Pietro's Death

[ c. 13th Century ~ ]

Pietro got stuck by a hunter's arrow.

It was on the third day of his expedition into the countryside when the random missile had caught Pietro in the back, causing him to collapse, fever, and die.

The Society of Weavers awarded him an epitaph on a public plaque.

However it also had happened that Murmur, the saintly monk, had found Pietro laid out in a shallow grave that was covered only by forest refuse.

There had been no one, and no money, available to afford the proper funerary, and thus he had been left there for the sake of posterity, and convenience.

Although without breath, the soul has a constant heartbeat all of its own - and Murmur could hear this subtle life coming from the wasted man.

Murmur held unusual perceptions about the world, and he believed categorically in resurrection: that it could occur in every place and plane of being.

His experience saw resurrection to be a possibility everywhere, rather than belonging only to a distant hope in yet another time and realm to come.

Once again his faith was proved, and from a touch and a prayer Pietro mysteriously sat up awake to the world again.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Adventure into the Countryside

[ c. 13th Century ~ ]

Francesco's father could not bring himself to disown his deranged son for leaving in the manner that he did. Instead he paid soldiers and troubadours handsome commissions to recall him - yet although many stories came back, nought could actually help to locate his youngest child.

Within a year Pietro's anguish had increased. He was a successful man used to winning results - yet none had come. He had invested so many hopes in his boy, and was not prepared to take the loss.

And so, resolute with sadness, he decided on his sixtieth birthday, that he should adventure into the countryside himself, that he might locate Francesco and bring him home.

Men of measure would never usually attempt to penetrate the outlying forest. The countryside was complex with dangers: vagabonds and wildlife - unknown terrors and possible hardships.

Most folk lived in the towns for their entire life without so much as a day trip into the country - they rathered to stay on the roads when travelling, and never departed into the thick of the green skirting their province.

Pica had been disconsolate at the thought of him leaving so. She was bewildered by the sudden madness that had overtaken her son, and now privately wondered if her husband had been infected similarly.

- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Rufus Redgrave

Rufus Redgrave loved porcupines, bird whistles, and watching ants crawl.

With his belly and beard to the ground, prone flush to the sun-soaked concrete, he would lie outstretched, dozy with the warmth, following their formations as they scuttled over the ground, all around and up past his nose. With olympic precision, and team tasking, their queues shuttled backwards and forth, without any consideration for the curious dog watching these drills.

Rufus looked exceedingly old for his years - all three of them. Weimaraner’s tend to look elderly from birth. He had semi translucent grey eyes, silver fur; and shook when he walked - half his ear was missing, torn on the flap by a snappy bitch with razor teeth … one sniff of her rear, and she had turned on him.

Chickens and cats frightened him terribly, as did small children when they squealed. His flanks would tremble with any high pitched noise, so much so, he would have to sit down.

The pads of his paws were sensitive to grit that would stick, and he often reminisced to himself, that the one thing he missed most about being human, was the shoes.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Murmur

[c. 13th Century ~]

Murmur was a pedestrian monk, who preferred living an uncomplicated life: going about the world saying little, and helping where he could.

Little was known of him, except that he did have a remarkable talent for healing, and at times with miraculous circumstances.

His father and brothers had all been gifted similarly. Within his family this talent was referred to as ‘the touch’ - being an abbreviation of ‘the touch of God’ - however this expression, in humility was shortened, when it was rarely referred to.

This same power that had lived through his father and brothers, had also taken them down a certain road to death.

For although their influence was uncannily restorative to others, it had held no protection for the conditions that they themselves took on. With a mantle of scabs, or the fury of a fever, it appeared that death had clung fast to these healers, during their evacuations of the sickness and ailments then transmitted.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Creatures Congregated

George fully believed his role as an inspector was needed, and that his judgements mattered. And even after his death in '97 George took but a few weeks leave, before returning to his duties once again.

