Small stone houses crowded the cobblestone road. The town was silent except for the soft rustling of the rain falling on the thatched roofs. If it weren’t for the guards and the occasional twitch of a curtain as he walked past, he would have thought the town was deserted.

Suddenly, he heard a scurrying noise on the road ahead of him. Another bolt of lightening lit the sky, and he saw a huge yellow umbrella coming towards him, propelled by six legs. The umbrella came to an abrupt halt in front of him and started to speak.

“On behalf of the fine citizens of Durapo, I bid you welcome!” it declared. “Only a wise and noble man such as you would dare to travel to us on a night like this! Come, I have a warm meal and a soft bed waiting for you.”

Iamme considered the offer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t usually accept offers from strange umbrellas,” he replied.

The umbrella gave a nervous laugh, then rose a few inches, revealing three men underneath. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gaides, the mayor of Durapo,” one of them said. He gestured to the two men with him. “I believe that you’ve already met Norom and Drawoc, our brave town guardsmen.”

“I am…” Iamme started to introduce himself, but stopped as the umbrella began to shake, reminding him of banana pudding.

“No!” the mayor interrupted anxiously. “I mean, we know who you are. After all, your mighty reputation precedes you. And you have The Book. Please, no introductions are necessary. Now, if it pleases you to follow me…”

Iamme followed the brightly colored umbrella through the dark and twisted streets. They had only been walking a few minutes when the book in his hand began to vibrate softly. Looking down, he noticed that it was giving off a faint orange glow. At the same time, he felt the sharp prick of cold steel against his neck.

“Gimme the book,” a hoarse voice whispered in his ear. The knife pressed a little harder into his neck. “I said, gimme the book!”

The book had now turned from orange to red. Iamme tried to drop it, but his hands wouldn’t open. His eyes darted around, looking for the mayor and guardsmen. He saw Gaides off to the side, held at bay by a man with a wicked looking sword. The “brave” guardsmen were nowhere in sight.

“Last time – either give me the book or I’ll take your head!”

The book grew hot in Iamme’s hands, then exploded with a bright flash of light. The knife dropped to the ground as the thief grabbed at his eyes. Before Iamme realized what was happening, the book slammed into the man’s groin – once, twice, three times. The man doubled over, and the book slammed down on his head. He silently crumpled to the cobblestone in a motionless heap.

Iamme looked up at the other thief.

“So, do you want the book, too?” he asked softly.

The clatter of the sword hitting the street and the sound of fleeing footsteps was his only reply.

There’s only one thing worse than nosy guards. That would be the kind of person who shows up when nosy guards aren’t around.

As soon as Iamme stepped through the gateway, he was approached by exactly this sort of person. His name was Mongrel, but in a short while that will no longer be important.

Mongrel looked like a cross between a beggar and a thief. His dirty clothes were just tattered enough to give him the air of destitution suitable for proper begging, but not so tattered that he’d risk tripping over his own rags while making a hasty getaway after picking someone’s pocket.

He extended a hand clad in a fingerless glove while using his other hand to scratch at some vermin he’d placed in his matted black hair to increase the beggarly effect. “Spare a coin for a mis’rable old wretch?”

Iamme patted the pockets of his shorts. “Sorry. Don’t seem to have any on me,” he answered with a sheepish shrug.

Mongrel shook his head back and forth slowly and sadly. “Well now. That’s gonna make this next part more diff’cult. I mean, how’s a guy suppos’d to properly rob you if you got no money?”

Iamme gulped nervously as Mongrel continued.

“I mean, here you are in your fancy get-up lookin’ all touristy and you got the gall to be walkin’ ‘round without money? Don’t you know there’s rules to be followed? And one of them rules is that tourists always have money!”

“Maybe you could just wait for the next person in blue shorts and wide-brimmed hat to show up and rob him instead? I think I saw one coming just over the next hill,” Iamme offered as he turned and pointed toward the horizon. But as soon as Iamme turned away, Mongrel reached out with surprising speed and snatched the mysterious book from his hand.

“HEY!”

Mongrel looked back over his shoulder as he ran. “Consid’r this a down payment. Be back t’mmorow with some cash and I’ll rob you properly then.”

