The Gorags of Sussex: The Ragnarock Chronicles

By Sarah Kendall

Ragnarock is a young Nature-god sent from the eternal kingdom of Summerland to free a race of wolf hybrids, known as Gorags, from a terrible curse. In the guise of an innocent Gorag cub, Ragnarock is adopted by the wise she-Gorag Osmunda and settles in Cuckdown Wood in Sussex.
From there he begins an extraordinary journey of self-discovery that eventually leads him into the eerie Forest of Shana, where he must find the Gorags’ enemy, the Black Dog, and eliminate the curse.
But Ragnarock's quest is not that simple. For he uncovers a dark secret hidden beneath the forest, which casts a sinister shadow over the future of Goragkind. Will Ragnarock succeed in breaking the curse? Or will the Black Dog continue his reign of evil over the Gorags of Sussex?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781784627300

Book preview

Kendall

PROLOGUE

The black wolf crept down the path that led out of the forest. There was an uneasy feeling inside his stomach and he longed to be back amongst the trees again, where the cool scent of decay wrapped him in a comforting embrace.

The forest was his sanctuary and had been for many centuries. He had never left it before; it was his kingdom of shadows, where twilight ruled, giving him the cover he required in order to indulge in his favourite hobby.

He paused on a large boulder close to the bottom of the path and surveyed the deserted beach. Nervously licking his lips, he tasted the tang of brine upon the tips of his whiskers; it made him feel slightly sick. He fought an urge to run away – back up the rocky trail that wound down from the forest, back into the shadows of the Keralang trees. But then he remembered the reason he had come, and wondered why his brother had arranged to meet him here, away from the wild forest of Andred; a place that they, as Nature-gods, were destined to protect or be damned for all eternity.

His eyes wandered towards the sea. He fancied he saw a skeletal hand rise up from the waves and he blinked hard, willing it to vanish. The hand complied, disappearing beneath the water with barely a ripple; he cursed his imagination for playing silly tricks on him.

Suddenly he sensed a presence behind him: a presence almost as familiar as his own, and one that shared with him the same green blood of the Nature-gods. He turned round and saw another wolf standing next to him: a male wolf, with a pale coat and golden eyes. And like the black wolf, there was a halo of shimmering light around his head.

It was his twin brother.

There was no need for words. Words were clumsy things in the black wolf’s opinion, fit only for lesser beings. And anyway, he knew at once what his sibling wanted and he obeyed without question.

The black wolf followed his brother down to the sea, reluctantly crossing the shingle, hesitating as he drew closer to the water. He saw the ocean as an alien life force, unnatural and terrifying. Surely something bad would happen to him if just one salty droplet touched his fur. However, the white wolf grew more confident, striding forwards and dipping his feet into the foam, as if daring the black wolf to join him there.

A tall wave suddenly roared towards them. It smashed against the shoreline and a fine spray of brine sprinkled over the black wolf’s back; a shudder of fear went through him. In contrast, the white wolf welcomed the wave, allowing the water to saturate his pelt, his sturdy body unaffected by the power of the tide.

Then the white wolf turned away from the sea and edged closer, his wildfire eyes fixed upon the black wolf as if on a particularly tasty prey. It was an expression the black wolf hadn’t seen before, and he didn’t like it.

There was only one reason why his brother would look at him like this: the black wolf’s secret had been exposed. Somehow the black wolf’s passion for the dark ways of the forest had been discovered. And now he was going to be punished.

With rising panic he searched the white wolf’s eyes, hoping to find an explanation. But the white wolf stared back at him as if he were a stranger. And it was then that the black wolf realised the truth: he had been deceived by his twin brother.

The black wolf averted his eyes; he couldn’t bear to look at his treacherous twin for one moment longer. Instead, he studied the waves as they rolled across the silvery surface of the ocean. Then, to his horror, the skeletal hand appeared again, rearing up out of the water like a bony sea monster, only this time it was real – terrifyingly real. So real that it loomed towards the black wolf and roughly grasped him between icy fingers, then lifted him into the air and suspended him high above the waves, above a pitch-black hole that now parted the water: the gateway to Winterland.

And all the while the white wolf watched from the beach, silent and motionless.