With spirit-eyes he would watch over the cooks as before, often standing beside a hundred or so spirit-chickens, who would watch their little body's final moments being pulled apart, braised or roasted - consecrated in gravies and wine.

Sometimes it was the ghosts of the Quail, the Deer and the Crab - there was practically every creature to be eaten remaining in that cookhouse, still astrally attached to its former body ... that same body that had swum the rivers just a day before; or sailed the sky - felt the breeze on their woolly cheek; or mother's soft lick.

These creatures congregated in the hot and crowded kitchens seeing their bodies burn. And George stood with them, watching on.

- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Health Inspector George Maltby

From the local greasy, to a stainless-steel ‘palace’, George’s council badge authorised his entrance backstage into every eatery in London.

And when the Department of Health came calling, the temperature of those fuming kitchens sweltered with the anxiety of his scrutiny.

Very quickly the tempo would shift from its ordinary organised speed: the cooks would fumble, the dish-licks would crash the crockery, and the animosity was palpable.

Grills would cackle; refrigerators groaned, pans hissed and the fryers would spit at him, all together, in the heated moment.

And so, through the smoke and fetid odors, amongst the surgical tables and high powered hoses, George consorted with the long hats, and their starch-aproned drones - overseeing these lofty souls, initiated into the mysterious culinary arts that lay hidden from the front-of-store, and the hungry public.

He perused the stock, searched for moulds: read carefully through the use-by dates - George checked fingernails for filth, and made sure that the floors were non-slip and shining clean.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Wolf & Water

“May I borrow your flask Brother?" asked Francis casually.

Tobias shook his head. "It is drained dry" he said, quietly lamenting.

Nonetheless Francis reached out his hand, and Tobias gave it over.

"Might I also have your rope?" he now asked - pointing to his waist tie.

Tobias reluctantly complied.

‘What next?’, he thought to himself wryly.

Francis threaded the cord through the beaten hook of the metal cup that jiggled its hinged lid as he slung it over the needle-haired neck of the she-wolf. It sat upon her spiky breast like a giant medallion. He murmured something so softly that only a wolf could hear, and she bolted away.

"Francesco, what is this pantomime?” asked Tobias confounded by his own anxiety. “That was my only flask!” he protested......

Tobias had not expected to stay for any great length of time. He was perplexed.

The wolf reappeared as abruptly as she had left, and Francis unhooked the cup from her neck, handing it back to Tobias. It was heavy with water.

"Know the need, short come the answer" said Francis, who whilst declaring this axiom, looked upon Tobias with the confidence of one who is self-sure of another's love.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, “AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Toughened Fare

He took from his neck a large string of salted beef that was pearled like a rosary, that he wore concealed beneath his tunic. He motioned to Francis to sit and join him for a breakfast.

The wolf, who had also now risen from her bed, stretched, bristled, and leaned in closer.

She seemed to be glaring a little too intensely for Toby’s liking, disturbing the young Monk’s concentration. With a hurried dedication he broke away some of the chunks, handing two lumps to the fractious animal.

Francis divided his beef, giving also the wolf her lot. The three sat chewing for a short time on their toughened fare.

Tobias found it frightening to sit this close to a wild dog. She was twice the size of any domestic, baring her huge teeth with a snarl of a smile. Foamy globs of drool kept dropping from her open jaw. She held her gaze upon his rations that remained.

These portions were planned to last two days more and Tobias had no mind to appease the animal of her want.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Putting on the Robe

“Will you be putting the robe on then?" Tobias asked using the tone of a scolding elder.

"Very well.” Francis placated, reaching for the cloth.

“Blessed Toby I have worn a costume all of my life and it constricts me - yet to please you this morn, I will cover myself in the name of modesty ..."

He threw the sewn cloth over his head, and it fell short, reaching just above his knees.

Tobias did not reply, but quietly smiled. ‘There is hope’ he thought to himself.

- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances