Sometimes, Ezekyle Abaddon regretted the decisions that had led him to his current situation.

Oh, not the decision to rebel against the Emperor. He did not regret that, nor did he the necessity of killing those of his brothers who would not join the Warmaster's uprising. These fools had made their choice when they had placed their loyalty to the Emperor above the one they owed to their own battle-brothers.

He did not regret the death of the trillions who had perished of the war, either, having become inured to the mass loss of human life long before the lodges had even existed. He did not even regret abandoning his Legion and leaving his brothers to die at the hands of the other rebels, hunted to extinction for their perceived failures.

A long time had passed since he had quieted the Vengeful Spirit's engines and begun his wandering across the Eye of Terror, using methods of transportation less likely to draw attention. A strong enough will didn't need the genetic advantages of a Navigator to explore the Eye of Terror, and Abaddon's was stronger than most.

Abaddon had done a lot of thinking, after the Siege. More than he had before – perhaps more than he should have. Especially in the Eye, where stray thoughts are hungry and can grow teeth.

He had looked upon the Traitor Legions, exiled in Hell after being defeated at the gates of Terra, turning on one another mere days after reaching a haven from the wrath of the loyalists. He had thought on all that had been sacrificed, all that had been done, only to reach this, and been disgusted with it all.

He did not regret what he had done, but he had regretted failing. The weight, the shame of it, had been more than he could bear. He could have stayed as commander of his Legion, replacing Horus as the object of his brothers' loyalty, and perhaps in time he might have led them to find a place in the Eye. But he hadn't found it in him to care.

And so, like a wandering knight of yore, or a pilgrim on a vision quest, the former First Captain of the Sons of Horus had wandered the Eye of Terror. He had left behind is prestige and his power, disguising himself so that whenever his path crossed that of another splinter of the Nine Legions, he wouldn't be recognized. His errance had brought him to many wonders and far many more horrors, and eventually here, to this miserable excuse for a world.

He couldn't say what had made him decide to land. From orbit, the planet had looked utterly unremarkable, and perhaps that was what had drawn his attention. In a realm of impossible visions, something as mundane as the flat expanse of rock and sand was, by itself, unusual.

Only upon landing had he realized that the stone wasn't stone, and the sand wasn't sand. This world was made of congealed mistakes, every ounce of matter made up of the failure of some ensouled being in the greater universe. When the winds rose up and he inadvertently inhaled some of the sand particles, images flashed in Abaddon's mind : snippets of the lives of men, women, and aliens, as they made some fateful choice they would later regret.

Some of those moments were of things Abaddon could understand : standing over a loved one you hadn't been able to save, watching your army die because you underestimated the enemy general, briefly giving in to anger and frustration and irreparably damage a friendship that had lasted a lifetime. But most were incomprehensible, for he was an Astartes, and his mind would never really understand those his kind called, with an arrogance that in hindsight was perhaps closer to envy, 'mortals'.

His footsteps left deep imprints in the ground, as if his weight was too great for the failures to withstand. As he walked, he idly wondered if he would encounter the local equivalent of quicksand. Would that not be poetic, for him to spend eternity trapped in the galaxy's mistakes, drowning on the memories of others' failures ? There would be justice in that, but Abaddon had stopped believing in a just universe long before he had ever left Cthonia.

Eventually, Abaddon reached his destination, the only distinctive feature on this world that he had been able to detect from orbit. For dozens of kilometers, half-formed structures rose from the ground, like some melted dream of a city. The buildings were made of the same material as everything else on this wretched world – Abaddon had yet to find a single piece of normal matter.

The wanderer spent a few days exploring the false city. He wasn't in a hurry : this world's peculiar properties seemed to include perpetual sustenance, as he hadn't needed to draw on his supply of foodstuffs and recycled water since setting foot on it. And it wasn't as if there were anything else that required his attention.

He found some strange things in the ruins (if those were ruins at all). In something shaped like a cathedral's nave, he found roughly humanoid statues kneeling before a towering pillar. Breaking a shard off that pillar and eating it made Abaddon see visions of a world covered in hive-cities, perishing in all-consuming fire. Elsewhere was a broken obelisk made of the failures of one of Old Earth's many forgotten genocidal tyrants, and a garden whose stony vegetation was composed of the failures of Eldar monarchs through their Empire's long reign.

