He chose his moment to appear at the edge of the dark forest; the forest through which they had come on their murderous journey.
The few that knew him used his ancient name: the Talking Darkness….
Anyone in the dark green shadows looking out to the approaching night would have seen nothing. But, had they stared a while, they might have been able to make out the outline of a man in a long coat; a coat so dark that it seemed all the light was absorbed by it.
He collected the light, stored the edges of act and consequence in pockets so deep they touched the edges of cause and effect. The light he collected was the truth, the living dust of events so significant that they changed the course of history. The motes of…
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