Iamme ran after the thief, holding a hand on top of his head to keep his hat from flying off. Slipping a couple of times on the wet cobblestones underfoot, he was amazed by the agility that the robber demonstrated in not only staying on his feet but increasing the gap between them.

He watched Mongrel turn a corner and duck into an alleyway. Iamme was about to follow when he was met by a bright flash of light, a loud crackling sound and an even louder blood-curdling scream - all coming from the alley, all nearly simultaneously.

Iamme skidded to a halt just short of the alleyway. He scrunched his nose at the acrid smell emanating from it. Fighting a basic and primal instinct to soil his shorts, he slowly peered around the corner.

The book was on the ground in the middle of the alleyway, next to a small pile of ash and a smoking fingerless glove.

Iamme looked around and cautiously entered the back street, walking almost on tip-toe. As he squatted down to pick up the book, he was frozen in place by the sound of hooves clopping against the cobblestones behind him and a husky voice saying, “Right, what’s all this then?”

Iamme walked on a few paces, then stopped and turned around.

He looked at the gate lying on the ground, quivering. Something was tickling the back of his brain; not quite strong enough to be a memory, he couldn’t shake it off. It was trying to tell him that this was not normal behaviour for a gate, but he wasn’t certain. After all, he couldn’t remember ever having seen a gate before.

Further down the road, he saw his earlier transportation disappearing into the rain. He wondered where they were going. As they were still tied together by the hammock, he hoped that they both wanted to go to the same place.

Iamme followed the street the guards had fled along. Reaching a corner, he turned into a broad, almost deserted, avenue. In the distance he saw a handful of people as they scurried from sight.

Walking down the avenue, a faintly audible rustling in the leafy trees lining the roadway preceded him, but each tree fell silent as he passed it. He could hear the rustling start again behind him.

Further on, he saw a person sheltering in a doorway, and walked over to the squatting figure.

“Can I sell you a sharp wooden pencil on this damp evening, good sir?” The quavering voice came from somewhere in the bundle of rags, as a scrawny hand rattled the pencils in their tin cup.

“Mmmm, I don’t think so,” Iamme replied.

“Ahh, I can tell from your voice you are not from around these parts. And your name, good sir?”

Iamme looked confused. “Goodser” was not his name, was it?

“Iamme,” he mumbled.

“I’m blind, not deaf, but I still didn’t hear that,” the pencil-seller snapped.

“Iamme,” Iamme said, louder, and with more conviction.

Time did not stand still. For a moment it sort of … squirmed. Sounds were heard, but not heard; sights were seen, but not seen. And then normality mostly returned.

The hawker collected his fallen wares and put them back into the wooden tray he held. “I don’t suppose you want a good ball-pen, do you?” he muttered.

Iamme shook his head, blankly.

The hawker straightened his neat jacket, settled his hat more firmly on his head and stalked off into the rain, easily avoiding the trees and the larger, deeper puddles. As he faded into the gloom and rain, Iamme heard him grumbling “Ruined a perfectly good career! What’s a fellow supposed to do for a living now, I ask you?”

Iamme resumed his walk, accompanied by the rustling. The rain rained on.

A few paces further along he passed an open door leading into a dimly-lit room. He turned back, and stepped out of the rain.

To his left were simple wooden tables, with chairs. To his right was a long… well … bench wasn’t the right word, but it was the best he could come up with. It had a wide, shiny, wooden top at elbow height, as demonstrated by the small group of men at the far end. Behind it, but in front of an array of glasses and various coloured bottles, stood a rotund, cheery-looking man.

“Gidday, mate! Not a great night, eh? Not from around hereabouts, are ya? What’s your name, mate?” the man asked, hospitably.

Iamme wondered what was the compulsion people had with names. After all, he had managed just fine without one for as long as he could remember.

Ignoring Iamme’s non-response, the man plunged on. “Mate, what can I offer you to take the chill off?”

Placing the book on the counter, Iamme looked at the inviting golden liquid in the glass the nearest man held.

Author’s Notes: This chapter changes the scene; I hope that is OK. It is meant to introduce an antagonist. In the first chapter it is nighttime and in this scene the sun is setting. This is because this scene takes place far west of the original setting. Enjoy.

