Maynard nodded and followed both girls out of the foyer towards their halls of residence. The night was bright, and it had long since ceased to rain, which left a crispness in the air that cleansed Maynard’s lungs when he breathed in. As he walked back towards the college halls of residence he could not help but still jump slightly at shadows, however the fear seemed to be dissipating. His hands no longer shook in the dark, and he managed to put on a brave enough exterior for both the girls in his presence, keeping up in the idle conversation that he was having with the two of them.
As they chatted, he could not help but admire the girls, their red hair standing out like fire in the moonlight, their pale skin looking like ice. They were a dichotomy in human form, with blue eyes that he felt could pierce his soul. For some of their journey back they would slip into Scots, leaving him bewildered by what they were saying, but for the most part they talked to him in standard English. It was a comfort for Maynard, but a short lived one.
As they reached the halls Maynard and the girls went their separate ways, swearing to each other that they would meet in the morning at the library to help with research and to meet the teachers of the occultism courses in the college. With a wave, they left for the women’s half, and Maynard made his way into the men’s half of the halls. He trudged up the stairs and reached the third floor, where the shell-shocked receptionist had said that his room was. The corridor was long and thin, with windows placed intermittently along the hallway, letting in the silver light from outside and sparsely lighting the path. Maynard began moving down the hall, looking at each room plate carefully until he finally found his. ‘Room 3-17: Mayn Ram’. It was not his name, and he had no idea how it had come to be written on the doorway, but this was his room. There was something about it that just made him feel like he would be safe inside, from all the evils within the world.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and walked inside. The room inside was simple, neatly furnished with wood furniture and what looked like soft bedding. There was a bookshelf, which was bare of books, and a desk that was pressed next to the window on the far wall. The room was barely lit by the moonlight, but the lamp that hung over the desk was visible in the shadow. Flicking it on, the bulb sputtered to life and gave the room a soft yellow glow that soothed Maynard more than he would have liked to admit. Sitting down at the chair that had been tucked into the desk, he pulled the two other boxes that had been left behind by the wraithling and placed them flat on the surface in front of him. He took a deep breath and opened both boxes in quick succession. From within popped a brooch, a book, a ring, and a knife. First he picked up the brooch – it was solid steel and marked with the same three rings that were imprinted onto his left wrist, the sign of the Ringbearer. What that meant, and whether it was special he did not know. The only thing he could tell was when he put it into his inventory the name displayed was ‘The Hero’s Mark’. The second item he picked up was the ring. It was simple, unadorned by any engravings or patterns and looked to be made of gold or brass. Unfortunately Maynard could not tell the difference between the two, and when placed within his inventory he saw that it was called ‘A Simple Ring?’ which left him even more confused. Dismissing it, he picked up the knife and then gingerly put it back down. This was something he recognised as it was the knife he had seen Adam holding when he had left the crypt. So this is what you died for, huh? Maynard thought to himself before taking the brooch and ring out of his inventory and replacing it with the knife. Inside the inventory the knife was noted as ‘Sheyud’s Fang’ but made no attempt to withdraw it. He glanced around his room, taking note of the shadows before he picked up the book. The cover was soft and purple but there were no markings on the outside dictating the nature of the book. He flicked the book open and on the second page he saw the title of the book – ‘Thousand words and million descriptions part 1 of 3’. Continuing to flick through the book, Maynard read the pages one after another and slowly began to gain a sense of something impending. As he read the book he began to notice there was some kind of script that sat as the header and footer of every page. He flipped back to the first official page of the book and looked at the header and footer again and found that he could not tear his eyes away. Page after page entered his vision. He barely spent five seconds looking at each page but somehow he felt that it was imprinted into his memory permanently. He kept turning but somehow the pages did not seem to stop. He could feel the soft paper crumple slightly against his touch, see the words flick into sight, then out of sight as he turned the page, but he did not read. He simply remembered. Finally, after what seemed like a few minutes, or maybe hours, he closed the book and it turned to dust in front of him. He heard a ringing sound and in the corner of his vision he saw the phrase ‘New mission obtained – The Path of the Wordsmith’.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his temples as pain lanced through his forehead. Looking back at the place where the book formerly sat, there was now simply a pile of ash, which in turn was also dissolving down into nothing. Taking deep breaths, Maynard stood up and made his way over to the bed before taking off the damp and damaged clothing that felt like it was glued to him. As he laid down in the darkness and began to drift off to sleep, he began to wonder what the new day would bring, and how he would deal with the tasks that he had been presented with.
The next morning he woke to the sounds of hustle and bustle as well as an itching sensation on his chest. He sat up and blinked the sunlight out of his eyes before moving over to the desk and flipping the light off. He grumbled as he pottered about the unfamiliar room before his brain kicked into gear and he realised that this was not his bedroom. His blackout curtains were no longer blocking out all sunlight, his computer was not sitting on the far desk and his walls were not covered with the familiar posters, shelves filled with games and books, and dents. As he sank down to his knees he felt the unfamiliar feeling of a wooden floor beneath him. His heart beat quicker as he reached up and touched his chest, feeling the bandages that had been wrapped over a wound that he thought was a dream, and as he came to an understanding about the world he had been forced into he began to cry.
