A sheet of paper lies squarely upon the center of a dark wooden desk which has been well-polished until it gleams. Hunched before it, sitting in a chair made of the same dark material, a large figure ponders the page, holding a crow's feather quill in hand. The page is pristine, not even the smallest blot of ink marring its surface. His hand moves, as if to start a word, then pauses. He looks around himself instead, pondering the environs. To his side, an enormous leopard rests, purring loudly as she nestles against the chair. Her fur is as white as the page itself, though with a significant distinction: she bears marks, dark rosettes of inky blackness scattered across the fur, an inversion of the night sky that can be seen out a window nearby. He casts his attention back to the page, frowning. What was he going to write about? The librarian had recently suggested a prompt. Write about the Age of Wyrden Supremacy, she said. He had had a few thoughts on where to take that, but every time he tried to start, they turned out to be nothing more than spiderwebs which tore apart beneath the quill's first motion. In his head, a voice suddenly asked, "How are?" Throwing down the quill, pushing back the chair, he stands. The leopard rises with him, suddenly eager to be doing something, and the two of them promptly seek out the voice's source. They find the young kepheran in the Blasted Lands, seeking down a wandering trill, and begin to follow him on his errands. The leopard rubs against him, purring in greeting, as the figure replies to his adopted son, indicating that things are well. He says naught about his discarded endeavour, having already dismissed it from his mind. They venture through the Blasted Lands as the kepheran kills mongrel and scorpion. The most devious foes, however, live in pits. They are not strong, and pose no danger, but the kepheran often falls into them. Eager to move along, as they have no place in his task, he leaves his father behind. There is no expression on the figure's face as he gestures. A bloody, cloying haze grows before him as he locates the kepheran, before growing to a solid mist that engulfs him and returns him to his son's side. A swift apology is offered, yet before much longer, he finds himself once more alone in another pit. Thus it goes, until the month is spent and all have found themselves returned to slumber, but the figure is content with how he spent his time. --------------------- A sheet of paper lies squarely upon the center of a dark wooden desk. No longer entirely pristine, the faintest layer of dust has gathered on it. The figure is once more hunched before it, though now studying a painting hung to one side of the room. Prominent on it are depictions of the figure and his leopard companion, artwork well-drawn by the hand of his son. He shakes his head, attempting to return his focus to the page. Yet, as before, the spiderwebs of story are torn apart before quill meets page. "How are?" comes to his mind once more. He throws down the quill by the desk, and rises again. He stares at the page before dismissing it firmly from his mind. Patting the leopard, the two of them seek out the voice's source. This time they find him near a river, frantically chasing down butterflies with a net. The leopard appears eager to join in the game, and leaps for them as well, though the ones she catches tend not to fare as well. The figure smiles softly, watching their antics. They gather orcs to serve as guards, they offer gold, all to appease the whims of a shrill-voiced woman living with a deep anger for her new husband. Finally, the kepheran decides that the man trying ever more drastic measures to woo his bride's request for poison is justified, and he collects ingredients from around the Basin, from platypus to scorpion. Surprisingly, the ploy works; the man quaffs his poison, and his wife decides she loves him after all. The figure observes, wondering at the fickle loyalties of these mortals. Thus it goes, until the month is spent and all return to their slumber. Content once more, the figure and his leopard drift away. --------------------- A sheet of paper lies squarely upon the center of a dark wooden desk. The accumulated dust is quite thick in places now, but wide swathes down the page indicate where a hand has attempted to brush it clean. The figure sits hunched before the page once more. This time he is pondering the weapons rack placed in the corner of the room instead of the sheet of paper. Full of weapons from massive two-handed bardiches to small nekai, and everything between-- axes, rapiers, scimitars, broadswords, and even armour and shields-- this rack bears the weight of centuries of stories within. The page, however, yet bears nothing. "How are?" comes to his mind, and with relief, he once more abandons the page. With the leopard, they find themselves in an ancient monastery populated by loboshigaru, beside the kepheran who is speaking with monks. They have been demanding corpses, and this is something which the figure has never found himself averse to. Together, they seek out the bodies of sundry creatures, from all across the Basin. From below the surface of the Basin, the rockeaters are collected, their devouring done. From beneath bloody waves, they slaughter sharks which will hunt no more. The spiders are gathered from amongst the trees, and the rocs brought down from the mighty heights above. All are brought to the monks, who make much of these creatures, and press tokens into the kepheran's hands. Eagerly, he sets out to distribute the tokens, passing out their favours that he might receive a blessing in turn. Finally, they venture within the Pits, a place far away. Within, the spirits of rocs and spiders, rockeaters and sharks roam, anxious to take their revenge upon those who dare venture within. Yet these, too, are swiftly dispatched. Harder to locate are the four hunters, one of which bears the prize-- a scroll, which the Master of the monks seeks. Yet, before much longer, these too have been challenged and defeated. Scroll in hand, the kepheran ends their hunt as the month draws to a close. Once more content, the figure and his leopard drift off to slumber. --------------------- A sheet of paper lies squarely upon the center of a dark wooden desk. The dust is back, thickly coating the entire sheet. No figure sits before it, now. It has been left to itself, abandoned. No voice intrudes, for there is nothing to intrude upon. This story shall never be told... Yet in the meantime, much else transpired, stories of significant only to father and son. Stories that mean little to anyone else, but to them are everything. A sheet of paper lies squarely upon the center of a dark wooden desk. Unmarked by quill, untouched by ink, yet it has been there for it all.