On the northwest edge of the known world, in a place filled only by anguish and despair, the setting sun outlined the silhouette of a colossal palace. As all traces of light slowly faded away, the palace took on an increasingly sinister appearance. Steeped in the most absolute conceivable darkness, it struck fear into the most valiant of souls.

From within this fortress, came a squeal of glee.

In an excessively maze-like region of the palace, a chubby little fellow waddled hurriedly across an expansive hall. He wielded a torch, although he was very well accustomed to the dark and did not depend upon it. The pattering of his footsteps continued incessantly as he ascended several flights of stairs and travelled the length of many a corridor.

Stopping suddenly to look around, the anxious traveller realized that he was hurrying along a corridor that didn’t lead him to his intended destination. In fact, he noticed with much discomfort that he had taken a wrong turn out of the dining hall and into the Passage of Infinite Pain. Fortunately, he had not ventured especially far into this particular hallway, and thus the pain he experienced was leisurely finite. He was quite relieved that he felt only the pain of several deep axe wounds rather than the infinite pain that the passage’s name promised. He fell to the ground and crawled out of the hallway as quickly as he possibly could, given the circumstances. Determined not to wander down any more unpleasant passages, he continued on foot towards his destination. Minutes later, he burst through an imposing wooden doorway, and into a seemingly empty room.

The chubby fellow, aptly named Professor Plump, thrust his torch towards every corner of the room. Probing the darkness thoroughly, he eventually spotted the gloomy figure for which he had sought so fervently. He approached the Shadow hesitantly.

“M-master, it is I,” Plump declared. As he took another step forward, the luminance of his torch began to faintly expose the outline of the Shadow.

“Put out your torch!” the Shadow shouted furiously. “I am to remain ominous at all times. Come now. I can’t remain ominous if there is a bloody torch shining light right onto me! Now can I?”

“N-no, Your Ominence,” Plump responded as he extinguished the flame with his hand. For some unfortunate reason, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He bit his lip to keep himself from screaming in pain and from cursing his own stupidity. Momentarily, Plump wished that he had simply remained in the Passage of Infinite Pain.

“Speak,” demanded the Shadow.

The Professor took a couple seconds to wipe away the tears rolling down his round cheeks and to evoke the memories of what he had seen only minutes ago.

“T-the Orb…It started to glow!” Plump recited. He paused to build suspense.

“Get to the point,” requested the obscure figure impatiently.

“W-well…it now shows the likeness of…of a young man holding the…you know.” Plump trailed off.

“THE WHAT?” bellowed the Shadow.

Startled, Professor Plump jumped into the air. He fell onto his bottom, and hastily climbed back to his feet. Embarrassed, he dusted off his underside. After taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, the Professor uttered in a mysterious tone: “The Book.”

Two malicious eyes blazed in the darkness that was the Shadow. They stared at Plump as their owner reflected upon the latest news. “So the Book is found at last,” it thought to itself. The Shadow remained motionless. Its eyes faded to a deep crimson.

“Find the lad,” replied the shadow calmly. “And bring him to me.”

Something of pertinence must be said now, for if it isn't said now then it may never be said. And that something is this: dragons do not exist. Dragons have never existed, nor will they ever. Dragons are a fantasy, a dream. In fact, dragons are so completely non-existent that Gontry Wilkenshire, the renowned poet/scientist/wizard/philosopher/actor/writer/breakfast cereal enthusiast, recently made yet another fortune from his book, "A Perpetually Deep Look into the Non-Existence of Dragons (Or: Another Ten Reasons You're an Idiot.)"

Dragons don't exist. Dragons can't exist in this realm of reality. This is a fact. I know it, you know it, even the otherwise useless Iamme knows it. So of course it comes as no surprise that every villager in this town believed in them.

Yes, every peasant, farmer, merchant, wench, smuggler, thief, hero, breakfast cereal enthusiast, etc. in the town Iamme ventured toward held a dear belief in dragons. And, because beliefs aren't tangible, they put dragons everywhere. Brightly-colored wooden sculptures hung from the top of every building. Pictures and murals adorned every wall. Every store or tavern had a cute dragon-themed name: "Smokey Lizard's Weapon Emporium," "Fire-Breathers' Fine Liquors," "Flying Serpent Souvenirs."

