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Garran stood on the watch tower, it was cold, cold, dark and miserable. An icy drizzle fell from the sky, not even the rain's heart was in it this evening. Garran had often wondered what the point of posting guards on a tower in the dark was, him and Berrick could not see anything in the pitch-black night. It was quite tonight, maybe the rain and made the beasts retire early he thought, cold, dark and silent like the grave.

The Plague lord stood at the tower window seeming to gaze off into nothingness he extended his senses to survey the horde below, he did not see them, but rather felt the presence of their damned souls. As he briefly connected with each of them in turn he could feel their burning hate for him, hate for life, hate for the living, self-loathing, and cold despair that only the tormented dead can know.

Beras closed the book, it’s heavy leather binding thudding down on to the old vellum pages. He was old, he felt old, he felt older than the ancient dusty tomb in his hands. Still he wanted to learn, his mind was bright, agile, almost child like, only his body was failing him. At first he hadn’t minded growing old, but as his health began to fail he was forced to waste his precious seconds resting in order to maintain himself. Beras had read this particular volume many times, he was fascinated by the Author’s assertion that the Gods were beholden to men.

At first there was perfection, balance, everything in pristine undisturbed harmony. All of existence in stasis, extending mirror smooth into eternity. Everything was encapsulated in this single perfect entity, it had no thought, no gender, no needs, no wants, it simply existed. It had no need for names, but men have come to know this first perfect being as Nok’suul. It’s eternal form filled all of reality, it was and still is the essence of all things. In this time before time, this place of perfect stasis nothing was as we know it, Nok’suul was all.

The guards came for him at first light, dried blood matted his hair and his beard. Still dizzy and nauseated from the blow to the head, he lay on the hard packed dirt floor in his cell awaiting his fate. The floor was cold and damp, his arthritis was making his shoulder joints burn, his breathing was laboured and blood crusted his chin. Thumb-locks bit cruelly into his flesh, tearing at the nails. Beras had not had time to take in his predicament, his mind was numb, he lay still on the floor listening to his wavering heartbeat and wishing he was somewhere else.