Marley's Journal (Chapter 1)

[Zizz Zelan]

My name is Marley.

I think it is, anyway. I can't be too sure of anything. I can't be too sure of anyone, least of all me.

My name is Marley.

I remember books...many books. Books that smelled of old paper with the smoke of a million candles in it. Writing...crabbed, fluid, beautiful, ugly, spiky writing that danced or slid or jagged or oiled its way across a thousand, a million pages. More pages than motes dancing in the light; many, many more. I read them, I did, old Marley-not-Marley-maybe-Marley sitting in a cushioned chair reading reading reading and writing writing writing, reading like I did then and writing like I do now.

My name is Marley.

I remember It. I remember It. I remember It hanging over her face, drawing her breath, scything her soul. I remember It. I remember It laughing. It was laughing at me while it took her, my beauty, my love, my life, my girl, my woman. It was laughing. It hurt to listen, but I couldn't stop. Cackle cackle cackle, and she-they were dead. Dead! I remember It. I will find It. I will kill It? Is Death death-able? Can Kill be killed? Murder and Plague and Famine and Plague and Folly and War and Battle and Plague and Sickness and Plague. So much of It. It's everywhere. It can't be stopped, they tell me. They they they are wrong wrong wrong! I will hunt It. I will kill It.

My name is Marley.

It isn't alone. It has a Mother. It reaps the wheat but She separates the chaff. I know this now. It is the Scythe, She is the Thresher. I call the Scythe, challenge the Scythe, kill for the Scythe, but the Scythe does not come. It will come. She will not. I must find Her. I will find Her. She is the Key, the Key to she-they. The Key to the door that returns them, spits them out like they did their blood-phlegm. The Key to the Door; the Key to Death's Door.

My name is Marley.

My name is Marley.

My name is Marley, and I am Here.

Where is Here?

Here is...L...?

It is Here.

(My name is Marley.)

She is Here.

(My name is Marley.)

I am Here.

(My name is...)

There will be a reckoning.

[Zizz Zelan]

Feeling somewhat more connected today. I spent my first few days in Layonara wandering its crypts, crushing skeletons and fencing with zombies. In my...maddened state, doubtless brought on by my appearance in this new world, I thought that I would surely find Death in a tomb.

Stupidity. I attribute it to the fog that clouded my mind. Death has no use for the dead.

I broke out of my reverie as I talked to a young man named C.J. on the main road of Hlint, the town where I initially found myself. He led me down into the sewers, where we retrieved tax records stolen by a rat-man. Strange indeed, but the tax collector -- a lady named Florah -- paid well for our service.

I considered killing C.J., but eventually concluded that nothing would come of it. I have devised a list of possible reasons that the Reaper eludes me:

1) His task is a simple one, done so quickly that it cannot be seen by mortal eyes.
2) He operates from this "Plane of the Lost," and needs not come onto our plane to do his duty.
3) He knows that I am looking for him. I do not aim to flatter myself with the idea that a demideific figure such as the Harvester fears me, but I do believe my inquiries would trouble him. My work cannot and will not cease, however, so if he is shy, I must turn him out myself.

There is a solution to my conundrum. How do I ensure the Reaper's presence? There must be a soul, a soul so powerful that even the Harvester must struggle with it. In the battle, I can catch him and seal him. Souls of normal people and animals are not enough; I feel that they must be far more potent to provide a challenge for him. I have some ideas for targets, however:

1) Heroes, heroines, villains and villainesses of epic stature.
2) Gods.
3) A multitude of souls simultaneously, e.g., via poison in a city water supply.
4) A mighty, ancient dragon.
5) A Great Tree or other spiritual focus.

I can see how my poisons must be blended. I will stop him cold, and wrest my family from his icy grasp. For now, however, I must sleep. Tomorrow I will seek out Andraia Benteel, who has posted a flyer in the market requesting skeleton knuckles. I believe that my time spent in the crypts may pay off after all.

[Zizz Zelan]

Vile! Vile thing! Vile pointy-ear, paleskin trash! He knows! He knows! He knows and he will not tell! Blast him! To the hells with him!

Does he lie? Does he toy with me? He says he knows the Harvester! He claims to know the Mother! Yet he tells me, in a coy rhyming riddle, "seek Milara of Rilara, beyond Bone Hill, who follows the path of the Scorpion." "You must make a deal or your soul will be shattered on the wheel." My soul became useless to me long ago. Useless since...since...since that time. Since it happened. Whatever it was...

...all told in that coy tone, with that superior smile playing on his lips. Faugh! I will not be toyed with! This rhyming fool, this elf charlatan, to the hells with him! If he lies...if he lies! If he lies, I will send him to the hells myself! I will stretch HIS soul over the wheel, and his screams of anguish will bring the Harvester! Yes, if he speaks true -- if if if! -- if he speaks true, the Harvester will certainly come for him. Certainly!

I am...tired. The day has been long. I will retire, and search again tomorrow.

But...I don't know his name...

...blast it all.