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 ^{(it's beta!)}

NOTE; I am not sure about this piece FEEDBACK pleeease!?

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Dawn light bathes the altar in its warm golden glow.

A man sits on the organ stool to the left, his hands resting lightly on the worn ivory keys.

"I can feel you, you know" His voice is gravely and cracked with age,

"I can see your shadow on the sun"

He presses the organ keys down gently.

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In the wild and overgrown cemetary outside, millions of sparkling, silvery butterflys fill the air.

Their wings and bodies made of clear glass.

Catching and refracting the sunlight into a thousand glittering rainbows, their tiny forms flutter and swarm up and around the ancient church belltower.

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The gnarled hands dance slowly across the worn old patina of the keys

And his voice rises steadily with the Butterflys outside

Sound washes from the organ pipes in a calm blue wave

For a moment the organ and its pilot are rushing through a crystal sky

Over and under sapphire seas

Through the fluttering rainbow swarm of the butterflys

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An eye opens in the fires of the sun high above the bell tower

A giant pupil, bigger than worlds, shifts to focus on the tiny organ and it's occupant

Wind howls and the organ is silenced

"You have such a beautiful dream."

In the circle, there are whispers.

The ring of old stone, smooth with age, glistens oddly in the torchlight.

In the centre, bound for centuries by shackles formed of the mountains heartrock, stands the last giant of Albion.

He is speaking a warning in tongues long dead, hoping for their meaning to spread far and sink into the ears of many.

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Outside the circle, hidden in a pool of shadow, sits Jasco.

He finishes his eight year work of translation, sighs and leaves.

The ancient guards, towering dark trees forged of flesh, don't notice him go.

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In the deep snow drifts of the mountain high above, old Jack opens one crusted eye slowly.

He can smell his prey moving...

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On the plains, far over the sea, Musth bellows a challenge to the breaking storm and with long powerful strides, begins to march.

Slowly, like ants when their nest has been broken, his legions follow.

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On the rain soaked shores of Albion Jasco opens his mind and lets the warning loose.

YJR RLR{JSMYS <STVJ YP ESR

The Elephants March To War.

27, October:

The air feels heavy with the promise of thunderstorms tonight.

I say night, but as I gaze out of the window I can tell it is merely dusk.

A large horse, black against a blue sky shading to grey, crests the hill behind my house. Three small foals follow the mare as she canters across dewy turf.

From the woods away to the east blows a late wind, autumn leaves fleeing across the fields.

What else can I see...

Past the fields, almost directly north of my window, I can see the old church.

The ancient stone building looks grim and haunted in the diminishing light, the walls cast unpleasant shadows on the surrounding countryside.

I love the land around here, little has changed in over 400 years. I can feel the weight of legends pressing around me, the stories of the Calkin, the Hobbs, Wicker men, Trolls and the like. The music of the earth creeps up to my heart through the soles of my boots and all I want is to release it, but I know not how.

When I was small I could see them all. I'm certain some of them do exist.

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There are Dryads in my woods.

I've seen them.

They flicker from tree to tree, changing shape and cackling like splitting timber.

My friend Rahman tells me they are Djiin who use the trees as gateways to our world. But I think I know better.

Trees are more intelligent than that.

I know there used to be giants here to.

We find remains every so often; a footprint here, a huge chair and similar.

One day I'll go and find the last giant, and bring Albion and the wonder of nature back into our world.

Tonight I plan to go and see the Dryads in our woods, Rahman and John will accompany me. Hopefully we shall gain more knowledge of Albion from the Treekin.

I want to know about the earth music.

I need to know about Albion.

And what is the meaning of this word;

'Cailleach'

Clouds parted before Jasco like waves as he made his way towards the Golden Kingdom.

The heavenly sphere belonged to Boreas and he was not keen on visitors, not least from the Oceanic sphere itself. So Jasco was careful to keep to the well defined road used by such creatures as could not fly when they had business with the Harpy King.

The road lead to the summit of mount Horn and was long and broad until the point it reached the very crest. When he eventually reached that point Jasco found the way ahead barred by a huge pair of golden gates, inlaid with shimmering pearl and polished, carved bone. The harsh midday sunlight shone brightly through firing holes and glinted on ornamental crenelations atop the titanic edifice.

As he stepped forward, Jasco became aware of two heavily armoured guards approaching him, each with an evilly bladed stave in hand.

"The Gate Is Closed." Intoned the first guard, his beaked helm adding an eerie metallic ring to the words.

"Leave." The second guards voice was twin of his companions.

Jasco did not break his stride, stepping forward he moved directly through the twin guards, as if they were no more than mist and shadows. Continuing onward he found the titanic gate to be equally immaterial.

