The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

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hands that have stretched themselves long as they lay flat on
the cushion, and he lowers club-like snout to the blade before
whispering out his prayer to god and ancestor. For he must
curry favor with Lord Yig or face death in the sands. “Lord
Yig, watch over your humble servant, who has never before
shed blood that ran cold. The world is large and wicked, and
without You, my only Master Yig, I will surely be lost to the
sands. Let Your taloned hand be my guide, Your limitless
tail my shield and path, and help me save those I care about
from the whip and the shackle. To You, I plead, and may the
winds ever favor You.”
All he says is true, my friend. The world is hostile, and My favored
line believe that only through Me—only through You—
can they live long and comfortably, with a whole harem at their
beck. But what they fail to understand, mortal god, is that You
are only a mystery, a figment of the cosmos as distant as the end
of the universe. You do not care about Pofiri, do You? You do
not care about his life, his death, his quest, for You are here and
he is there, across a gulf that is impenetrable—a river without
a ford, black as black can get. You cannot help him. But You
can watch. It is all We can ever do.
Pofiri’s head remains over the weapon of his father, praying
silently after begging for Yig’s blessing on his journey until
Tiri returns with a long fabric bundled in her arms and a
vicious snarl flickering at the corner of her mouth, displaying
her displeasure at this sudden and unannounced quest.
Though she knows that Pofiri would never, and has never,
done something without profound thought as far as warriors
are concerned, her ignorance concerning his plot drives her
to a fury she has rarely felt even when she was driven to the
cushion in the brothels. “I have your shirya, my Lord,” she
says with a low voice, her eyes crossed evilly as she stares
him down without fear.
Pofiri lifts his head from the cushion and stands up with-