The last thing the black wolf remembered before plunging into the depths of Winterland was hearing a voice inside his head. Or was it two…? At first he wasn’t quite sure, although the voices were somehow familiar. They reminded him of warm summer days, when he had been not much more than a croot. That had been long before the malevolent spirits lurking in the shadows of the forest had corrupted him, inviting him to share the mysterious and complex ways of their secret world.

The first voice became clearer as the black wolf strained to listen. It was his brother speaking. ‘I had to do it, I had to do it…’ repeated the white wolf, his words heavy with remorse. Well, he shouldn’t have betrayed his own twin brother, should he? The white wolf would pay dearly for his disloyalty; the black wolf would make sure of that.

However, the second voice – their father’s – was devoid of any pity. He spoke of how the time wasn’t right for the gods of Nature to accept another: that the black wolf’s brother would eventually find recompense for his loss. That, one day, a long time in the future, the creation of a new species of animal called Gorags would help to ease the white wolf’s loneliness…

Gorags: the black wolf had heard that name before. They were creatures the Quoralang Dryads had mentioned in some of their prophecies. But those so-called prophecies could be obscure at the best of times, though impossible to ignore – as the black wolf himself had discovered in the past, and his brother and father, too.

Now the black wolf was rather glad to leave the Earthlands behind him, with all its unnecessary complications and foolish emotions. Hopefully Winterland would prove to be a better place, more suitable for the superior being that the black wolf so obviously was.

But to his irritation a certain word stuck inside his head and he didn’t know why, latching onto him like a large tick as he was finally catapulted through the gateway to Winterland.

It was a word that one day, many millenniums in the future, would mean so much more to him than it did now.

And that word was Gorags.

CHAPTER ONE – SHANA AND ANDORN

Spring 814 A.D

Shana the she-wolf lived in a small cave in Andred Forest, East Sussex. She had resided there for many happy years with her life-mate Karlone and several litters of cubs. Then the Humans had arrived with their axes and their noise, cutting down the trees surrounding their home, subsequently driving out the Dryads (Tree-spirits) who dwelled inside and forcing them to find other trees to occupy. It wasn’t long, however, before families of Tree Banshees had squashed themselves into the remaining stumps, scratching out cavities with their sharp claws.

Tree Banshees were straggly-looking creatures, about the size of dormice, with grey saucer-eyes, big droopy ears and bald mushroom-coloured bodies. Their spindly arms and legs were covered in green mossy fur and they flapped about a lot, especially when in the throes of an argument.

Unlike Tree Banshees, the Dryads had been pleasant company for Shana and Karlone over the years. Shana missed them greatly. Thanks to the Humans only one tree remained nearby – a statuesque oak. But the Dryad inside lay silent; he also missed his friends and only warbled to Shana if she drew close to his tree.

The Dryads had often sung to Shana’s cubs at night, sending the youngsters off to sleep with their songs and gentle lullabies. And sometimes, much to the cubs’ delight, the Dryads would emerge from their trees to dance. Under the pale light of the moon they would move through the forest: huge leafy shadows that flitted around the trees, singing about the mysterious ways of the Earthlands, their voices sweet and pure.

Nowadays all Shana could hear was the constant lamenting of those wretched Tree Banshees. They quarrelled all the time: about the unsuitability of their new homes, of how their tree stumps were too small, of how there was no space to move, about who was going to go out and get food that night. In fact, anything they could possibly argue about, they did. And it drove poor Shana mad.

Yet the she-wolf refused to move her family to another part of the forest, even though the Humans seemed to be moving closer and closer to the cave, judging from the acrid bonfires that contaminated the air, and the voices that chattered away in the distance like magpies, getting louder and louder as time went by. Then tragedy struck out of nowhere, permanently changing Shana’s life and forcing her to flee from the home she had cherished so much.

It had happened one fine day in spring. The birds sang merrily from the tops of the trees, and the Tree Banshees snored contentedly after their busy night foraging. Shana sprang from her bed, full of energy and eager to embrace the new day. The cubs slowly rose upon stumpy legs. They wagged their tails at her before putting their noses to the ground, sniffing the bracken-decked floor, as they did every morning, seeking out morsels of forgotten meat that might, by some miracle, have been overlooked the previous night. Their father Karlone remained fast asleep at the back of the den.

