered. ‘I don’t even know your name? How am I supposed to know where to begin?’

The woman sighed dramatically as she pulled a dead and rather headless prosecutor from Giglio’s bed. She tested its mattress with a disapproving tut before sitting.

‘My name?’ she smirked. ‘I’ve known a few in my time. Ever heard of the Blaze of Canarva? Pest of the Guttervale? No? Well, it seems my reputation doesn’t precede me. I’m glad I’m here. You can call me Dwellin Dorr, Grigio, and I will tell you my tale. You may choose the words. Settle yourself in, scribe, and be warned: it’s not the heroic saga you’re used to penning. My life hasn’t been one of shining armour, or silks and perfumes, or gods-given rights. There have been far too many stories of chosen ones for me to tell another.’

And so Dwellin Dorr began to speak, and with the cleaver’s point spinning a hole in the rug and the dripping of the corpses, it took all of Grigio’s concentration to keep up. What choice did he have?