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The Island of Tortoise-Tuga, a few weeks later.

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Some mild teasers and spoilers ahead. Still with me? Good.

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Dim wasn’t walking so much as he was floating—or maybe he was walking and he just couldn’t tell. He couldn’t feel the ground beneath his hooves as he approached the large group of bandits that had landed in the town square. Motes of darkness swirled around him; it was impossible to determine if they were real or a hallucination. This town was built upon a foundation of chalk and the magic here was strong… strong and easy to reach. It required no effort on Dim’s part to begin siphoning it

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The train trundled down the tracks on its way to Shepherd’s Shore and Dim stared out the window with a blank stare hidden behind his goggles. Grief bloomed within his breast like a ravenous cancer, devouring him, consuming him, a thousand malignant, conquering tentacles that meandered through his body, leaving disease in their wake. In his head was another unwelcomed visitor, an unwelcomed lone voice that plagued him, spoke to him, remained with him, speaking words he had no desire to

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Dim has been in development for a very long time now, as long as Sumac. He's gone through many changes, sometimes still a foal, other times, more of an adult, like he is now. Some things have changed considerably, but the core remains the same. As with many characters, it was a song that shaped Dim's core concepts as a character, that gave him bones, flesh, and blood.

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup

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In Eigengrau. Mild spoilers ahead.

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Abbeyford-upon-Avon

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This city was crowded and modern, but didn’t quite have the distinction of being a city-state like Liverypool or Trottingham. Abbeyford-upon-Avon was built upon the bend of a river and located near a natural clay deposit, a valuable resource. The largest building in town was the Brickworks Orphanarium, which was both a brickworks and an orphanarium all in one colossal super-structure.

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Waiting, Dim rolled a cigarette for himself. A little hashish, a few calming herbs, a hint of cloves, and some cured blue lotus leaves. When the cigarette was done, he stuck it into the end of a long, slender, silver cigarette holder. He didn’t much care for the smoke to blow back into his eyes, because it stung something awful. With a flick of fire magic, he lit his cigarette and began puffing.

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It will be finished, but about two-hundred thousand or more words will be cut out from it. In short, we're going to jump to the end sequence, and then the story will be mercifully put down. If find myself second guessing that though, and I keep thinking that even that much effort is a mistake, and I could be devoting my time to other projects that need finishing.

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Even though Dim was exhausted, he did not return to his room. Taking advantage of the remaining dark of the night, he picked up a few things relevant to his interests. A fresh copy of the Telegraph, just delivered off of the train. A dozen sweet rolls, still warm, and their glaze runny. In the pale grey that signaled that the dawn would arrive soon, Dim found himself sitting on the patio of some bistro, enjoying a cup of bhang.

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So, at least one reader is upset that Eigengrau lacks any sort of trigger warning, and there was a very brief, terse exchange. I don't know how seriously I should take this, and perhaps of more importance, I don't even know where to begin for trigger warnings on this story. I haven't given it a lot of thought and now, I am kinda sorta wondering if I had labeled certain things from the beginning, would the story have done better? If people saw a list of triggers and or fetish highlights,

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It's not doing very well. Each chapter suffers a significant drop in the number of views from the previous, the story never 'caught fire,' and I can't help but feel that I have made a mistake. This is far too involved a story to invest time and effort into if only a handful of people are reading. Honestly, it feels as though it has withered on the vine and I feel as though adding the last two chapters has been a dreadful mistake.

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The dark, sacred night brought relief from the harsh, unforgiving light of day. Dim had slept a little, his dreams troubled, he had dreamed of Darling. His rented room was adequate for paupers and maybe unlikeable scullery maids. Somehow, he made do in these deplorable conditions. His pale brown clay hash pipe hung from his lips, and curls of smoke rose from his nostrils while he gazed out of his narrow window.

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Derbyshire, The Grittish Isles.

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How the light still burned. While the train pulled into the station, Dim remembered stepping into the sunlight when he fled from his home. Emerging into the sunlight had been blinding. At that point in his life, he had been indoors for years, with his last venturing out into the light happening when he was a small foal. Blinded, panicked, he had been forced to ask for help to reach the shipyard.

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And I don't know if I should be proud of this accomplishment. I'm riding a pretty weird writer's high right now and I don't know what I'm feeling. I wrote a story. No, I wrote a Grecian Tragedy. Well, I wrote something, anyhow, but I don't know if people should read it. There's enough wrong in the world without me adding more.

I feel conflicted. Help.