A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

Vincent had nodded off. When he awoke, it took a few moments for him to remember where he was and what had happened to him. A migraine throbbed in his skull and a few leaves stuck to his cheek with coagulated blood. Groaning in discomfort, he sat up and touched his hand to the wound and winced. He recalled how the stone he had thrown earlier rebounded. What a stupid way to hurt himself. It had struck the base of his horn where bone met flesh. A sharp pain in his back told him that the wings were cramped.

A crackle of thunder ripped through the sky, demanding his attention. Out of one nightmare and into another. Both his head and his arm burned with agony. He was hungry, and it was about to rain. He felt the first drop land on his snout, followed quickly by a second. Soon, a downpour descended on the treetops. He scooted himself under the upturned bulb and tried to use it as shelter, folding his legs to draw them in from the rain.

The scent of broken earth began to rise from the ground, accompanied by the tang of ozone. The sky strobed with a few bright flashes, which were immediately followed by the crack of thunder. The entire forest hissed as the rain pounded on its verdant canopy. Small streams carved their way through the loose sticks and leaves, trying to make their way to the nearest river. A puddle formed in the hole Vincent occupied, but it would take a while before it reached his feet. In the meantime, he did all he could do to massage his wound.

The heavens broke and a torrent lashed at the upturned tree root, misting him with water. He pulled his legs to his chest and attempted to huddle for warmth. But the chill seemed to sink right into his bones and suddenly, he felt very alone. Then he remembered the argument he had with Dave. It was true the voice was a symptom of schizophrenia, yet it was also true that right now, Dave felt like the closest thing to a lifeline he had right now.

“Dave,” Vincent said, his speech slurred, “You there?”

There was no answer from the phantom. A few trees harbored hidden whispers among the rain, but none of them belonged to Dave.

“I lost my temper,” he continued, “I was angry and it was uncalled for, what I said. I know you didn't choose me. But you’re stuck with me.”

Droplets began to gather at the tips of the exposed roots like tears dripping from eyelashes. Several insects scurried along the dirt to escape the vicious downpour and the puddle near the bottom of the hole began to grow. Eddies of wind tore through it and swiped at the water, stirring its contents into a slow, rotating current. Vincent hoped for some sign that the rain would break and that the storm would pass over. If anything, the downpour only seemed to get worse.

“Come on man, please say something. Call me a piece of shit, I don't care. I'm losing my damn mind. You know it was supposed to be the holidays when this shit happened?”

No answer. He was on his own again, with only the occasional whisper to keep him company. His skull was pounding, and his arm was on fire. He tried to massage the wound, but it did little to alleviate the pain. If anything, it was slowly getting worse. He had no idea what to do or how to treat it. The body wasn't human so it probably would not react to human treatments. Even if it did, he hadn't a clue what could possibly be used as an antibiotic. For all he knew, everything around him could be poisonous.

Why am I worrying about this? he thought. It's not happening. It's not real. It’s sick. I’m being a melodramatic tool. Somebody in the hospital isn't doing their damn job.

His denial did not alleviate the symptoms. His brain made everything real, it's what it always did.

“I don’t know how much longer I can stand this,” he said, hoping Dave could hear him. “Dream or not. This is beginning to hurt like hell, my head hurts, and I feel like shit. I have no idea if this body I'm in can catch colds, but if it can, this storm will probably give me one. So here’s what I need to do. I–crap, I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He slammed his head back into the tree bulb. “I need to go back to that thing and see if it will do something about this arm. It probably won’t be too happy to see me after I slashed its hand.”

“It will kill you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Vincent admitted, “but it’s the only option I have.”

“Control the weather, it will help.”

“You have superpowers.”

“Stop the rain with your mind.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get right on that,” he fumed, “why the hell was Dave the only one of you who gave good suggestions? The rest of you were always a bunch of fucking morons.”

"I am the guy writing your story," one of the phantoms whispered, "if you hear me, and your story has been posted somewhere else other than Royal Road, Scribblehub, or Archive of Our Own, then it has been stolen. Please contact [email protected] and let me know."

Story? Vincent thought, Royal Road? Scribblehub?

