4)

"…And the moonlight is so pretty! Like watery milk on the dirt! It splashes across my ti…er…" Llewellis stopped mid-song, seemingly lost in thought.

That was pretty much what the past several hours had been like. Singing, walking, no, it was more of a stroll than anything. The pace set by Llewellis was rather sedate, even if she herself wasn't. While Nemida walked, she bounced happily back and forth, occasionally stopping to roll in the grass, or play with Laumas, who also, apparently, wished to grace them with his presence. Sometimes, the feline would disregard Llewellis' antics, apparently more interested in those strange, invisible things that only cats could see at night. Other times, he would gleefully leap, kitten-like, at the blade of grass that Llewellis dangled tantalizingly over him.

The landscape over the past two hours had gradually turned much more rough. Nemida was not wholly certain, but judging by the direction they had left the house, and the position of the sun when it had set, he guessed they were heading in a vaguely southwestern direction. They passed by many fields, all filmed over with a watery moonlight. The road they followed seemed to alternate between a well-rutted path, to a barely noticeable cleft between tall rows of corn. Now, though, the fields were beginning to thin slightly. Ahead, far in the distance, Nemida saw that another road intersected this one. He had gotten pretty good at ignoring the fact that, even with the aid of the moonlight, there was no way he should have been able to see that far, with that much clarity.

"Titty?" Llewellis asked no one in particular, "It rhymes, but methinks it doesn't quite fit."

She looked down at her own chest, only marginally covered by the outfit she wore, "But it must fit, otherwise it would have fallen off by now."

She shrugged, then skipped ahead, humming unconcernedly. By this time, they had reached the intersection. Nemida looked up at the sign. According to it, they had come from the direction of Pleasant Valley. The trail continued to the southwest, towards the 'Chantry Wood', or so said the sign. To the southeast, apparently, lay the 'Plains of the Broodmother'. The northwest wasn't labeled.

Laumas scampered towards the southeast road and mewled expectantly. "That's right," Llewellis chirped, "We're heading to your favourite forest."

"But isn't the Chantry Wood that way?" Nemida asked, pointing to the other road, and found himself promptly flattened by another deadly stare from Llewellis.

"We don't want to go to the Chantry Wood," She said, a brief moment of fear flashing in her eyes.

Nemida could only nod his assent. Llewellis already seemed to have forgotten the incident and was happily skipping down the southeast road, following Laumas, who had run ahead to investigate an interesting looking patch of dandelions. Apparently, Nemida thought, there was something about the 'Chantry Wood' that Llewellis did not like. He considered asking why. "Why don't you l…"

"Look Laumas!" Llewellis interrupted, "We're almost there!"

Nemida looked as well, the road curved to a more southerly direction now, skirting around the edges of a rather foreboding looking forest. "So that's where we're going?"

"Yup," Llewellis said brightly, "Far within the greeny green-ness! The leaves there are really nice, they'll look directly at that evil sun and say 'No, Your light is just for us, not for the evil burning!' …oh, not that you're evil! I mean the burning of the flesh is evil, even if it's the sunlight doing it!"

Nemida spent a few seconds running that through his head, "So…the trees will block the sun from hitting me?"

"Wow! That's just what I said," Llewellis said.

"And if you want to be able to say anything more, you best be handin' all yer stuff over," said another voice.

By this time, the rather odd looking trio had left the road and were pretty much within the shadow of the trees. It was from these shadows the voice was issued. Nemida looked up sharply. The darkness under the forest canopy was complete, yet Nemida could plainly see the four figures trying ineffectually to hide behind the foliage. They stepped out of the shadows, in what they presumably thought was an intimidating fashion. Nemida stared.

"Oi! What are you lookin' at, boy? We're the ones robbing you!" The figure shouted.

Nemida shook his head slightly, and with an effort, moved his attention back to the four figures who had now drawn rusted swords and surrounded Llewellis and him. For a second, in the darkness of the forest, he had thought he had seen something. But no, not in the darkness, it was almost…between the darkness. It was only a flash, but it had left Nemida with a strange sense of alienation, as if he had seen something that was not supposed to have been seen. He forced himself to pay attention to the bandits that had surrounded him, and their rusted, yet still effective-looking, implements. He looked uncertainly towards Llewellis.

Llewellis promptly went and provided no help whatsoever. In the most blatantly facetious parody of distress, she staggered theatrically, and collapsed daintily to the warm grass, dramatically throwing a forearm to her brow, and imploring in a lilting, helpless-sounding voice, "Oh Nemida, they're so evil! You must save me!"