Shana told the cubs she was going out to catch breakfast. But her words fell on deaf ears as they continued their search for scraps of food. Smiling to herself, she trotted out of the cave into the bright sunshine. A brisk wind was blowing, carrying with it the faint aroma of brine from the sea beyond the eastern boundary of the forest. It blew across Shana’s face and ruffled her thick winter coat, which would soon begin its annual moulting process.

In good spirits, she ventured deep into the forest, confident that her morning’s hunt would be a fruitful one. And she was right. Her stomach was quickly filled with rabbit and grouse, all ready to regurgitate to the cubs when she got back home.

When she returned, the sun was shining directly above her, telling her it was midday. As she entered the den, a disturbing sense of unrest immediately gathered around her. A low growl rumbled in her throat, her ears flattened. And suddenly a cold vice clutched at her heart, its grip intensifying with each step she took.

She backed out into the forest, her senses remaining razor sharp, as the stench of death overwhelmed her. Why hadn’t she noticed it when she had first arrived? How had she missed that distinctive odour? With eyes down, she followed its source – a trail of blood splashed across the windflowers.

Then her worst nightmare became real: a living nightmare from which she would never fully wake up as her eyes fell upon a heap of small furry bodies – her precious cubs – lying against the trunk of the single oak tree close by. Weak with fear and anguish, she crawled over to them. She tried to lick the blood away; to erase the scent of Human and dog that tainted their fur, somehow hoping that in doing so she might bring them back to life. But of course she knew it was too late; their spirits had already gone to Summerland.

She gazed up at the oak tree, peering through the bare tree branches, where clusters of leaf buds sprouted through the bark, to the blue sky beyond. Taking one deep shaky breath, she howled: a heart-rending bay that came from her soul, echoing around the forest, evoking a dreadful sadness in all who heard it.

The she-wolf struggled to absorb the horror of what she had witnessed. The only thing in her body capable of movement now was her heart. It beat fiercely against her chest as she searched the old oak’s huge boughs and listened for the snores of the Dryad sleeping inside. Silence: and then she saw why.

Cradled by the branches, on the far side of the tree, was her life-mate Karlone, his body thrown there by the Humans as a grim warning to other wolves in the forest.

Muttering a quick prayer to the moon goddess Laraharn, and bidding her family a sorrowful farewell, Shana turned on her heels and ran. The landscape was a blur of muted browns, greys and greens as she fled into the shadowy soul of the forest; into a place where no flowers bloomed, where Dryads and other Elementals ruled, where only the bravest of Humans dared to venture. But to Shana, it was a peaceful place; the sanctuary she now craved more than anything else.

Occasionally she stopped running and listened to the waking Dryads. They whispered to her, consoling her, bringing her comfort, giving her the strength and support needed to continue her journey, when really all she wanted to do was curl up somewhere beneath the ground, fall asleep and never wake up…

When the sun started to sink towards the western horizon, turning the sky vermillion red and burnished copper, and crowning the tops of the trees with gold, Shana came across a forest glade. And in that glade was a large cave, nestled amongst hawthorn bushes and holly trees, its pale limestone walls bathed in a soft damask-pink glow. Exhausted, she entered.

She was greeted by a warm, dry interior bedecked with fresh moss and oak leaves. Collapsing into a heap she let the gentle aromas wash over her body as memories of her terrible day ebbed away.

Soon she drifted into a deep sleep.

Her dreams consisted of flowery meadows, of sun-speckled woodlands and grassy dells. And in each of these places she saw her life-mate Karlone and their five cubs. The cubs swarmed around their father, teasing his tail, pulling at his ears, yelping with happiness and excitement. But when she tried to join them, to reach out and lick them, they moved away, their eyes not focusing on her face but looking at something else – something wondrous and new, something invisible that Shana was unable to experience with them.

Suddenly she was dragged out of the Dreamlands and taken back into the real world, where her pain was as fresh and raw as a recent wound.

With some difficulty, she opened her eyes. Night had fallen. The wan beams of a golden moon, a precise arc in the sky, penetrated the darkness.

She smelt freshly slain prey nearby and discovered the limp corpse of a rabbit, still warm, lying beside her. She examined it tentatively before devouring it. The crunching of bones, amplified by the dry stone walls, shattered an almost supernatural silence.

Shana felt her strength return, and with that came an unbearable sense of loss. She allowed a single tear to slip down her cheek. Praying again to Laraharn, she asked the moon goddess to provide her dead family with a happier life in Summerland, where they would be free from the persecution of Humans for all eternity.