Confused, he shook his head and ignored the phantom. Then he tucked the knife into his pocket and waited for a break in the rain, then he headed back toward the dirt road. The previously dry path had been turned into a muddy mess. His claws sank into the softened ground and created a rather audible “squelch” beneath his feet. Despite his best efforts to stick to the shelter of trees, he was drenched in a matter of seconds.

Thankfully, the worst of the storm appeared to have passed by and the rain was slowly letting up. Rivulets raced across the path as if eager for the plunge that awaited over the cliff. Eventually, the rain calmed to a steady drizzle. But navigating it was still a miserable experience. The green hair, which was much longer than his natural hair, kept obscuring his vision whenever he looked down at his feet, which he had to do a lot to make sure he did not trip. The cold rainwater soaked the leather garment that he'd been dressed with and weighed him down.

Furthermore, the sun appeared to be going down, because it was getting darker. The darker it got, the colder it got. It did not help that several phantom observers kept predicting that he would fall off the cliff or that a bear would pop out of the woods and eat him. Sometimes he became convinced that he heard somebody taking down notes.

“His eyes are moving.” they said, as though standing by his hospital bed in the real world.

Everything else became unintelligible due to the storm. He took a glance toward the cliff. He could no longer see the torn terrain of the land below, but every now and then, a break in the storm would offer a glimpse of the mountains. The sky was cast in the orange burning of a setting sun, but it was quickly obscured by clouds. At least it would be ending...eventually.

The rain died down to a light sprinkle and it was then that Vincent noticed how badly he was quaking from the cold. On top of that, his head was still disoriented from the stupid, self-inflicted blow and his arm felt as though somebody were warming a soldering iron on it. At least the rain provided some relief to the inflammation, but not much. He really hoped the creature would not kill him on sight.

He began to dread the confrontation that was about to happen. How the hell was it going to go down? On one hand, he knew it was ridiculous to be anxious since this all was in his mind. All the other hand, he was in pain and he needed help. He could see some lights up ahead in the woods, which he assumed was coming from the creature's house.

He took a moment to stop and think about his strategy. It was clear that it did not speak English, so scribbling something out on paper was out of the question. He would have to rely on gestures and pantomiming. He would have to show remorse for what he'd done. But how? He could not even speak properly.

Would tears work? Considering the circumstances, it wouldn't be unreasonable to just break down and cry like a little bitch. Add that to the fact that his head was splitting open, his arm felt like it was on fire, and judging from the salty taste in his mouth, he may be developing a cold. A cold? When he realized what was causing the salty taste, he started gagging and tried to spit the snot out. Dribbling mucus into one's mouth was never a pleasant experience, but somehow it was an experience made worse when he considered it was not human snot.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing down the road, kicking up mud that stuck to his feet and ankles. The more the rain lightened up, the less it washed away. He was already a mess, but without the water to wash off the mud, he would look even worse. He hoped lack of cleanliness was not one of those funny things that offended this culture, assuming these things even had a culture.

His foot struck an object. There was a clack of metal plating as he tripped. His hands managed to stop the fall, but he was sprayed with mud. Swearing silently, he grabbed onto a tree and pulled himself back up. He saw what had tripped him: It was the string of metal blades the creature had been carrying. It probably forgot to come back out and grab it after Vincent cut its hand.

After some deliberation, he reached down to pick it up. The blades clanked together rather loudly as they swung along the string. He had no idea what they were used for, but he hoped the creature would appreciate him returning them to it.

He slid the blades against each other so that they were all tucked in a nice, neat stack. Then he held them against his side like a book. Lots of loose string threatened to be a trip hazard, but at least the blades wouldn't be clanging together and announce his approach. But then again, did he really want to sneak up on them? What if these people hated to be surprised by strangers?

He started down the narrow path toward the house. The sky was quickly descending into twilight, making the ground harder to see. The scent of smoke carried its way through the air with the promise of fire. But the thought of warmth only made the shivering worse. It got so bad that he couldn't walk. So he dropped to all fours and began to crawl toward the dwelling.

Perfect...he thought.

It was a scene that might work in his favor if the creature heard him approaching. It would open the door and see Vincent literally crawling back on all fours for mercy. He was about ten feet away from the dwelling when he heard a conversation coming from within. No doubt they were talking about the crazed maniac they'd rescued.