About a dozen different expressions of confusion collided on Nemida's face. The leader of the bandits stepped forward, waggling his sword aggressively, "Tell you what, boy, just drop that pretty-lookin' staff of yours, and we'll go easy on the lady, deal?"

Nemida looked down, even more confused. He realized he had unconsciously lifted the Staff of the Indigo Void. Again, he looked over at Llewellis, who broke her helpless distress just long enough to give him a wink. Apparently he had to work out what that meant on his own. Pursing his lips uncertainly, he decided he should play along. He raised the staff in what he hoped was an aggressive fashion, "If you want it, you'll have to come take it from me, er, vermin."

The bandit choked back a laugh, then signaled to one of his men. "Okay," He said.

The other bandit stepped forward and, quite simply, took Nemida's staff. The Indigo shaft was nearly out of his hands before Nemida realized what was happening. He tightened his grip, trying to wrest it back from the bandit, who promptly used his other hand to smash the handle of his sword into Nemida's forehead. "Don't play hero, boy, you're not cut out for it," The leader said.

Nemida reeled back, collapsing ungracefully on the grass. One eye began to sting horribly as blood from the newly opened gash on his forehead seeped into it. Nemida was confused, hurt, and uncertain. But, suddenly, it appeared as if Nemida wasn't the only one occupying the lithe, black-cloaked body lying awkwardly on the moon-dappled grass. Nemida was confused, but suddenly, it was as if the confusion had been pushed away as inconsequential, by something else. It was like when he had been struck by sunlight all over again, but this time, it was much more powerful, it was all-consuming.

Something approaching pure instinct woke up in him. In one smooth movement, Nemida regained his feet, letting loose something that wasn't a growl. A growl is a simple, animalistic display of rage. This was something far more than that. This was a primal acknowledgement that he was being threatened, and that he was ready to deal with it. It was more than animalistic, it was the desire to fight and survive, in its purest form, translated into a single sound. The bandits, who had turned their attention to Llewellis, turned as one, a sudden, irrational fear woken in them that had less to do with the cloaked figure standing before them, and more to do with a subconscious, instinctual fear that results when something bites off more than it could chew.

Nemida transferred his gaze from one bandit to another. All clumsiness and uncertainty had fallen from his movements, like the last leaves of autumn are ripped from a sapling by the unmerciful winds of winter. Nemida waited for them to make the first move. In some distant, unimportant part of his mind, he was surprised that he still had full control of himself. There wasn't any 'outside force' dictating his movements, he didn't feel like he was observing his own body in action. His limbs weren't moving on their own volition. He was in control of his movements, but the confusion, uncertainty, fear, and any other emotion that may have interfered with those movements had been quickly and naturally pushed to a part of his mind where they wouldn't cause trouble. They were still there, but disregarded, unimportant. Nemida narrowed his eyes, there was no real difference in what he saw now, but there was a world of difference in what he was focusing on. Nemida didn't focus on the grass, the trees, the moonlight, Llewellis, Laumas (who was now about six meters away, watching the proceedings with mild interest), or the individual bandits. Instead, he focused solely on the patterns of movement. Every twitch, every step, every breath taken by either him or the aggressors was taken into account, he saw how they all fit together.

The patterns shifted as the bandit who had taken his staff lunged forward. Nemida watched in interest as the pattern altered, the lines and curves suddenly bending towards his body, describing the path of the rusty blade and the bandit behind it. So, if he were to bend his own pattern…like so, the blade would miss him entirely, and then, if he twisted the pattern thus, he could break the oncoming pattern in the slightly weaker looking spot right there. Nemida twisted easily out of the way of the bandit's thrust, and with equal grace, swung four rigid, outstretched fingers in an arc that collided sharply with the bandit's neck. The bandit gave a slight gurgle and fell to the ground. The remaining three charged, howling.

Nemida saw the patterns, and in an unobtrusive section of his mind, wondered why he had never focused on them before. There was a sort of beauty, something almost artistic about it, like weaving a tapestry. He would shift his own pattern so that it easily moved between and around the onrushing patterns, then alter it so that it dissected those same patterns from their weak spots, outward. All the bandits knew was that what had originally looked like an easy mark had suddenly changed into a demon in human form. Where their blades went, he simply wasn't. Then, from an angle they never expected, a fist or foot would come flying out and strike them with deadly accuracy. Within five seconds, four twitching, moaning, gurgling mounds surrounded Nemida.