She began to groom herself. The journey had left her coat matted with dirt. Her skin was torn and bloodied by the brambles and briars she had ploughed through; her paw pads were full of thorns. She picked them out one by one with her teeth.

After a while, she sensed she was not alone. Turning to the back of the cave she watched as a large figure materialised from the shadows. It shuffled gingerly towards her, as if it had not quite mastered the art of walking, or perhaps had not done so in a very long time. It was accompanied by the smell of damp, decaying leaves and sun-dried flowers: scents that, when combined like this, were rather enticing. The figure hovered by the mouth of the cave where the gilded rays of the moon rested fully upon it, revealing a large male wolf, with fur as white as midwinter snow, and dark blue eyes; each eye was set with a perfect golden crescent.

The wolf turned towards her. Hypnotised, she watched the crescents disappear, transforming into eyes of golden fire as he gradually drew her towards him with his mind, wrapping up her frail spirit inside his, swamping her with his unique strength and power, claiming her for himself as he whispered in a language she did not understand. Yet she felt no fear, only a tremendous feeling of calm and peace. For now she knew who he was.

At last he spoke, in the common tongue of wolves. His voice was rich and musical, with an accent that reminded her of the distant rumblings of a thunderstorm. He confirmed what she already knew: that his name was Andorn, and that he was a shape-shifting Nature-god and the son of Shuka – the mighty god of summer who ruled Summerland.

Andorn was a deity honoured by wolves for as long as their species had existed. Sacrifices were duly extended to him every year on Midsummer’s Eve, in the form of sanctified blood taken from a young stag. The blood was carefully laid around the roots of abandoned holly, hawthorn and oak trees – trees sacred to Andorn. It was hoped that this would summon the Dryad back to the tree, and in doing so would gain Andorn’s favour. Whether or not this practice worked was questionable; Dryads hated the spilling of blood, even if it had been blessed first. And if a Dryad’s tree was exposed to blood, even a tiny drop, then the Dryad would desert that tree immediately, and never return.

There were lots of stories concerning Andorn, but for Shana the most memorable was the one involving his twin brother, Radnore. The pair had travelled the ancient forest of Andred for many centuries – some said since the dawn of Time. Both were skilful shape-shifters and liked to wear the skin of a wolf: Andorn’s wolf was white, Radnore’s as black as night.

Andorn and Radnore were guardians of the Sussex countryside. They watched over the creatures living there, assisting them in their quest for food, especially during the barren months of winter when snow, sent from the icy kingdom of Winterland by its god Braedar, covered the ground and made hunting and foraging difficult.

But, as the centuries went by, Radnore became bored with this immortal life. And out of boredom he developed a fascination with the dark ways of the forest. At first it was a passing fancy; a whim that quickly developed into an all-consuming passion. Then one day he crossed the border that separated light and darkness, and there was no going back. He became seduced completely, fraternising with the malign creatures living inside the forest’s shadows, joining them in unspeakable acts of cruelty and revelling in the denial of his intended destiny, bestowed upon both himself and Andorn by their father Shuka.

Of course it wasn’t long before Radnore’s guilty secret was exposed. The safety of the forest and its occupants was at risk and had to be preserved, even if it meant Andorn betraying his own twin brother in the process. And so, Andorn was persuaded by an angry Shuka to lure Radnore away from the forest and down to the sea, where Braedar’s hand came up out of the waves, seizing Radnore, dragging him down into the eternal depths of Winterland as punishment for his sins. He would never see another forest again.

When Shana learned why the legendary Nature-god Andorn had come to her, she felt deeply privileged. It warmed her body, carrying her spirit up to dizzy heights.

Because he had just requested the most incredible thing from her.

Andorn, Lord and Guardian of the Forest, wanted Shana, a humble she-wolf, to bear his magical fruit, to create between them a new race of beings the like of which had never before been seen in the Earthlands – creatures that were half-wolf, half Nature-god.

And from that day on, Shana would ask herself again and again why Andorn might have chosen her above all others. What qualities did she possess that made her so special?

Only Andorn knew the answers.

And so, on the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, when the first rays of dawn painted the sky with pink and gold, and the waxing moon beamed down from a fading galaxy, thirteen strangely beautiful creatures were born into the Earthlands.

