Traumaie Silkfen had a red glass clearcrystal eye that glowed with anger and excitement. It had been a hypothetical heretofore, in those castlemoss grey days and only now was it slow developing into a fetal bloodmass of something.

Stilvane the Redactor found many ways in his groundfertile mind to express in the proper terms and forms, his distaste for this ill thing. Such problems were not unheard of, simply rare. Rarer still was the low growl-howl sound from Traumaie Silkfen that was his means communication. If one were to imagine the sound of a tree taking path past another at a very short distance such that their two trunks were to scrape and groan violently, then add into this the sound of a fieldswolf mourning for a torn-apart mate, one would somewhat have a trifle of a notion of the speech of Traumaie Silkfen. This sound echoed forth summoning Stilvane the Redactor from his private worksroom.

The room of The Redactor was little more than a closet compared to the confliction room in which Silkfen waited. But even having said that, its area was no real pittance. Upon entering the worksroom, one’s eyes would most probably attach themselves to the massive fireplace at the far end of the room. It was not so much a fire place, it seemed, as a huge gothic cathedral built to honor flame and smoke. And perhaps it was, in a way. Along the easternmost wall there were shelves and shelves packed with papers and books. Some lost to dust and age and earwigs.


This is tentatively titled, "The Walking Time". Anyone have any ideas where I should go with this?