Light cast by the fire could be seen flickering through the diamond-shaped port on the door. When he approached the threshold, he set the blades aside as quietly as he could and reached up to grab hold of the bar that laid across the door. The conversation stopped as soon as the wood groaned under his weight.

Vincent swore silently as he pulled himself up. He raised his hand and knocked on the door. There was movement within, and somebody moved in front of the fire, casting his shadow on the wall. The creature's eyes appeared in the port. As soon as he saw Vincent, they narrowed, and he took a few steps back.

“Sirai,” he said, followed by a question.

There were dire warnings in his voice. Vincent drew the knife from his pocket and held it up so that the thing could see it. Then he put it into the port, handle first, and pushed it through. It was a miracle that the tremors in his hands didn't cause an accident when he handled the blade.

The creature hesitated for a moment, perhaps fearing Vincent was luring him into some sort of trap. Then he pulled the knife the rest of the way through. He said something to the youths. One of them could be heard asking a question, but he was cut off as the elder barked a command. There was a shuffling of feet followed by cast shadows. Vincent leaned on the door as though it were the only solid thing in existence. The world began to sway under his feet as though he were riding an ocean liner. He leaned down to pick the blades up in order to show his good intentions, but his legs collapsed, and he fell to his knees.

Whoever...or whatever the hell you are, I need help. he thought, please...you have no idea what I'm going through.

The creature's footsteps moved away from the door, making Vincent fear that it would just let him stay out there. But a second later, it returned. The bar lifted and the door opened, flooding the entrance with a bright pinkish light. At first, he thought it was carrying some sort of electric lantern. But the light source appeared to be a glowing crystal backed by a reflective dish. The creature looked at him with severe suspicion and scrutiny. After glancing at him, it saw the windmill blades that lay at his side. Vincent thought he saw it cock one of its brows.

In the hand that wasn't holding the lamp, it held an iron poker which it clearly intended to use as a bludgeon if it felt threatened. Vincent stared at the ground so that he didn't have to look at it. Eye contact with this creature was an invitation to madness. It could not exist, yet here he was, begging it for help. The contradictions threatened to rend his mind.

“La fuuin,” the creature said harshly, “oy! La fuuin!”

It brought the poker up under his chin and nudged it upwards. Had he not been on the verge of collapse, Vincent would have pulled back. But he allowed the creature to manipulate his snout. Touching him with a piece of iron was one thing. Allowing the creature to Grab his face with a clawed hand required every bit of willpower Vincent could muster without freaking out. What the hell was it doing? It appeared intent on staring at his nose for some reason, looking for something.

When it was finished, it muttered something under its breath and laid the poker on the ground. He turned Vincent's head to the side so that the lantern illuminated the right half of his face. When it placed the back of its fingers against Vincent's eyelids, he pulled his head back.

The creature barked at him to stay still.

“It's going to pluck out your eye,” a phantom whispered into his ear.

“Sirai,” it said when it finished its mysterious inspection, “geas shyce, lok bayn la zenth?”

The creature's language was grating on the ears, annoying, and undecipherable. It clearly asked a question, but even if Vincent could understand it, he had no idea how to answer it. So instead of bothering to guess a translation, he grabbed an ear in one hand and pointed at it with another, then he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. The creature put a hand on its head and rubbed its brow in a very “human” expression of exasperation. But it appeared to get his message because it used pantomime to phrase its question. It held out a bandaged hand for Vincent to see, then it pointed at him, before pointing to the bandage. Then it threw its hands up in the air.

“What the hell did you do this for, asshole?” was Vincent’s best guess at a translation.

He just stared at the ground and trembled from the cold. He didn’t know why. He was overwhelmed? Scared?

He almost flinched when the thing put its hand on his shoulder and then gestured with its snout towards the door. This time, when it opened its hand, Vincent accepted it. Though the palm felt like snakeskin and leather, it was warm and had a bony strength. It lifted him to his feet and led him inside, guiding him over to the fire pit and sat him down.