Every villager held a strong and unshakable belief in dragons and every villager held onto this belief dearly. They had to. It was important for tourism. And I'll be damned if it didn't work.

"Welcome to Dragonia!" read a multi-colored sign over the town's gates. Then, in smaller print, "Admission: 25 douwe* and a quarter." The quarter was added later as an after-thought.

Iamme used this as an excuse to turn around. "Well," he reasoned, "I can't enter because I don't have money." Of course this wasn't his real reason. Iamme was simply too polite to say what it really was, even in inner-monologue. It was because he found Dragonia to be loud, tacky, dreadfully overstimulating and kitsch, kitsch, kitsch. He couldn't possibly have any business here, or at least any business that didn't involve buying a dragon shirt for an exuberant price. But no later had he turned to leave Dragonia forever that he heard a voice. "Sir!" it called.

He turned back to see a man- no, a youth- in a booth by the front gates. "Welcome back, sir," he said.

Immediately Iamme was filled with dread. For some reason they seemed to know him here. "Do you know me?" was the first question that came to mind, but Iamme was afraid of the answer and didn't ask. Instead he stared blankly at the youth with his mouth open a little until it made the youth uneasy enough to ask another question. "Aren't you going to come in?" the youth asked.

Here Iamme felt fully comfortable adding to the conversation. "Can't," he said. "I haven't the money."

"Money?" inquired the puzzled youth. "You have an annual pass, sir."

Horrified, Iamme searched through his pockets, and to his dismay he found the youth was right. He did have an annual pass. It was a flat piece of polished oblong wood no larger than Iamme's palm. "Make your year a Dragonia year!" it read, and on the other side was a caricature of a dragon winking. It left no clue as to Iamme's real name, but for the moment he didn't care. Whoever he was, Iamme had a feeling that he wouldn't like him.

"Would you like to enter now?" asked the youth in an all-too-polite tone that suggested Iamme was nuts. Iamme, fresh out of excuses, begrudgingly acquiesced.

*douwe: Currency. Pronounced dow, it was deliberately given superfluous letters because those-in-charge deemed it "more sophisticated."

As Iamme walked into the town, he was greeted by a gale of laughter from a crowd of locals. He looked down, to see that now he was wearing a full scuba outfit, flippers included.

"Why am dressed in these stupid things?" he muttered, embarrassed. There came a crack of lightning, and he was suddenly naked. Instinctively he raised the Book to cover his nudity. A gasp of fear arose from the crowd and, to a man, they fled.

Iamme sidled over to an alley, covering himself with the Book.
A voice hissed: "Henry. Henry Peeblebaum."
"That’s me!" he cried excitedly, "Now I remember who I am! Ooww!"
He looked down to see that the Book was now entitled henrypeeblebaum.wav, lower case, no spaces. Not only that, it was also taking nips at his delicate parts.

"Stop that!" cried Henry. As he pulled the Book away, it fell open.
"Thanks," said the Book, "I'm switching over to text, audio takes too much RAM."
Henry gazed in amazement as the Book flooded with words:

"Henry you were on your way to C-side III for a scuba diving vacation via Intergalactic Travel Inc., and something when wrong with the TCP/IP protocols."

"TCP what?" stuttered Henry, astounded.

"'Trans Corporeal Pattern / Integration Pre-Assembly'. You should have been beamed to C-side III from the hub on Procyon V, but instead you got stuck there. You are the first man ever to become aware whilst inside the hub. Your disincorporated sub-atomic electromagnetic pattern has boldy gone where no man's has ever gone before."

Henry felt the wall. It seemed solid enough. "But what about the people, the city?" he moaned, anguished.

"They are artifacts of your imagination. In this discorporeal state you are manufacturing an arbitrary reality--some residual imprint of the planned vacation must be there, hence the scuba gear. What you perceive as a book is actually our first success at contacting you. It's just a program, but it's easier for your mind to invent a sort of sword and sorcery fantasy than to experience the actuality of NonBeing. After all, you are a script writer."