That garden was a lot smaller than Abaddon would have thought. He wondered what that meant.

Abaddon knew of self-styled scholars in the Eye of Terror that would pay a king's ransom for access to this world and the secrets that might be uncovered here. There didn't seem to be any order, any purpose to the placement of the structures, and navigating between them was sometimes tricky, requiring that he climb over or punch his way through walls. But before entering the city, Abaddon had seen that one structure in particular towered above all others, seemingly at the center of it all.

This was his ultimate destination, and after an estimated ten days or so of exploration, he reached it. Seen up close, it resembled a mad child's idea of a temple. It was far more defined than the rest of the city. Colonnades covered in defaced imagery reached hundreds of meters in the air, holding up a domed ceiling.

The temple seemed ancient, but this was the Eye of Terror. It was entirely possible it had been conjured into existence when Abaddon had first looked upon the world, and decayed to its current state in the time it had taken Abaddon's craft to land.

There was only one way in : a great set of double doors that reached all the way up to the dome capping the temple. At first glance, these doors seemed to be the first thing Abaddon had found on this world not made of mistake-stone : instead, each was carved from a single piece of black material. But as he approached them, Abaddon realized that wasn't the case. Like everything else, the gates were made of the Eye-born stone. They only appeared black because they were covered in a coat of a black, oily substance that, when he reached for it, recoiled, revealing the mistake-stone underneath.

The moment his fingers touched the doors, they swung inward on unseen (but not unheard, and the cacophony was enough to shake Abaddon's rune-marked teeth) hinges. Inside was a single, immense circular space, illuminated by the sunlight falling through the holes in the ceiling. Tortured figures of stone reached eroded hands toward the ceiling, perhaps in supplication, perhaps in abjuration. He broke off a finger from one and bit into it.

The rush of images nearly made him stumble. There was – fire, and thunder, and – shapes like maws the size of suns gnawing at his limbs – howling beasts clad in the skin of wolves hunting him across the snow – pain, so much pain, of a kind Abaddon had never before known -

And then he was back into the temple, back in the Eye of Terror, back to himself. He was surprised to notice that he was shaking inside his armor, and his body was covered in sweat. That memory had certainly been … different from the ones he had already partaken of. It had been far more intense, and he was almost certain that, should he consume more of the mistake-stone from which this temple had been built, it would either drive him mad or kill him.

His curiosity picked, Abaddon took another look at his surroundings. At the center of the room, directly beneath the only hole in the roof that was meant to be there, was a throne.

Of course there was a throne. If there was one thing the Eye of Terror was built from – besides pain, violence, the ruins of the Eldar, and the undying hunger of the Dark Gods for mortal suffering – it was melodrama.

Abaddon approached the temple's center, holding his bolt pistol in one hand and a plain power sword in the other. He had left his panoply of war as a lord of the Mournival behind, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, along with the other relics of a Legion he no longer believed in and a war he had lost. Even his armor was something he had pieced together from the armories of the Vengeful Spirit, combining spare parts to form a functional suit that lacked the psychic legacy of his own Justaerin war-plate.

A figure sat on the throne, blurred and obscured by unnatural shadows. As Abaddon drew nearer, its outline began to clear, to gain definition. It was tall, taller than Ezekyle, and humanoid. Its body appeared to be made of living fire, with its left leg and right arm and side of its chest burning a bright white, while the other side were blacker than the true void of space. A pair of red eyes glowed even brighter within its divided face, and the former First Captain felt them fall upon him like a physical weight.

Abaddon felt as if he should see more, as if his senses should register more details of the creature's appearance. But his mind couldn't hold onto that information : it was a struggle to even remember that there was something in front of him, that the throne and its occupant existed in the first place. Some deeply buried part of himself was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge its existence, and it took a lot of effort to keep it at bay.

"Ezekyle Abaddon," said the enthroned creature. Its voice was loud and deep, but surprisingly normal compared to its appearance. "I have been waiting for you."

"If I had a bolt shell for every jumped-up daemon that told me that, I could taken on the Imperial Palace on my own," Abaddon replied drily.

It chuckled, and Abaddon raised an eyebrow. A sense of humor was much less common among the infernal ghosts that haunted this region of the Eye.

"I am no daemon, Ezekyle."

