1

The scratching of a sharp pencil rapidly dulling out against paper was drowned by the turmoiled sea, repeatedly hitting the rocks only a meter or so below the writer. Izen was so concentrated he didn’t even notice the sprinkling of salt water that had been increasing with the rise of the tide.

…the circle of somber figures took a step to the left every other beat from the booming piece of percussion hanging from the ceiling by old chains that should have stopped resisting the force of gravity long time ago, but they resisted , stoic, impassible. Another two beats, another step. It would soon be over. It would soon be over…

Suddenly his leg was drenched in cold water that made him jump to his feet as hurridely as he could, worrying more about his paper than his clothes. He sighed relief when he made sure it had only been lightly sprinkled and got himself off the rocks and back to the pier, it was getting late anyway.

And he really didn’t have anything interesting. He kept writing little pieces that meant nothing, that never took their places in greater plots or archs. Just imagery, snippets of fantastic places that he saw, but only briefly. After putting his small notebook back in his old battered backpack he took off back home. Home, he smiled wrily. The House, was more like it. He was no longer part of the place, he was moving out in two days. A small apartment on the other side of town. One of the advantages of having a paying job, you could pay yourself out of your parents home.

He left the sound of the sea behind him and crossed two blocks to the bus station and then decided he would walk it. Once he moved he wouldn’t be able to get to the sea on foot, not unless he wanted to waste half a day walking down old streets. Now it only took little less than half an hour, and it gave him time to think. His feet and old worn sneakers knew the way and picked up a good pace that made his unbound hair wave lazily over his shoulder as he dropped himself back to thinking mode.

He’d bought most of the basics he needed, the reason he hadn’t moved was that he lacked a bed. And though he could do without the mixer his mother had insisted on buying for him or the old drill his father had giving to him along with a whole box of old tools, a bed was the only thing he really needed.

Need. He chuckled and shook a lock of hair out of his face. If he really knew what he needed he’d feel so much better.

His steady walk, barely hampered by his drenched jean, took him half the way to his destiny, or so he was calculating, it had actually taken him just into its claws. An explosion like he had never seen before blew up in fiery death just in front of his nose, out of a service alleyway, every tongue of blue and red fire striking out like serpents in a craze. The violence of it threw him off his feet and into the open door of the fruit-shop he had just passed. He fainted. Destiny, capital D.

(I intended for this to actually be longer than the prologue, but I decided that if I didn't put it up I never would. I may come and extend in it later, or just keep spewing small chapters.)