"Ohh, I'm in a computer!" bleated Henry. He stared at the wall and began to see a spinning series of zeros and ones.

"HENRY!" The words appeared, red, bold and capitalized. "STOP NOW! EVEN THAT IS YOUR MIND MANUFACTURING YET ANOTHER ACCEPTABLE REALITY--DON’T GO THERE! IF YOU EXPERIENCE THE FULLNESS OF NONBEING YOUR MIND MAY CAVE IN."

"Then get me out!" yelled Henry. The Book changed into a copy of 'Compensation Lawyers, Full Galactic Index'.

"Don’t do that please!" said the Book, (plead.wav), and changed back to its original title.
Then in text:
"It's not so easy. The hub on Procyon V is seven thousand kilometers across. We have to physically locate the exact memory bank holding your pattern, and that’s about 0.003 mm long."

Henry slid down the wall, overwhelmed with despair. Immediately a stocky, bearded violinist appeared playing a mournful melody.

"What's that?" read the Book.

"I'm Russian on my mother's side," replied Henry, tears in his eyes. "But why me? How could this happen?"
In very small print, appeared the words: "We were running Windows 2500."

"NOOO! Not that piece of crap!" screamed Henry.
The violinist disappeared, to be replaced by a Mafia hit man.
"I'll get you for this!" shouted Henry.

"Henry, don't worry." The typeface was soothing green, embellished with flowers.
Then the Book went completely blank.
"What now?" groaned Henry

Words appeared, jet-black and ominous:
" Uhu…breaking news. Sorry Henry, it seems we've got a virus and it's headed your way".

"Why did those guards run off like that?" Iamme asked the empty street. He held up a pair of cracked glasses for closer inspection while rubbing his throbbing forehead. Those were the least of his worries. He was thoroughly soaked and the small shorts he wore were little protection from this downpour.

He looked around. The streets were empty and eerily quiet. A few stores had lit the lanterns hanging outside their doors to signify that they remained open, but most of the lights were winking out as the rain continued to fall incessantly. One shop had a sign bearing two foaming mugs and some text that read as "The Wayfarer Tavern". There was quite a bit of noise coming from inside, and an inviting glow emanated from the window. Surely he could find warmth within.

He made his way to the door, and opened it. As he stepped inside the noise stopped. There were all manner of patrons crowding around tables holding mugs of ale. He saw the beady yellow eyes belonging to a few goblins, the vivid red eyes that marked a few trolls, and the more normal browns and blues that helped identify the more human-like races.

Disconcertingly, they were all staring at him.

"Uh… hello. My name is Iamme," he stammered.

The whole tavern erupted into laughter.

"Ha! Ye look like something the cat dragged in," said a surly troll.

"Nah. Fer sure he be dressin' like me daughter!" a goblin standing near the hearth said. "Look at dem shoes!"

"Oh yer daughter eh?" Asked a man sitting at a table in the back. He gestured toward Iamme. "Hey wanna sit next to me then? Haha!" His question was promptly answered by a flying mug to the head. A mug that had somehow traveled all the way from the hearth.

A voice near the back of the tavern cracked like a whip. "Silence!"

The entire tavern responded appropriately.

An old man in a black robe walked toward Iamme. "You carry a special book to be walking in on the likes of such company as this," he said softly. Iamme unconciously gripped the book tighter. The old man approached Iamme and leaned close. "What business do you have with that book?"

"Why does everyone always want to know my business?" Iamme sighed.

Just then lightning erupted behind him and the book took on an eerie blue glow. Iamme held the book out in front of him. The old man stumbled back a step. A fanged mouth began to form where the runic word once was, and suddenly the book howled. Then the book returned to normal.

Chaos erupted. Chairs and tables were quickly overturned amidst shouts of, "Follow me! Quickly! Out the back door!" Moments later the tavern was empty except for Iamme and the old man.

The elder man extended his hand. "Now that everyone is gone let me introduce myself. My name is Metilius, and you are?"

"Iamme." The younger man said shaking Metilius' hand.

The old man hesitated for a second. "Uh. Who are you?"