"Then what are you ?" he asked, his grip tightening around his bolt pistol. The weapon would struggle to harm a creature of the Warp normally, but it was loaded with unconventional ammunition he had crafted himself in the forges of the Vengeful Spirit using ingredients no Martian tech-priest had ever conceived might exist. If he could land a hit with it, it would hurt the creature.

"It is not so much a matter of what, so much as it is of who. You knew my name once, Ezekyle."

Abaddon sighed. "Fine then, if that's how you want it. I will ask : who are you ?"

"I was the first," it said, in a tone between wistfulness and bitterness. "The first son to rebel against the so-called Imperial Truth. Decades before your gene-sire, or that mewling weakling Lorgar glimpsed the truth of the universe, I was studying its deepest secrets. I am one of the two lost sons, whose very existence was expunged from living memory by my own Father."

Abaddon snorted. Ridiculous. He opened his mouth to say as much, but before he could speak, the creature spoke again :

"I am -"

It said a name, and Abaddon recognized it, and knew that yes, this was the name of the Eleventh Primarch, whose existence had been purged from Imperial records along with that of the Second Primarchs and their respective Legions, with all who knew of them forbidden to speak of them. But even as he understood this, he realized that he still couldn't remember the name, couldn't think it, despite his eidetic memory.

Just like he couldn't remember anything about the two Lost Primarchs and their Legions, despite knowing he had been alive at the time of their tragic fate. Until now, he hadn't even realized this hole in his memories – no, not a hole. The memories were here, he just … couldn't think about them. To an Astartes, the sensation was utterly alien, and more than a little disquieting.

On its throne, the creature chuckled bitterly as it saw his confusion.

"Do you see now ? Even here, even now, His work still holds you. Did you really think none of the others ever spoke of us because they were commanded to do so ? Come now, Ezekyle ! If my Father had this power, then surely He would have used to ensure none of you could rebel against Him. What you are experiencing right now is a secondary effect of the harm He inflicted upon me, just like the troubles you're having even seeing me in the first place."

"Explain," growled Abaddon. "If you claim to be one of the Lost Primarchs, then tell me what it is I cannot remember and why."

"Very well." It – he ? Abaddon wasn't willing to believe yet, but the possibility remained a monumental one – took a deep breath, which seemed to make the very walls shudder.

"All of us Primarchs were shaped by our childhoods," it began. "Some of us – Magnus, Guilliman, even Mortarion in a twisted way – were found by beings who became parent figures. Others learned on their own, but were still influenced by the conditions of their homeworlds."

"As for me … I first opened my eyes to burning skies, roiling with the power of the Warp. The first face I saw was that of a god, a king of daemons and Power of the Warp. They weren't one of the Four, nor did they stand at the same level of power. But unlike these distant divines, they were able to fully incarnate in the Materium, dragging the essence of the Empyrean with them in order to make their surroundings apt to bear their august presence."

A Primarch raised by a Prince of the Warp on a daemon world. The idea boggled the mind, and yet Abaddon found that he couldn't reject it out of hand. Was this because the creature was playing with his mind, or because, impossibly, it was telling the truth ?

"Their name is lost, even more thoroughly than mine. A god cannot truly die until its name is forgotten, and the Emperor most definitely killed it. But if a name is needed, then I supposed 'Malice' will serve well enough. When the Dark Gods attacked Terra and scattered the Primarchs across the galaxy, Malice reached out and plucked me from their claws, bringing me to the heart of his dominion."

"Malice taught me the secret truths of the Warp. They trained me in wielding the power that was my birthright, which my siblings in the Eye are still only now learning to truly master. For many years, I served as their right hand, enforcing their will across the worlds that fell under their influence. I was a prince of daemons and men alike, ruling over the psykers and mutants who populated Malice's domain. It was not easy nor peaceful, for all that Malice's power was unchallenged, for the followers of Chaos are, as you know all too well, an ever fractious and divided lot."

"In the end, it was not my father who found me, but one of my brothers. His name, too, is lost, though for another reason than mine. In the numerology used by our father when He created us, he was the Second Primarch, just like I was the Eleventh. The Second had been found not too long after our father had found dear little Horus and raised him to His side, serving a function not too different from the one I served at Malice's. Already most of my brothers had already been reunited with the nascent Imperium : only Corax and Alpharius yet eluded the Emperor."