A smile flickered across his gaunt features.

"Shadows and trickery will not slow me here, Boreas."

Before him the endless stair became clear amongst the clouds. A spiral of white marble, winding forever upwards, treacherously damp and mist-wreathed, even at the height of summer. Looking up, Jasco spotted the Golden Kingdom some five miles overhead, built onto the very stair itself.

He started to climb.

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At the base of mount Horn, old Jack entered a small human encampment open to travelers and people in need of rest.

By dawn the camp was as a charnel house, bodies sprawled across the floors and blood slick upon the walls.

And in the centre, Jack stood over his gristly cauldron, chanting in a strange guttural tongue.

As the last grotesque syllable spilled from his lips, the cauldron began to bubble and steam rose in a scalding cloud, bathing the camp in a terrible red mist.

When Old Jack resumed his climb after the prey, he was not alone.

"I am the first of many.

I sire a nation of the restless night.

When a Wolf howls in the darkness- it warns of me.

When the red fog pounds throughout the woodland- my voice can be heard.

Mine is the power of blood, of hate, of chaos, of killing and of the madness of this world.

I am the destroyer, reaper of all things this plane contains.

I am the eternal hunter, none may stop me.

I am the Skinwalker."

Journal of Rahman.

22 November; Compiled knowledge of Jack.

I have now almost completed my research on the entity known as 'old Jack' in the Mercian tongue.

Gleaning information about the matter has not been as difficult as I originally believed, it seems all nations (human or otherwise) have legends on this creature, although divining fact from myth has been rather time consuming.

It seems the creature- or several creatures of the same name and species- have existed since the creation. Or so far back it simply makes no difference. He is known in many cultures as a potent symbol of death and power. Generally he is depicted as a tall humanoid figure, almost always with two paired horns set at either edge of his brow. Rangy and long of limb, in some depictions he appears almost wolf-like in face, some even going as far as depicting him with fur! His eyes are always slightly over-large and very round. Often he is shown with only two fingers and thumb on either hand- normally these are the more animalistic depictions. He is always shown with a large black iron cauldron, either tied to his back or carried in his right hand. According to the tales this is what he uses to concoct his blood spells.

Traditionally he is viewed as an evil figure, possibly even a daemon. Generally he is known as a primeval force, almost an 'avatar of chaos'. He delights in spreading death and confusion.

Of late tales and sightings of this peculiar entity have ceased. Hopefully proving him to have been nothing more than folkloric myth and superstition. However with so many tales and sightings spread across such a large area it seems he must be deemed a real and dangerous threat to civilization.

I shall finalise these notes tomorrow and discuss them with Boris and John.

I hope to heaven above the dryads lied...

The Golden Kingdom is ancient, built as it is upon the Spiral of heartrock atop the titanic mount Horn, its mighty spires and many high towers reach almost to the next curve in the Spiral one mile above and the massive Citadel of Cloud situated there.

The air is thin up here and the occasional high cloud ensures the Spiral is treacherously damp year-round. Not that this is any worry to the majority of the kingdoms inhabitants.

The Shrike are long lived creatures, tall and haughty, they make no effort to disguise their particular talents from the other races of the world. Many sport long crests of feathers in place of hair, a few older and more powerful of them even have long beaks and talons instead of more human features.

Boreas was even more avian in appearance than his subjects. He was exceptionally tall, around seven feet head-to-toe, possessing a huge pair of pale blue feathered wings and long black talons upon his feet.

He lounged casually in his high-backed golden throne as Jasco was ushered into the cavernous throne room by a small white-crested orderly.

"Why Are You Here, Young One Of The Deep Tricksters; Jascorius?" The voice was thin and harsh, accompanied by the click of a beak unsuited to universal speech.

<U :PTF, HTRSY RBO: VP<RYJ, O S< {ITDIRF NY JR EJP DYSMFD OM YJR DPIYJRTM DLU. P:F KSVL JI<DR:G. Jasco communicated directly with the Harpy King's mind, not trusting his mouth to speak the dreaded words.

"I Do Not Believe You" Boreas eyes narrowed as he spoke and the large guards around the room noticeably tensed, ready to strike in a moment.

"Then you shall all die" Jasco whispered, switching to the common tongue,

"all of you, children, women, none shall be spared. The fire of old man Fiddler will sweep up the Spiral, and take you and all your lives with it."

Boreas regarded Jasco carefully, his dark eyes shining in the light of the ever present sun.

When he next spoke, it was to the white-crested orderly, still standing by the door.