Nemida himself was wholly enjoying this new sensation. Now that the immediate threat was gone, he was free to examine the other patterns that he had not concentrated on before due to more pressing concerns. He delighted in the discovery of a world that lay right before his eyes, yet he had never before seen. The patterns were everywhere, all he had to do was focus on them. Then, an idea popped into his head. What if he were to look in between the patterns? For he could see that there were spaces between them. What was in those spaces? He focused a little further. There was a slight resistance, for the spaces in between were not visible to ordinary human senses. But Nemida was no longer restricted to those senses, all he had to do was allow himself to gaze with something that was not exactly vision, yet was far beyond vision. Then, for just the briefest of moments…he saw.

Llewellis, upon seeing Nemida gazing off into space, leapt to her feet in stark terror, all pretense of helplessness dropped in a flash. The staff! He didn't have the staff on him, which meant that he was unanchored! With a cry of stark terror, she dashed forward and tackled Nemida, aiming it so that both of them fell on top of the Staff of the Indigo Void, which sat discarded on the ground a meter away.

For Nemida, it was as if the patterns had all suddenly funneled into nothingness. It was a long, thin nothingness, in the general shape of a quarterstaff, in fact. He saw the Indigo Void for what it truly was, a Void. All the patterns funneled into it. It was truly a hole, and nothing more. But it was something more, for as soon as he had made contact with it, he could no longer see between the patterns. Not only was it the hole in which all patterns spiraled into, but it was also the veil which hung between the patterns, blocking the view of what lay…beyond.

But it was too late.

Nemida had already seen what lay beyond.

Nemida's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He wanted to scream. But he couldn't. There was no sound he was capable of producing that could articulate the maddening terror that came from that brief glimpse beyond. Nemida's focus drifted, and the patterns faded into the background. He saw the moonlight, the trees, the grass, Llewellis. Yet, all of it hovered in a haze of unreality. Was that was reality was? This thin canvas, painted over, and easily pierced by a mere change of focus, where, below the superficial paint was…what was real…what was there…what was here. Here, right here, sharing the same space as him! Hovering around him, through him! Always there, close enough to touch!

Nemida sobbed involuntarily, curling up on Llewellis' lap. She stroked his hair, whispering all the calming words she knew, trying to absorb some of his blind terror…the maddening, soul-shattering horror that was felt by any who had pierced the veil and saw what lay beyond. Some who saw, simply died of shock, their hearts stilled by what their eyes saw. Others went insane, their minds unable to cope with the reality behind the world they thought they knew, they simply snapped, the frayed edges of their sanity incinerated by the blast of the truth behind the veil. A tear coursed down her cheek. She hoped he could cope. It was not supposed to happen this way. The staff was supposed to protect him from the veil, so long as it was on his person. She had hoped to introduce him to the concept slowly, preparing him in what small way she could. She knew that he would pierce the veil at some point, but she wanted to be there with him, to comfort him from the inevitable shock so that his mind didn't shatter. It was not supposed to happen this way.

Nemida shuddered and sobbed, and Llewellis comforted, knowing that if his mind had truly snapped, her efforts would mean nothing.

--------------------------

The moon shown down, revealing the now-abandoned farmhouse in its watery light. A figure strode around the edge of the house. The house was abandoned, and no one had walked towards or away from it from any direction for the past several hours, yet nevertheless, the figure strode around the corner. He was still clad in the highly incongruous peasant garb. Now, though, two massive klaidmores decorated his outfit. He walked up to the single door of the house and opened it. "Nemida."

He waited, his impassive face betraying no emotion within. He waited some more. The moon, ever vigilant, revealed no betraying movement from within or without the house. The figure turned and strode smoothly away from the house. He reached the crude gravestone and the disturbed soil around it. He turned, unsheathing a klaidmore in a single, smooth motion. The two-meter sword was lifted easily in one hand, pointing towards the moon. Despite the sickly yellow glow of the moonlight, the blade glinted a dull ruby, almost glowing with an internal fire.

The blade seemed to glow a little brighter.

The blade was swung.

A massive explosion rocked the countryside. Burning embers and charred shards of plywood landed dozens of meters away. Where the house stood but a moment before, there was naught but charred ruins.

"He's gone," The figure said, to no one in particular.

The figure strode back to where the house used to be. He once again strode around what used to be the edge. The flames, already dying down, seemed almost to flare up a little higher at his passing. As the flare died away, there was no longer any figure there, human or otherwise.

The gibbous moon continued its trek towards the horizon.