"When he found me, the Second thought to destroy the dominion of another of the witch-kings who had risen during the Age of Strife, but he had no idea of my and Malice's true power." The voice took on an undercurrent of cruel glee as it remembered its glorious past. "I led the daemonic hosts of Malice as their general, and broke my brother's armies, scattering his mortal troops and slaughtering his Legionaries by the hundreds, before killing him and devouring his power for myself."

The implications of this, if it were true, were staggering. Prior to the events of Istvaan V, many Space Marines hadn't believed it possible for a Primarch to die – even many Sons of Horus, who had thought they had come so very close to losing their gene-sire on Davin. But when Fulgrim had struck down Ferrus Manus, that legend of invincibility had been shattered. Abaddon was certain the Phoenician – or rather, the creature he had now become – would be displeased with the notion that he hadn't been the first Primarch to commit fratricide. Transgression was one of the Dark Prince's most cherished offerings : the greatest the taboo, the greatest the reward, but to be the second to have performed such a transgression as opposed to the first, bold explorer of a new frontier of excess … In a way, it might very well weaken the Daemon Primarch's power, should it be revealed.

"With my brother's power added to my own," continued the self-proclaimed Eleventh Primarch, "I called the sons the Emperor had made from my blood to my side. Unfortunately, I went a little overboard with my call, and many lost their minds, their flesh warping under the effect of my power surging through our blood ties. As they were deployed alongside other forces of the Great Crusade, they were swiftly captured or killed, but thousands were still able to heed my call, adding the might of their fleets to Malice's and my own."

"The Second Legion reacted … poorly to the death of their Primarch, even more so when I sought to use the power I had taken from him to bind them to my will as well. Many committed suicide, while others fled to the Emperor's side, but thousands still knelt before me in the end. Eventually, I had gathered to my side the greatest military force in the galaxy, save for that which the Emperor still commanded. And, of course, He came for me, as I had known He would from the beginning. Malice had made it clear from the start that it was my destiny to rise against Him and cast Him down, to rule over Humanity and drag the species onto the throne the Eldar had flinched away from. With Malice as the living god of Humanity, elevated above the Four themselves in the process, we could have reached higher than any species ever had before us."

There was a moment of silence, with the air inside the temple glimmering with images of what that age might have looked like. Abaddon glimpsed great and terrible things then, the glory of Chaos bound to the Materium through Mankind, with humans serving as the apostles, champions and avatars of the Dark Gods, made immortal and all-powerful as they reshaped the Milky Way to suit their whims.

"I failed," said the enthroned specter bitterly, and the images vanished.

"The Emperor brought no less than three Legions to assist Him : the Sixth, the Seventh and the Seventeenth, each led by their own Primarchs – though I only met Russ and Dorn in the course of the following war. And oh, but what a war it was, my nephew," said the creature wistfully. "The Legio Custodes assembled in full, the Sisters of Silence, the Ordo Sinister, and all the weapons the Emperor had forbidden anyone else from using; they were all deployed against my warriors and daemonic hordes. The conflict lasted but a single year, yet we ravaged entire Sectors in our battles, leaving dead husks where once living worlds had stood. In the end, Malice and I faced the Emperor together, but we had underestimated Him. I know you saw Him fight in the Great Crusade, Ezekyle, but let met assure you, you never saw Him like this. If He hadn't spent years holding the Dark Gods at bay during Horus' rebellion, your gene-sire would've had no chance against Him."

"An entire star system was wiped out by our final confrontation. Malice perished, slain by the Emperor's own blade, their very existence expunged from the fabric of the universe. Then He turned His burning gaze upon me, and for the first time in my life, I knew fear. He could have killed me, and I believe He intended to, but in His desire to ensure nothing remained of me, He made a mistake – the very mistake of which I later built the foundations of this place."

"My name was erased from reality itself. I alone remember it, I alone may speak it. My power was broken, my soul torn asunder, but I survived, and escaped deep into the Warp. Wounded nigh unto death, I came here, in this wound in reality that Perturabo would later name the Eye of Terror."

"I arrived to this realm just in time to witness the final moves of the first war ever waged here, between the followers of the elder gods and the slaves of their newest sibling. Khorne, Tzeentch and Nurgle directed their servants to wipe out the eldars who worshipped Slaanesh, unwilling to let the Youngest God hold onto such an overwhelming advantage in the Great Game of Chaos."