As the warmth hit Vincent’s flesh, he thrust his hands and feet towards the flame and held them there until steam began to rise. His clawed limbs became black silhouettes against the roiling tongues. A rag was slapped down next to him. His host wanted Vincent to clean himself up. It still held the poker in its hand and it kept flexing the other hand. Apparently, Vincent had not cut as deep as he initially thought, if the hand could still be used. He was glad.

He picked the rag up and ran it between his toes, wiping off any mud and dislodging any caked dirt. After having to look at those feet all day for locomotion, he found it less disturbing than seeing any of his other limbs. They still made him feel as though he had been violated.

A clatter of ceramic startled him. He found a flat gray platter next to him with some smoked meat. Vincent picked up the jerky and gave it a quick sniff. The aroma triggered his ravenous hunger. Without even thinking about manners, he tore right into it. He found that he was wholly unprepared to devour food with the unpracticed mouth.

His instinct was to chew and then swallow. Instead, his teeth were only good for cutting it into pieces. When it came to chewing, they were completely inefficient. Pieces of meat stuck out the side of his mouth, forcing him to push them back in with his fingers. The creature sat on the opposite side of the fire pit with his own platter and stared at him with an expression Vincent took to be confusion and wariness. Its brows were furrowed and its ears twitched erratically.

Yeah, I'm just as confused as you pal. Vincent thought as he scarfed down bits of meat.

The creature murmured something before picking up a piece of smoked meat and casually downing it within a few bites, snapping up at the air with his mouth before it was fully devoured. Vincent was reminded of a pet bird his sister used to have and how it would nip at the air to swallow its food. Was he expected to do that? Every human instinct he inherited told him that if he tried such a maneuver, he would choke to death.

He decided to stick to what he knew best. Even if this body was capable of taking larger bites, his mind wouldn't be able to handle it. Instead of taking huge chunks from the meat, he tore it into tiny pieces and stuck it into the side of his mouth. The process was slower, but at least it was closer to what he was used to.

As the creature got back to his feet, Vincent stared into the flames and waited anxiously for it to return. Eventually he was going to pry it for information, but he wasn't sure he was up to pantomiming his story. Another clatter startled him as the creature placed an exotic-looking cup next to him. Instead of being round, the rim curled on one side to form a hollow spout, resembling a miniature watering can. He supposed the design made sense. Trying to put a snout around a traditional cup would be more trouble than it was worth. Vincent picked it up and tucked the spout under the side of his lip

“Oy...” the creature said.

When he got Vincent's attention, he gestured at Vincent then he gestured at his ears and shook his head. At first, he had no idea what the creature was saying. But then he understood: “You just reacted to a loud noise. You aren't deaf.” Feeling like an idiot, Vincent tried to gesture that he simply couldn't understand or speak the creature's language.

It simply gawked at his display.

“It doesn't understand,” a phantom whispered.

But the phantom’s claim was seemingly contradicted by a long sigh from the lacertine figure. It paced around the fire a few times before sitting back down.

“Oy,” he said and pointed to his chest. “Xalix.”

Vincent shook his head in confusion, but the creature insisted.

“Xalix,” he repeated.

Then he pointed towards Vincent and waited expectantly. When Vincent failed to deliver, he groaned.

“Micah, Theomus!” he called into the hallway, followed by a command.

The two young “dragonlings” must have been hiding right around the corner because they appeared immediately and stared at Vincent.

“Et,” the creature said, and they stopped right at the edge of the room. He turned toward Vincent and pointed at the yellow and white youth.

“Micah.” His finger moved over slightly and pointed at the other. “Theomus.” Then once more, he pointed at himself. “Xalix.”

Vincent understood now. Those were their names, and he was expected to give his own. “Vinsch.”

It was the best he could muster with his misshapen mouth.

“Vinsch.” Xalix repeated, staring at him over the fire, before his gaze switched back to Theomus. He said something to the little one, who then trotted down the hallway while his brother continued to stare dumbfounded, ironically reflecting Vincent's exact sentiments. They were kind of cute, and he felt bad for what he did to their caretaker’s hand.

“Ek...Xali'ka,” Micah stuttered, seemingly unsure of whether he should speak or not in Vincent's presence, “Sirai int?

“Vol. Syredel Meldohv sikeh,” Xalix said, “carn la shyce.”

“I really wish they would speak English.” Dave's sudden reappearance almost caused Vincent to swear out loud. “Do you understand a word these freaks are saying?!”