Shana chose to name this new species of mammal Gorags, meaning ‘Nature’s children’ in the language of wolves. For Nature’s spirit coursed freely through their veins, inherited from their father, Andorn. Surprisingly, the Gorags were vegetarian. They hated taking life of any kind, much preferring the refreshing taste of sap to the richness of blood. Roughly the size of foxes, they had delicate, wolfish faces and long floppy ears that could be quite expressive if the need or the inclination arose; their fur was short and honey-blonde.

Although they were quadrupeds like their lupine ancestors, Gorags had the ability to walk on two legs independently, useful when transporting potion containers, and more importantly, bottles of Dwarven fuddle – a cold drink greatly relished by Gorags. Their hands were well-equipped for reaching up into bushes and hedgerows, with sharp claws for tearing off nuts and berries and for gripping onto tree bark; they had long prehensile tails which acted as stabilisers whilst climbing. Their eyes, however, were the most astonishing thing about them: big and almond-shaped with midnight blue irises, each iris containing a golden crescent instead of a pupil, just like their father’s eyes.

After six weeks, when the young Gorags were fully weaned on flower buds and leaf shoots, Andorn left his family to return to his previous solitary existence in the forest, where he continued to carry out the duties appointed to him by his father Shuka. He returned only one more time before limiting his visits to once a year on Midsummer’s Eve, at their new home in Cuckdown Wood in Sussex, not far from the western boundary of the forest.

The reason for the Gorags moving away from their former home was because, when they had been just over three months old, part of the forest was damaged by a curse or Monath, as it was later known.

Although Andorn had known the Monath was imminent – the Quoralang Dryads had foreseen it many centuries ago – he had been helpless to prevent it. And, just as he had feared, the Monath and its main instigator, the Black Dog, had thrown a dark shadow not only over the lives of Andorn’s children but also over the lives of future generations of Gorag, its effects even altering their appearance. The beautiful crescents embedded in their eyes were replaced with large discs of luminous yellow that radiated a strange warmth and were unsettling to behold.

The area of the forest affected by the Monath soon became a place to be feared, although, ironically, it was named the Forest of Shana by the Gorags in memory of their mother; she died peacefully in her sleep a decade later.

After Shana’s death the Gorags tried to move away from the area. But however far they travelled, mysteriously they always found themselves back in Cuckdown Wood. It was as if they had gone in circles, unable to leave the shadow of the forest. Subsequent generations of Gorag were able to migrate further afield yet they never quite managed to cross the boundaries of Sussex and venture into Kent, Hampshire and Surrey. Some said the Monath was responsible.

Each time Andorn came to visit his family he bore magical gifts, special keepsakes to remind them all of the short but happy times they had spent with their enigmatic father. Then after the tenth year he stopped coming, and the Gorags knew then, as Shana did, that they would never see him again; his responsibilities had taken him away for good.

When Andorn had left them the first time it had been especially hard. They had pined for him over many nights and days, hiding inside the cave despite Shana’s attempts to coax them out. Andorn had been a patient and attentive father during the brief time he had shared with them: watching over them whilst they slept, laughing with them as they played, and entertaining them with his funny games and clever shape-shifting tricks. He had answered their endless questions with patience, when sleep had evaded them and their young minds had buzzed with anticipation of the long life that lay ahead of them. How they missed him!

But it wasn’t too long before they heard the sweet sound of Shuka’s voice beckoning to them, encouraging them to leave the cave as the god of summer conjured up visions inside each of their minds. And naturally, being Gorags, the call of the outside world became too much to resist. Very soon they were drawn out of the gloom and into the vast wilderness beyond, skipping eagerly into the sun-dappled forest with joyful hearts, all fear gone, as they embraced its wonders. Their absent father was temporarily forgotten.

During those first three months of the Gorags’ lives, they lived in what they thought was a perfect world, an earthly reflection of the mystical forests belonging to Summerland. Until evil crawled out of the shadows and corrupted their innocence; an evil that had evolved seven years before the Gorags’ birth, in the untamed Kingdom of the Picts, and miles away from Cuckdown Wood.

It had all started with a lonely Pictish boy called Zilo who had befriended an old black dog he had found wandering lost in the forest. But little did Zilo know that this single act of kindness would one day not only have grave repercussions for himself, but for an entire species of creature that didn’t even exist at that point.

