//------------------------------// // Prologue // Story: Tower of the West // by Lasairfion //------------------------------// The sunlight streamed down through the trees leaving dappled patterns on the ground ahead. The soft swish of the treetops swaying in the cool breeze made the light dance and shift around his feet and helped lessen the feeling of stifling heat and sweat. He could hear birdsong, the buzz of insects, and in the far distance the faint tinkle of falling water: a stream rushing on by, perhaps a waterfall. A dark glow raised a bottle from his saddle-bags and dabbed a little of the cool liquid across his lips. In this bright sunshine, the stallion's colouring stood out against the verdant green of the foliage. The high-collared viridian jacket and peaked cap helped somewhat, but the brass epaulettes and fixings twinkled as they caught the light, and his stark black coat stood out like an ink-blot on a fresh sheet of paper. Trailing down his flank, just shy of the saddlebags, three ragged lines ran through the hair, turned a light-grey colour that contrasted against his coat, like claw marks from some wild beast. Nothing else could be seen, hidden under the heavy brown fabric of the large panniers. From under the cap, red and burnished gold spilled out like a sunset down his crest and forehead; while a single piercing blue eye burned from under it. On the left side a dull grey looked out dispassionately at the world. He trudged on through the undergrowth. --- The gateway was tall. One had to wonder what would necessitate an opening you could fit an adolescent dragon through, when the path up to it could barely have accommodated a simple two-wheeled cart. Towers of crumbling stonework, rendered a sun-bleached white stood either side, with lit torches burning in rusted brackets. Two huge wooden gates with heavy metal stud-work and thick iron bindings lay partially open, inviting the weary traveller into a colourful and bustling marketplace where refreshment, excitement and rare treasures were proffered. Vanner: city of merchants, caravans and goods-trains; ships and air-freighters converging on a lazy riverside town of two halves that had grown fat on the wealth of places so far away that the residents had not even heard of them. Or at least that was how it used to be. Now the city lay under siege a stone’s throw from a disputed border with the Gryffon lands. Only the surrounding impenetrable shield of monster-infested jungle had prevented a wholesale invasion; leaving the battle to take place on the river and in the air. The stranger stepped under the arch and into the relative cool of the gateway and a guard arose from behind a fortified barrier, quickly and efficiently checking his travel papers to ensure that nothing was amiss. Entering the widening street, the dark pony made his way between the canopies and stalls that overhung the wide road, eyes flicking from side to side as he searched the shadows, rooftops and alleyways in constant vigilance. The street vendors yelled and called as they hawked their wares; the packed streets a miasma of dust, spices and sounds. The brilliant blues, reds and whites of the hoof-made tiles and decorations stood out from the brown ochre of the walls, the colours shimmering in the pure heat of Celestia’s sun. Moving through the streets of the city, the tired traveller headed for the river; a light breeze flowing inland lifting his spirits as he finally spied his destination. It sat directly on the river, a large adobe building, ornamented with gilt rooves and a tall highly decorated tower that housed a large bell. He could hear it tolling the hour; calling the pious to prayers: the Llamasery of the ancient order of Saint Epona. --- The locutory was at the front of the complex facing the river, and was afforded some protection from the blazing heat by a large verandah that ran the full length of the building. Wide open windows, their wooden louvred shutters thrown back, allowed cool river air to enter the room. Here the public could converse with the monks without disturbing their important ecclesiastical duties, whilst enjoying refreshment provided from the refectory. Many of the monasteries housed a library, but here there was none. Rather the reading materials were stored below in cellars where the temperature was more amenable to the preservation of the ancient parchments and scrolls. This space was dominated by lecterns and plain, heavy tables and it was to one of these that a ‘navaka’ carried a package wrapped in oilcloth. A tall, old llama looked at the new monk with a critical eye. ‘Set it on the table with care’, he said. As the younger monk laid the package on the table and left the room, the older monk’s eye followed him out, then around until it came to rest on the strange visitor. The monk quirked an eyebrow, then set about meticulously unfolding the package. As the oilcloth fell away, a gruesome looking bundle came to view: rolled leather. ‘A hundred years sitting in a dark cellar, and here am I with this out on a table for the second time in as many days’, said the monk. ‘You’ll be wanting to see the Flayed Map then, Wrath?’ ‘Oh, that I do, Quiet Word’, said Wrath. ‘That I do.’