“Dammit. Where the hell did you go?” Vincent barely mouthed the words. He did not want his hosts to see him talking to the air. “And no, I don’t understand a single word. I told you, they are speaking bullshit. I'm surprised my ears aren't bleeding.”

He wondered if the language was unpleasant to listen to by coincidence or if it was a byproduct of being spoken by mouths like theirs. Perhaps the geometry of their mouths lent itself to harsh consonants and constricted vowels.

Theomus returned carrying what appeared to be a rough scroll of leather, a few sticks of charcoal, and set them down next to Xalix. After instructing the children to leave the room, he got up and walked over to the dining area. He returned with a wet rag, a plant with a bulbous growth on one end, a knife and a ragged strip of fabric. He set them down next to Vincent and went to retrieve a stone kettle. After checking its contents with his finger, he hung it from the tripod above the fire.

Xalix said his name and indicated that he hold out his arm. Vincent had not been aware he had been clenching it in his hand for the past few minutes. It throbbed angrily as he let go and he offered it to Xalix. The creature knew more about this than he did. It set the bloodied bandage aside and inspected the extent of the injury. He let go of Vincent's arm and went over to the kettle to soak the rag in its water. When it was ready, he took it out and brought it back over. Vincent saw steam rising from its surface and he knew exactly what Xalix was going to do. It wasn't going to be the least bit enjoyable.

The creature pressed the hot rag against his wound without waiting for a “go ahead”. Vincent's groans and profanity went unheeded as Xalix squeezed the searing water against his tormented arm. It seemed to be counting out the seconds in its local dialect. It lifted the rag to check the progress. Frowning, he put the rag back on and continued to squeeze.

Static rolled through Vincent's mind and he stopped protesting. In fact, he stopped reacting to anything Xalix did. He fell into another burnout. His sudden indifference to the pain seemed to be of great concern to the reptilian host. When Xalix could not get his attention, it repeated the same inspection that it had before: It checked both of his eyes and examined his mouth. And for good measure, it examined Vincent's ears.

After grumbling in confusion, it continued to apply the hot press. When it was satisfied with the reduced swelling, it put the rag down and picked up the bulbous fruit. Using the knife to pierce the thick rind, it made a vertical cut along its length. Then it squeezed the fruit over Vincent's arm. Thick syrupy liquid drizzled over the inflamed claw marks. If Vincent hadn't been dazed, perhaps he would have appreciated how the fruit's innards seemed to cool his wound like the chill of menthol.

Xalix set the fruit down and began to apply the bandage, wrapping it around Vincent's arms several times before tucking the fabric under itself and tying it. Then he pried the rest of the fruit open and applied it directly to the head wound. Vincent, still dazed, naturally recoiled from the creature’s touch.

“Et!” Xalix said as he grabbed the horn and pulled him back.

He managed to secure the fruit to the wound by tying a piece of string around it and the horn at the base of which the wound marked.

After he was certain it would stay put long enough to do its job, Xalix noticed that Vincent's wings were straining against the crudely tied vine that held them down. A blue rash was beginning to appear. Frowning, he cut the vine and they sprang free, the sudden movement coaxing an utterance of pain from their owner.

“Gently!” Xalix said.

Vincent's ears twitched as they registered a familiar piece of vocabulary. But other than that, he gave no sign of hearing his host. The creature grumbled in frustration, gathered the supplies and put them away. When he returned, he walked over to the leather canvas Theomus had brought out and began to draw, occasionally looking up at Vincent to see if his condition improved.

Eventually Vincent slowly began to come out of his daze. What had happened? Two burnouts in one day? This was not normal. Catatonic states were rare even for schizophrenics and they were never this brief. The first sign that he had returned to reality was when he lifted a hand to his head to feel the fruit. Its pulp imparted an icy chill into his wound. His head still thrummed, but he no longer considered it debilitating. The same chill seeped into the wound on his arm, which was a more welcome relief.

“Shit...” Vincent's groan drew Xalix's attention.