"The name is Iamme."

"Your name is Iamme?"

The younger man gave Metilius an exasperated look. "Yes my name is Iamme. Is that so hard to accept?"

"Sorry, sorry. I just must've misheard. Now what was your business with the Book of Lost Souls again? Better yet... how did you come by that book?"

"The book of what?" Iamme asked startled.

The old man looked incredulous. “You don't know what it is you possess? Let us head back to my tower and I'll explain and... uh... find you a change of clothes.”

“Er... Ok.”

Metilius chanted a few soft words and the world shimmered.

Iamme stepped through the unprotected gateway and into town.

Realizing he had left his animals back outside the walls, he turned around to collect them. They’ve got to be useful for something, he figured.

Iamme had yet to get a good view of them, but he was faced with more view than he could handle when he turned to get the beasts. They had coarse, black hair that was close cropped and relatively sparse. The skin he could see through the hair was an off green color. But what was really disturbing was their heads. They had a high sloping forehead leading down into a snout protruding at least a foot out from their heads, filled with needle thin teeth. A large horn sprouted from the end of the snout. Then, in the middle of the forehead, was a single, large, yellow eye. The beasts stared at him with an unsettling gaze, but only because they looked too dull to think of looking anywhere else. One snarled at him, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to shake the air.

Iamme thought better of approaching the things, backed up a little, then turned and bolted through the gate again. Slowing down once he ran out of breath, he leaned over, hands on his knees, and took a few hoarse breaths. He realized how cold he was and thought of what he could do to remedy the problem. His sodden hat was doing nothing to keep the rain off of him, and his shorts were no source of warmth. Remembering the curious way the raindrops avoided the book, he opened it up and held it over his head. It was just large enough to cover the area above his head. The raindrops avoided the book and fell in curtains around it, leaving Iamme out of the rain.

He looked down the road and spotted a source of light coming from an open door a few buildings down. He decided to try his luck within.

Walking slowly, he entered the door and was hit by a wall of warmth. Twin fires burned in immense fireplaces on the two sides of the room. In-between lay tables crowded with men getting drunk, and several serving girls weaving their way in and out. On the far end were two doors and a desk. One door was swinging open and closed as serving girls walked in and out, the other barren. At the desk stood a burly man, who probably served as both innkeeper and bouncer. Iamme began to cross the room trying not to distract the patrons.

This he did not achieve. Everyone that noticed his coming stopped their talking and pointed him out to their more oblivious buddies. The festive air was stripped away in seconds. Iamme walked tentatively through the crowd, feeling the eyes on him as he passed. Men got up out of their chairs and backed away as he came by. The man at the desk stared at him with a look of abject terror. Iamme approached the desk.

“C-c-c… can I uh… h-help you?” stammered out the terrified man.

Iamme opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when he realized he didn’t know exactly what he wanted. He didn’t even really know where he was. “Where am I?” he whispered, aware of the silence enveloping the room.

The man at the desk’s expression changed slowly from horror to confusion. Suddenly, he smiled and broke out into joyous laughter. “He did it!” yelled the man, dancing around in circles. The patrons seemed to know what he was talking about, and cheered uproariously.

Iamme stepped through the gate and into the dimly lit town. The rain continued to pour down from the sky. His hat was saturated with water and drooped partially over his eyes and his glasses were all fogged up.

This weather just wasn’t going to do, his beachwear was getting all cold and wet. He would have to remind someone to turn this nasty weather off. Confused by the abrupt departure of the gate guards, Iamme ventured farther into the town to inquire about this rather irritating and hat destroying weather.

After every few steps a flash of lightening would streak across the sky and the strange book would change forms. He also noticed his inability to let go of the book. Both of these problems would have to be addresses soon, but they weren’t ruining a perfectly good hat, so he’d have to get to them later.

Iamme cautiously made his way down the town road. Like scared forest animals, the townspeople poked their heads out of their windows and studied him from their porches. Once they caught site of the book in Iamme’s hand, they scurried back into their homes.

One man emerged from his home to catch a glance of Iamme. He closed the door behind him and stood in frozen awe and fear of the book.