"Moa, Take Twelve Of The Flesh Caste And Sweep The Mountainside. Report Back Here Before First Light. I Want The Rest Of The Guards Placed On High Alert." as Jasco and Moa turned to leave the Harpy King suddenly leapt from his throne, in a flash of feathered wings was stood right behind Jasco. The great cloud lord bent to Jascos ear level and whispered, so only he would hear

"Pray To Your Pretty Little God You Are Wrong."

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In a long descending tunnel, some ten miles from the summit of mount Horn, old Jack stalked through the claustrophobic dark. He remembered this cave, he has been here before. Many years before.

Remnants of his last visit crunched under his feet and the shadows seemed to deepen at his passing.

Behind him, dark shapes scrambled into the tunnel.

After a time. Perhaps days, maybe hours, Jack came upon the heart of the mountain. The site of Zahouwo's tragic suicide and the fight between Nyharlotep and Kadosh, from the story of which derives the mountain's name.

It was a cavern, maybe half a mile across, formed of three circles arranged concentrically. The first is of the same dark stone as the rest of the mountain. The second is a ring of crystal clear water, shimmering silver with the echoes of a thousand lives played out across the mountain. Third and finally is the central island. This is composed of the dull reddish stone of the mountain's heartrock.

On it, bathed in the swirling reflections of the water, stands an Organ.

Time has held no sway in this place, and the old organ remains exactly as it was left.

Next to it, a thin strand of heartrock curls up out of the island and up through the ceiling.

This place is the start of the Spiral.

Jack crosses to the Organ, stepping across the water as if it were as solid as the heartrock itself.

"You have such a beautiful dream..."

The whisper echoes forth across the cavern for a moment then fades out into the dark tunnels beyond.

"You WILL Fight!

You WILL Kill.

If you do not,

you WILL Die!"

The screaming voice resounds and rebounds within his skull, mingling with the shrieks and howls of terror bursting from the melee to the front.

Struggling forward, one foot before the next, slipping upon the dead faces of friends and comrades in arms, he pushes into the swirling mess of limbs. Crimson washes his vision as arterial spray splatters from the crush of flesh, screams ring in his ears, the bronze of his war helm amplifying the sounds tenfold.

His sword is long and heavy, caked in blood and mud, it is to slow to draw.

The man before him is pulled apart, razor edged talons ripping through from shoulder to groin, tearing him in half in a great welt of ichor and dark viscera.

"We struggle now against the Leviathan! Against Jörmungandr, the world serpent! We MUST win!"

He sweeps up the dead fighters sword as he pushes forward. His shield raised to defend against the storm of shredding claws.

Unbidden the dark mist descends, his eyes become clouded red with bloodlust. His heart beats loud and deep within his chest and a guttural roar rises in his throat.

"I WILL LIVE"

The cry rips from his throat and fills the air around him.

Still screaming an indecipherable shout of rage he ploughs forward, throwing his shield to the whirling claws around him, he puts the long sword to good and bloody use, cleaving through the rank swathes of torn flesh before him he comes face to face with the deadly serpent of the long dark waters.

"I am monster, you say" hisses a voice. A voice from all around him it comes. It burns his ears to hear, scalding his living brain and causing him to stumble in his charge. "You will live think you. You will live and call me monster? Will you live were you monster man? All I will is be. You will not find any pleasure when this victory see you, mark me."

"Mark You."

Pain.

Cold water embraces him. Toppling into the icy depths of the inlet he floats on the current as it sweeps him out and away along the coast, away from the corpse of the Serpent and the victorious warriors, away from his home and family.

Away and off into the wide dark beyond.

Over a gently bubbling stream, clear as a midsummers day, a rickety bridge stands. It looks like its been bashed together out of just about anything and everything really. One of the supports is splitting and held together with a quickly thinning piece of rope. Nailed roughly to the side is a crudely painted sign, "Uncle Heavies Crossing" the thickly daubed letters read.

Often as mites we had wandered up the little dirt road through the dark and moss clad trees to the stream. Daring one another to cross it and see what lay in and amongst the towering trunks of the Northern Wood.

One day after much taunting, Mortimer (the most adventurous of our group), decided he would take himself away on a journey of discovery. His inquisitive nature had gotten him in many accidents already and much of his body had been replaced with the heavy steam powered 'machinorgans' his father (Renton the smith) had constructed for him.

He left in the night, so none of the parents would be awake to notice his exit from our village. It wasn't until the uproar and frantic search amongst the parents and village elders had quietened somewhat that I was able to sneak out and see if my suspicions on our friend's route were correct.

Sure enough, on the Uncles crossing, splintered planks and various broken and damaged supports bore silent testimony to the passage of our friend. Hastily I returned to the village to organize our group into a search party.