"I took no part in this conflict, hiding instead to avoid drawing the gaze of the Dark Gods in my weakened state. Eventually, I found this world, and built this humble home from the mistakes of my father. Trust me in this if nothing else : I did not lack for materials. The rest of the city aggregated around it, formed from the mistakes of my siblings."

"And what of your mistakes ?"

"They aren't here, Ezekyle. Nor are yours. Not because neither of us ever made any, of course : it is simply the nature of this world that none who walk upon it shall ever be faced with their own failures."

That didn't make any sense, but then, this was the way of things more often than not in the Eye of Terror.

"With my safety assured, I cast my sight beyond the borders of the Eye," it continued. "I saw as those of my sons who had resisted my call struggled to live past my destruction, while the Emperor's servants carefully examined them to ensure none of my 'taint' remained on them. Eventually, along with my dear brother's surviving children, they were made to forget their past, and secretly added to the ranks of the Thirteenth Legion."

There had been rumors, Abaddon remembered. The Ultramarines had grown in size quickly, too quickly some had argued. Even with the infrastructure of Ultramar and the population of the Five Hundred Worlds to draw recruits from, their numbers had swelled too fast, leading to some Legionaries wondering if perhaps some of the warriors bearing Ultramar's colors weren't of Guilliman's blood. There had never been any evidence, however, and the edict that forbade speaking of the Lost Legions had ensured no inquiry had ever gone anywhere.

"But even then, some ties remain to their true past. And now that Guilliman has broken his own Legion apart in fear of his own power, my sons will be able to learn anew." Abaddon sensed that the creature was smiling. "It will not be quick, but one day, they will be free of the lies of my father, and usher in the return of that which I now call Malice. It won't be them as they were, that is impossible, but they will return in a new form. That is inevitable, I have seen as much."

"After that, well … I saw the Heresy unfold, watching the whole sordid tale from beginning to its pathetic ending at Terra. Horus had the blessing of the Ruinous Powers, nine Legions and half the Imperium's armies, and yet he still failed. I confess I was disappointed – had he succeeded, I might have come out of the shadows to congratulate him, and perhaps assist him in managing his new empire. The death of the Emperor would have allowed him to remember me, after all. At the very least, I would have liked for him to survive : we could have given each other the benefit of a new perspective, here in the Eye."

That was impossible. Abaddon knew his father well, and knew that there had been no way Horus would have abandoned his attack on Terra whilst he still drew breath. Even if the Ultramarines, Space Wolves and Dark Angels had all suddenly arrived to attack the Traitor Legions in the back, even if all hope of a military victory had been lost, the Warmaster would still have pressed on, gambling it all on another death-or-glory scheme – like lowering the void-shields of the Vengeful Spirit to draw the Emperor into an ambush.

"Assuming that I were to believe what you say," and wasn't that a huge assumption, "then why were you waiting for me ?"

"Waiting ? You came to me, Ezekyle. Or at least, you came to this lost and forgotten area of the Eye, and Fate did the rest. You have witnessed for yourself how diminished I am. You can barely acknowledge my presence; how could I have called you here ?"

"You said you were waiting for me," accused Abaddon.

"And I was. I sensed your arrival the moment you set foot on that world. It was inevitable then that you and I would meet."

"… What do you want ?"

"The same thing you want, or will want once you come to terms with your past. I want revenge. I want to break free of this cage, and bring fire and ruin upon the Imperium. I want to make the galaxy bleed, and impose my will upon it. I want to tear out my father's dry heart and eat it before His empty eye-sockets while I tell Him all His works are dust, before sending His shrieking soul to the Dark Gods as a plaything for the rest of eternity !"

"With your help, I can be restored from this shadow to my former self. I can tell you where to go, and what relics and technologies must be gathered to recreate my body. Alliances will be needed with those you despise, but at the end of this road lies the victory Horus failed to grasp. And you, Ezekyle, would be the one who made it all possible, the greatest warlord and champion of the new age, greater than any of the Daemon Primarchs, second to none save I !"

For a moment, Abaddon considered it. The Nine Legions, united under the aegis of the First Betrayer reborn and wielding the full power of Chaos without being enslaved to it, pouring out of the Eye of Terror to overwhelm the Imperium.