“Excuse me, sir,” Iamme said. “I couldn’t help notice everyone’s haste to get out of this horrid weather. I was just wondering if anyone could turn off--”

“The book!” the man screamed.

“What? Oh this, well, funny that you mention the book--”

The man went to open his door, but couldn’t. It was locked! The man frantically tried to open the door, but to no avail.

Iamme slowly approached the terrified and now locked out man. As he a crept toward him, the book began to glow amber yellow. The man saw this and began clawing at the door.

“No, wait!” Iamme called to the man.

The man swung his head around, saw the book glowing and screamed. This wasn’t a, “little boy fell off his bike” type of scream. No sir. This scream would have sent dogs jumping off of bridges and pedophiles running out of grade schools.

Iamme stopped when he heard the scream. The man screamed louder and the book glowed brighter. The man couldn’t take anymore of the book and hurled himself through the front window of his home.

“Well that was strange.” Iamme said.

He glanced down at the book and quickly took notice that it had stopped glowing. Despite the halt in action, this book was quickly becoming a problem. Clearly this book was no ordinary book. For one thing, it glowed and for another, it was stuck to his hand.

It had become clear that this book would have to be dealt with, but only after this senseless hat vandalism was taken care of. Which was the main problem at hand...wasn’t it? Iamme couldn’t remember.

Suddenly, the book began glowing again. Iamme jumped in surprise. But just as quickly as it began glowing, it stopped glowing. False alarm, Iamme thought. Even books make mistakes.

“That book...” a voice bellowed.

It came from behind Iamme. He turned to confront the stranger. A giant of a man stood behind Iamme, his eyes burning red, and steam rising from his mouth.

Iamme stood his ground. He wasn’t sure what to do or what was going on. It probably had something to do with the book. What he did know was that his hat was almost completely ruined, so he had to act fast.

Soaked. It was how Iamme felt. The pounding of the rain only seemed to worsen with every step he took inside the town. Pausing for a moment, Iamme looked around, trying to gather his whereabouts. Nothing seemed familiar. Had he been here before? Why is it that he ended up here? Even though it was short of unsettling, Iamme continued on.

With the old book clasped firmly in his hand, Iamme headed on. He walked past old shops and houses, all looking like dark decrepit places where any sign of character could only be seen with a quick flash of lightning. The water-soaked paths led in all different directions in front of him, and all Iamme could do was use his intuition as to which way he should be going.

With the rain pounding down on him, Iamme knew he would feel more comfortable under some kind of shelter, somewhere dry, where he could gather his thoughts and calculate his next move. Looking around once more, Iamme could only assume he was now in the heart of the town. Buildings of all shapes and sizes circled around him and small grassy knoll lay in the centre. It was then he noticed the statue. From his position he could not make out any distinguishing features. It just stood there, tall and proud, sprouting up from the grass patch. Iamme moved closer until he was standing right underneath it. The figurines arms were outstretched, a book grasped in its left hand and a cup in the right.

A bright flash of lightning revealed an angelic female face framed with long hair topped off with some sort of crown, whist her body was draped in a long gown. Iamme wondered if he knew this woman. Another flash of lightning jolted Iamme back to his plan of finding shelter, but before he could move, a feeling of uneasiness swept over him.

Through the rhythmic beating of the rain, he swore he could hear whispers. Not just one, but many, too many for him to focus on. He looked around for any sign of life but was only greeted with darkness and with every crash of thunder the voices became louder and lounder, to the point where Iamme got the feeling the voices were chanting.

The united chanting of the unseen voices became too much for Iamme to bear. It was if the voices were trying to scramble their way into his brain. He clamped his hands over his ears and began to run. He didn’t care were he was going, as any place elsewhere was an escape from the pending insanity.

Making his way down a back alley, Iamme suddenly stopped. There infront of him, in the darkness and rain, stood a figure. Only a few feet infront of him it stood, covered in a cloak with an outstretched hand. “Come with me!” the female voice said. Iamme’s first impusle was to turn and run, with no memory at all, everyone to him was an enemy but the disturbing numbess of the chanting racing upto him stopped him.

“Come with me!” she repeated again. Iamme had a decision to make.