The canvas Theomus retrieved was sprawled out on the creature's lap and the ceramic platter was used as a backing for Xalix's drawing. Xalix stood to his feet and walked over, carrying the canvas. He rolled it out on the floor for Vincent to see. Hastily sketched on its surface was a picture of a bipedal figure with curled horns, obviously representing Vincent. His character was threatening two smaller dragons with a knife.

“Micah”, Xalix whispered as he tapped his claw on them, “Theomus.”

It took a few moments to see that Xalix wanted to know whether Vincent would harm them. He looked up at the creature and shook his head.

Xalix took Vincent's hand and held it open. In it, he placed the stick of charcoal and then gestured to the knife, before gesturing back to his hand.

“Then why did you attack me? Show.” was Vincent’s guess at a translation.

It was an impossible question to answer, but it was becoming apparent Xalix would not let Vincent stay if he didn't provide one. How could he possibly convey with stick figures that the creature was just another symptom of Vincent's madness and because of that, it embarrassed him, frightened him? Could it even fathom the concept of schizophrenia? Maybe his species had something similar?

“Show these bastards what a human looks like,” Dave whispered.

It was a fair suggestion. The figures Xalix drew had wings and a tail, which set them apart from any stick figure humans. Trying to hold a writing utensil with clawed digits was like trying to hold a pen with chopsticks. He swore silently in frustration as he fumbled with it. But after a bit of a fight, he had drawn a stick figure human. It was a picture sketched by every person on Earth at the age of 4.

Vincent pointed at it and said his name.

“Vinsch,” he said. This is me, this is what I really look like.

Xalix pointed at where his wings should have been, but Vincent shook his head.

“No...Vinsch,” he repeated.

He spent the next few minutes drawing a series of sketches that summarized his arrival. Instead of trying to depict a car crashing, he showed a deer pierce his chest with its antlers. He showed his dead body with crossed-out eyes. Then he showed himself waking up in a bed. This time, he added horns, wings, and a tail. His handiwork was borderline indecipherable and at best, kind of hilarious and morbid. When he got to the encounter with Xalix, he could not explain why the creature offended him. He was not completely sure of the reason himself. So instead he depicted Xalix as having a gargantuan snout with drooling fangs, as though he were ready to eat Vincent. After he was finished, he connected the pictures together with arrows to indicate the order of events.

Xalix picked up the canvas and scrutinized it. He cocked his head and handed it back to Vincent.

Dammit! Vincent thought.

“You need to calm down,” Dave said, “he's going to let you stay.”

There was absolutely no evidence for Dave to believe such an assertion. Xalix still looked as baffled as he had been before. His eyes darted back and forth between Vincent and the canvas and clasped his snout between his claws as though deep in thought. After reaching a decision, he offered a hand to Vincent and helped him to his feet. Dave was right, Xalix appeared to be extending his hospitality at least one night longer, though it was obvious the creature was still wary of him.

The hallway was illuminated by crystals that lay in their own little alcoves. “Solar power.” a phantom whispered, despite the fact that there was no way they could find that much exposure to sunlight in their current location. A left turn took them both to the room he had stayed in. The broken pot had been cleaned up. Xalix allowed Vincent to sit on the bed then left the room, indicating he would be back momentarily.

“How did you know he would let me stay?” Vincent asked Dave.

“Wasn't it obvious?” he replied.

“No! How in the hell would it be obvious?! I don't speak their language!”

“Son, you're out of rank.”

“What the hell does that even mean?!”

But he didn’t get a response nor explanation, which was a good thing because Xalix returned with a fresh piece of canvas and a stick of charcoal.

Oh for fuck's sake, Vincent thought.

Fortunately, Xalix didn't ask him to draw. Instead, he put the canvas and charcoal on a nearby table. Vincent supposed he was supposed to use that to communicate. After Xalix left, he flopped back onto the bed only to pinch a wing. After several minutes of squirming around, he tried to lie on his side and curl up in a semi-fetal position. It allowed the wings to tuck into his back while the tail arced behind his legs. It felt almost “natural” for a body with his shape. In fact it even felt comfortable. That was until his horns began to cause a cramp in his neck. It was like trying to sleep with a helmet on.

Vincent wadded enough of the fur blanket up to prop his neck until he found a truly tolerable pose. After a nightmare like this, sleep would have seemed laughable. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he found himself drifting off.