Eifan Craille stands quietly in the ruins of the old town, leaning heavily on his staff. He is tired, weary from his long journey, but he has come too far to rest now. He permits himself several deep breaths. The salty sea air refreshes him, but only a little. He pulls his cloak closer, shivering lightly in the damp, chilly air and surveys the scene before him.

Shorelocke. Hardly an original name, the town had once been a sea port, providing one of the only routes for merchants to deliver their goods in-land by way of a clever lock and dam system.

Now, though, Shorelocke is a ghost town. The stone block buildings haven fallen into disrepair, and the cloying scent of rot and decay hangs over everything.

Now that he is here, Eifan is uncertain where to begin his search. Off to his left, a low stone shelter with a dark, yawning opening seems to whisper to him. To his right, a broken tower flickers with torchlight, despite no visible source. And immediately before him, an open plaza etched in mystic runes.

[Originally posted at Ficly.]

I want to experiment with an idea for this series. Does anyone remember those old Choose Your Own Adventure series? I’d like to do something similar here. The difference is that I want you, my readers, to decide which direction the story goes by “voting” in the comments. Each section of this story, Eifan will be faced with a choice. It will be your job to comment on which choice he should make. The one that gets the most votes will determine which way the story goes. Clear enough? Good.

So, what should Eifan explore: the shelter, the tower, or the plaza?

Also, feel free to suggest anything else you’d like Eifan to explore. I can’t guarantee he’ll have time (he is, after all, likely to find his hands full), but I’m definitely open to suggestions.

Germaine Ashencloake surveyed the wreckage of the room before him. Dozens of tiny figurines lay in shattered ruins across the floor. From what he could observe, each was unique.

Germaine shook his head. A woodcarver carving in bone and ivory. Such things were simply not done. It bordered on blasphemy.

One of the Voices in his head spoke. “No wonder the destruction here is so complete. Such things cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.” And yet, until recently, this one had.

Another Voice added, “Such petty gods.” It tittered. “The real gods are the carvers who carve them.” Germaine ignored both Voices.

He could feel the figurines, could taste the little tatters of god-soul that still clung to each one. These were no petty gods, he knew. Not just. These were all the gods of all the world’s religions, made by an unknown woodcarver.

He spoke — and was surprised to hear that the Voice he used was his own.

“Our gods have not forsaken us,” he said. “They were simply never with us in the first place.”

[Originally posted on Ficly]

Air _whooshed_ in and out of the titan’s lungs like enormous bellows. The sound flowed through the mountainous cavern with a sonorous resonance that would have entranced any mere mortal. Each breath built on and amplified the last, cascading into a hypnotic mellifluence that was both beautiful and terrible.

The titan lay upon an enormous slab of granite. Metallic bands, etched with the runes of an ancient, forgotten language, stretched across its sleeping form — one at the shoulders, one at the hips, and one at the knees. Four smaller bands restrained its wrists and ankles.

After aeons of lethargy, the titan had become overgrown with moss. Lichen grew from its ears and the corners of its eyes. Its skin had become calloused and rough, its nails cracked and blackened. Yellowed mucous seeped from its nostrils, and rivers of saliva dripped from its open mouth.

Of course it knew nothing for this, nor would it have cared. This once great titan, this sleeping behemoth, this Tzubletz’th slumbered on.

[Originally posted at Ficly]

He walks slowly, each lumbering stride carrying him a dozen leagues. Entire villages are crushed beneath his feet; whole nations are shaken by his passing. He cares not one whit. He strides through them like they are grass. They are insignificant in his eyes, for they forgot him long ago.

He chatters with himself for, as the last of his kind, there is no one else with whom to talk. He is the lonely god — and he is stark, raving mad.

“What will it be, Bronze? What will you do now?” he asks himself.

“This,” he replies.

He stoops, and the land beneath him shudders. With his hand, he scoops up a mountain, brushing away dirt and stone until only the thumb-bone of a titan remains in his palm.

“Ah,” he says. “Right where I left it.”

He grins and plops one end of the bone into his mouth, sucking fiercely upon it.

He stands again, and resumes his plodding. The lonely god will not come this way again.

He has that for which he came.

[Originally posted at Ficly]