Sleek tendrils from a cold draft licked Sir Kessil Slatesbury's robed ankles,
sending delicious chills up his spine. His study shimmered as the gust's
conversation spread through the room's lamps and candles, casting manic
shadows that danced and gyrated with the wind. Sir Kessil fought the urge
to get up and adjust the drapes and stoke the fire, wanting to remain intimate
with the text he was pouring over.
This was the sixth night that found him in his study, frantically trying to assimilate the crazed writings of Azim Ak Azrahad. Every copy of Azrahad's work, Zim Allah Buzakrah, or The God of Nighteaters, were previously thought to be hunted and destroyed during the Crusades. Sir Kessil was not yet ready to attempt a written translation of his recent find, for he found that the more he tried to discern a cohesive theme, the more Azrahad's teachings seem to slip like sand from his mind. Six nights of this task had left Sir Kessil out of sorts- his affairs had slipped, which was completely unlike him. His servants had been told to turn away visitors to his manor, politely informing the lady or gentleman that Sir Kessil was engaged in study, and was not to be disturbed. His dinner lay near the stone fireplace, untouched where the servant had left it hours ago, cool now that the fire had died down to coals. Sir Kessil turned the page of the tome with a pencil, and continued jotting down notes in his journal.
This Azrahad has suffered from some sort of scarring, or marking by his Nighteaters. He seems sure that his death is imminent, yet he continues to speak of his future plans, as if his death will not affect him. How can that be, when he has described how these Nighteaters feed on their prey, utterly consuming the flesh and soul? Could it be that these Nighteaters are really the Wahzim of Indian lore? Do they selectively hunt those that they will inoculate with their spore, drawing them into their damned state of half-life? What a discovery that should be- the Wahzim and Nighteaters being the same malevolent race! But Azrahad will not be pinned- he is a slippery Arab.
Another draft stirred the lamps and candles, then seemed to shoot up the chimney, causing the coals to glow hellishly. A cool, dry voice floated from the bookcase to Sir Kessil's right, nearly behind him, "The God is Nighteaters." Sir Kessil's pen snapped of its own volition, spilling the ink into a dark pool beside the journal. He sat frozen for a moment, then let out a rattling breath, and turned to face the source of the voice. Three meters from him, next to a bookcase, stood a man dressed in a fine white silk suit. From the patent leather shoes, turban, and necklace he wore, Sir Kessil surmised he was Arabic. Strangely, his pale complexion seemed incongruous. He was bleached, almost. His dark eyes were wicked- sharp like a cat's. Sir Kessil sat stunned in his chair, breathing shallowly and quickly. "The Gods are Nighteaters, more accurately," his guest expounded, "not The God of Nighteaters. Your translation, while excellent, is not complete. Of course, Azrahad was quite insane, so you are not to blame." Sir Kessil's guest shifted his weight, and began pacing over to the fire.
Sir Kessil sat bolt still, still laboring to control his breathing. The room had become a cage, and he the bird was caught there at the leisure of this strange Arab. He had stopped by the fire, and had began stirring the coals. He then bent gracefully down, and cast another log onto the fire. As his eyes left Sir Kessil to attend the fire, Sir Kessil worked his throat loose from its knot, then cleared it. As he prepared to call for help, the Arab cut him off, "Do not bother. Your servants will not attend." The Arab grinned momentarily, then cast off his mirth, and moved close to the desk to offer Sir Kessil his hand. "I am called Razashar, or Kalu, or more recently, Kerico." Sir Kessil's upbringing took over, and he took the man's hand in his own. Immediately, the warmth of his visitor’s hand shocked him. It was hot, almost, yet dry and smooth like a reptile's. The skin felt supple, textureless, yet hard like stone.
Sir Kessil held the man's eyes for a moment, then shifted his head to avoid the gaze. "How..." he began. His visitor cut him off, "Unimportant for the moment. Now tell me, what is the nature of Azrahad and his Nighteaters?" Sir Kessel fumbled, off-balance for the moment, then began, "Azrahad worshipped these Nighteaters, though they paid him little mind. The Nighteaters seemed voracious, yet somehow infantile. As if they had a child's brain rather than a man's." He paused, while his visitor continued to stare with a hot gaze. "Ye- Yes, Azrahad made offerings to them, for what purpose I cannot say." At this, Sir Kessil sat back into his chair, having exhausted his understanding of the madman. A deep silence filled the room, neither party speaking. Sir Kessil's mind raced, then resolved itself into a name. "Rasakar. Razashar. Kali..." he trailed off, stunned and afraid.
His visitor chuckled, a deep fluting noise, "Yes, yes. You are quick. Yes, I have been called all those names, and more. When you exist as long as I have, you outlast your names. But, enough- I am old, and you are young." He leaned across the desk, placing his right hand on the tome of Azrahad and dropped his voice to a whisper. "You see, the Souleaters were the young and brash of my kind at that time. Their resting place, as detailed in this book by a mad Arab, has never been discovered. Although it is unlikely that any of the stupid childer have survived into this age, it is still a valuable historical relic." He paused, and let the implications of the last few moments sink in.
"Our group has been watching your progress for years, Sir Kessil. Your stoicism is perfect except for your passion for the Occult. As dominion of the Rawis, I offer your initiation into a great secret. A secret that will keep you for all time. A secret that Azrahad tried to buy from the Nighteaters, and that I am offering you at a pittance. Join us, learn from us, and continue your life's work indefinitely. Free yourself from the fetters of time, and fly with us through the ages. Watch as history is made and torn down." His visitor fell silent with his last words racing around the study.
Behind the Arab, the fire blazed up, drawing power from the wood and sending it up to meet the night sky. Sir Kessil reeled, blasted by the implications of the pact he was offered. Here, in front of him, stood a true immortal. Someone who had watched years, centuries, millennium as he watched the days. Someone who watched the world unfold before him as a rose. Someone who's pen never would stop, never would shake with age, never would dull with use. Sir Kessil stared at the pooled ink on the desk, the lifeblood of his passion run out onto dark wood. His head lifted, and his lips framed the words, "I will."
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