CHAPTER TWO – THE DARK AMBITIONS OF A FOREST DEMON

Zilo was ten years old when the plague had claimed his father and four brothers. Up until that cruel twist of fate his life had been an uneventful but happy one: collecting firewood in the forest, hunting grouse and hare with a clumsy longbow, swimming in the icy depths of the loch, catching spawning salmon with his bare hands.

Then the plague had come without warning: a silent and deadly predator from across the tranquil waters of the loch, wiping out almost two-thirds of the clan that dwelled on its banks in a matter of weeks. Amongst the survivors were Zilo and his mother, Cora. Until the following year Cora was attacked and killed by a wolf. Now Zilo felt only resentment towards the god he had been told to worship from an early age.

But most of all he blamed the creature that had stolen his mother from him.

Once he had buried her body Zilo devoted all his time and energy into developing traps and weapons – the tools of his new trade – to assist in his quest to destroy the species responsible for his loss. Soon it became an obsession.

Unbeknown to Zilo, his activities over the following months were being observed by a guileful Forest Demon. He had been dwelling in the forest beyond Zilo’s village since the arrival of the plague, initially attracted to the pain and suffering caused by the disease. He fed on the ripe essence of misery and death that festered all around him, making him stronger and more powerful as each day went by: strong enough to ultimately achieve his greatest of ambitions.

Forest Demons had inhabited the ancient forests of Britannia for many thousands of years. They were wicked and opportunistic creatures, often possessing the bodies of living animals, which they used to wreak havoc and mischief upon mortal beings.

This particular Forest Demon had recently taken over the body of an old black dog he’d found lost in the forest. In his new body the Demon had hidden himself away inside empty badger setts and foxholes, using these daytime retreats to avoid being seen by the Humans. He also needed to take refuge from the burning rays of the sun because Forest Demons were nocturnal beings. They could not withstand daylight for much longer than a minute, even if in the body of a diurnal creature such as a dog.

The Forest Demon lurked underground every day until dusk. Then he would emerge and scavenge for any morsels of food he could find under the light of the moon. Occasionally he would hunt, although this was a bit tricky. The dog’s body was not as young as it was; its bones creaked and its limbs were stiff with arthritis; its eyes were short-sighted. But it was the best the Forest Demon could find. He would use the black dog until something better came along.

How the Forest Demon loved the night! The moon gave him energy as the sun sapped it. And if the moon was full and he was feeling adventurous he would travel further afield, to the Human village beyond the forest; the eating was always good there. Humans attracted both death and disease, which meant graves and dead bodies and therefore a good supply of food for his host. He scavenged the corpses under the light of the moon whilst the unsuspecting Humans slept in their beds. Many of the corpses were still quite fresh. He eagerly drained them, gorging himself with their blood, turning them into crackling husks.

The Forest Demon often encountered Zilo on these moonlit rambles. At first he had watched Zilo from afar. Then, when he felt the time was right, he had revealed himself to Zilo in his cute doggy disguise. Of course the Demon had won the boy’s affection easily. Lots of daft doggy tail-wagging and wet, slobbery licking had done the trick. That was the easy part. And Zilo was obviously pleased with his furry companion, even choosing a name for his pet, that of his deceased uncle, Graylock. Funnily enough, it was a name the Demon rather liked, and so he decided to keep it.

The Forest Demon had waited decades for this opportunity and now, at last, it was here. You see, Graylock had wanted to wear the skin of a Human for as long as he could remember. He had always admired the species. Their inventive methods of killing each other and of inflicting pain and suffering amazed and fascinated him. How he longed to experience the pleasures of the physical plane for himself, to do all those horrible things that Humans did to one another! And the best way to do this must surely be to possess the body of a real living Human, even if it was only a scruffy specimen like Zilo.

And Zilo was just ripe for possession: an unstable Human who had lost his grip on reality, who had no family, whose will was weak, who would not put up too much of a fight. The perfect candidate!

Graylock wasted no time in claiming the boy’s body for his own. He chose Zilo’s twelfth birthday to do the deed and hoped the boy would like his special present. It had to be better than the filthy cake the boy had made himself for a birthday treat. Graylock was right; the Human was easy to take. Almost too easy. The soul slipped out obediently and with little resistance, before disappearing into the encompassing darkness of the forest…

With his newly acquired body, which he discovered, much to his delight, was able to tolerate sunlight, Graylock continued to