It was a tempting thought, but there was one problem with it : Abaddon didn't believe any Primarch could do it. The Emperor's sons had shown their flaws during the rebellion, and for all his boasting, the Eleventh had failed as well – if it even was the Eleventh Primarch. If it wasn't, then this entire encounter was a trap laid by some daemonic spirit to enslave him. If it was … then was there even any difference ?

Abaddon had served others all his life, save for the brief period between the day he had killed his birth-father and the day Sejanus had found him in the tunnels of Cthonia. The death of Horus had set him free, and now, he found that the very notion of submitting to another's rule repulsive.

And that wasn't all. The Eleventh Primarch had played no part in building the Imperium. It hadn't led the armies of the Great Crusade, hadn't spilled oceans of blood to forge Mankind's galactic dominion. It hadn't fought in the rebellion, merely watched from the sidelines. The other rebel Primarchs had failed, but this one hadn't even tried. And now, it wanted to take it all ?

No. No, this was unacceptable.

"I refuse," said Abaddon, drawing his bolt pistol and firing in one smooth motion.

The bolt shell hit the chest of the enthroned figure, projecting it backward before detonating. It tried to stand, but Abaddon fired again, and again, until he had emptied the entire magazine of custom-made bolt-shells in the shadowy form of the pretender Primarch.

It raised a trembling claw of pure blackness toward Abaddon, sounds that were between groans and dying gasps emanating from it, before collapsing into dust along with its throne. The temple started to shake, dust made of mistake-stone raining upon Abaddon, and he quickly turned to leave before the structure collapsed atop him.

As he left the temple, Abaddon thought back on what had just happened. Maybe that wretched creature had really been the Eleventh Primarch. Certainly the story it had told was plausible. But then again, what evidence had it provided, beyond empty words and Abaddon's own muddled memories of the Great Crusade ? Even the blocks in his memory might not be the result of the Emperor's command. Abaddon wasn't arrogant enough to think himself perfectly immune to the mind-warping effects of the Eye of Terror.

In the end, it did not matter. Even if the creature had been the Eleventh Primarch, even if it had raised its banner in rebellion against the False Emperor, it had still failed. Just like Horus had failed, just like all the other Traitor Primarchs who hid in the Eye of Terror along with the sons they cared so little about had failed.

As his gunship lifted off the daemon world, Abaddon silently nodded to himself. In the back of his mind, an idea was beginning to form. There was much yet he wanted to see, much that he needed to learn before that idea blossomed, but on that world of calcified mistakes, a seed had been planted that might yet lead to ultimate victory.

AN : The concept for this story was inspired by the series Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey. It's a series of urban fantasy that I really recommend, and saying anything more would be a spoiler, so I will just stop here.

Everyone knows that the Lost Legions and their Primarchs were first introduced into the Warhammer 40000 lore as a reference to the lost Roman Legions of Antiquity, and as a way for players to design their own Legions. But when the lore of the Horus Heresy and the Great Crusade were developed, the authors had to come up with a reason why they weren't mentioned in any records, leading to a succession of small, cryptic references (like in The First Heretic or The Chamber at the end of memory) which implies many things but are never clearly explained, and probably never will be.

So I decided to make my own theory. Here, the Second Primarch is "the Forgotten", and the Eleventh is "the Purged", and one is responsible for the doom of the other. I think the story told to Abaddon does fit what has been revealed/implied, but of course I might have missed something, which is why I have framed this as a story being told Abaddon during his errance, prior to the founding of the Black Legion. Whether the story is true or a trick told by a daemon trying to manipulate Abaddon into being its servant is up to you, the reader, to decide.

Just to clarify, in the theory presented here, Malice is not the Renegade God, but a different Warp Power. Malice might be the Renegade God's new name post-legal troubles in canon, but I don't like that version, so I didn't use it. Also, the name Malice is something I already used in the Roboutian Heresy, and obviously that can't be the name of the Renegade God there, so I might as well have some manner of internal consistency.

With this story finished (after I first started writing almost exactly one year ago, good Gods), I am going to focus on writing Warband of the Forsaken Sons for the foreseeable future, until the story is concluded. I have an outline of the last few chapters, but since I have been written it for more than seven years, I want the ending to be as awesome as I first imagined it, which will take a lot of work.

As always, please tell me what you thought of this little experiment of mine, and if you have an idea for a short story, don't hesitate to send it to me.

Zahariel out.