The Goat of Amber Mill

[Spix]

Every day upon our way,
There is a goat we pass.
He has hair of silver grey,
And a brush of brass.

I can hear my hooves heavily strike the wooden bridge beneath me as I trod away from the Forsaken. I can feel their unblinking, unfriendly eyes digging into my spine. Still, I find the focus to look ahead at the Silverpine forest, my intentions lost beyond those twisted and gnarled branches. Yet, within six days, those intentions will see this Draenei fall further from the Light.

[Spix]

And all the while we are in sight,
He seems to muse,
staring with all his might
as he chews and chews.

I’m a monster. Silverpine is full of them. Werewolves, bats, undead, and now me. I’m going to steal from a child. Sarah Whitewand, she calls herself. She’s sitting next to me on a bench, watching my brush through her short-cropped brown hair. By human standards, she seems to be at least sixteen. She admires the painting of Amber Mill. A small lumber town caught in the grips of solemn trees. She continues on about her sick grandfather, Hansol, and how she grew up as a Kirin Tor brat, but I remain intent on the canvas. She leans too close and bumps my arm, knocking my brush off course.

“Oh! I’m so sorry”, she quickly blurts in a mature tone. I reign in any betraying notion of my annoyance. “Will the painting be alright?”, she inquires. No.

“Of course”, I sincerely reply with a smile. She hesitates and her eyebrows continue to slide in either direction. “It’s alright, really”, I assure her. Her mouth closes and she nods, accepting my words. Yet, I had a seed to plant, “You said your grandfather was Hansol Whitewand.”

“Yup”, she replies. Poor, poor child. “In fact”, she nervously continues, her voice penetrating my musings, “I shouldn’t leave him and the cleric alone for so long.” She begins to get up from the bench.

“I’m actually a doctor”, I lied. Her eyes widen. I know what she is thinking. “And yes, just give me a second to gather my things.” I begin to pack away my brushes and paints. She looks at me with this light of hope in her eyes. I quickly keep from making eye contact, focusing on my weathered satchel. However powerful that light is, it is not enough to peer into the darkness and realize she is inviting a monster into her home. A monster steals from children and that disturbs me, but sometimes, good people have to be monsters.

[Spix]

Upon his hill so thymy sweet,
he hailes us with his subtle bleat,
come with him it says to us,
we hesitate and turn to dust.

What a poor, pathetic specimen. Hansol, bedridden and glistening with sweat, was near death. His hair was a messy stack of red-grey strings. He’s sleeping. That will make my task easier.

“His health is improving”, a man, the cleric, says flatly. He turns from the bed with a damp, blue cloth in hand. I smell the room and look around. No ill omens. Hansol will not be sick much longer. “Who is this?” I move to answer, but Sarah steps forward.

“A doctor, his name is Thaddeus Crystalheart”, Sarah states. It is not. The cleric gives me a curious look. “He says he’ll give grandpa medicine”, she continues. I will not. I can feel the cleric’s presence in me. It is like a hand trailing a finger over an orb. I lock eyes with him. Sarah, oblivious, adds, “Free of charge.”

The man has a powerful grip, but I quickly shine a light within and overwhelm it. I am a mage, an exile, but redemption is all there is in those shadows. It is not. The fool gives me a cocky grin as if he has it all figured out. I feign surprise and lower my head as he leaves the room.

“Sarah”, I mutter. She is sitting beside Hansol now, tucking in his sheets. A brilliant sapphire gem hangs from her neck. That is the Whitewand family heirloom, a magic item with deep arcane roots. I can’t help but look at the beautiful thing. Her hazel eyes fall on me. “May I see your room?”

“No”, Sarah declares. I could feel my face tighten. “I’m sorry, but it’s late. Grandpa needs to rest, and so do we.” He will, but I will not. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs.” I don’t move. “Follow me”, she insists as she pushes past me. I stay a second, looking once more at the man in the cot. I feel this wrongness in me. What is it?

I turn to follow Sarah up the stairs, my true purpose here coming into focus.

In the course of events, good people can be driven to do bad things. The only thing that stops me is this feeling I get everytime I think of bringing pain to this small, human girl’s heart. Once more, I swallow this feeling of doubt.

Sarah leads me into a room furnished with an old oak bed and green sheets. I set my satchel and the canvas on a worn dresser.

“Sleep in peace”, I say to Sarah. She nods and closes the door behind her with a creak. I try to ignore the twisting in my stomach. This night will change her.

[Spix]

Then half the world is drenched with blood,
cities flare,
he contentedly chews his cud
and does not care.

I didn’t sleep.

I’m standing by the window in the dark, looking down on Amber Mill as night takes the sky. I see a few men in purple robes wander the streets with lanterns. Those glowing fires beat the dark into the clutches of the forest, but the shadows slither right back like hungry serpents. It’s quiet. I am calm.

I sneak my way to my chamber door, hearing the vain efforts of my stealth. Clomp, clomp. Thump, thump. Creak. A plank bends under my weight, but I am past the threshold of the room now and make my way down the stairs. Clomp, clomp. Creak. Clomp, clomp. Creak. Another plank. The thumping in my ears is growing louder.

I open the final door. It does not creak. Musky air hits my nose and more noise pours through my ears. Thump, thump, thump-thump thump-thump. Faster and faster. I step forward, further into the room. Creak.

My hands reach out, blue as the Whitewand sapphire. There's a lump in the my throat. Thump...thump...thump. It's slowing. It's almost as if my heart has stopped. Green magic swirls around my fingers like wind as my grip closes around my prize.

Then, Hansol’s furious eyes open and lock onto me. His hands claw up to his neck and grab mine, but I can already smell the flesh underneath my fingers begin to rot. He groans this sad, wretched song.

I squeeze harder. His eyes begin to glaze, and his fingernails dig into my skin. The magic at my fingertips casts his eyes into shadow. He looks so beautiful.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. Is that my heart? No. Footsteps. Light fills the room and exposes me. I leave the old man in a fit of coughs.

Sarah’s strident and worried voice pierces my ears, “What’re you doing in here?” I wasn't expecting this, but I had anticipated it.

“Calm down,” I softly suggest. She doesn't. “I was merely checking for a pu-” A shiver washes over my spine.

“Go back to bed Sarah”, comes a croaky voice from the cot behind me. Hansol rises to his feet. She hesitates. “Leave”, he commands. She does, leaving the two of us alone.

I look at him, but he does not look at me.

He beckons me to follow him. I do. We do not exchange words. Just silence. My hooves beat stone as we descend into the basement. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

The door locks behind us.

Thump...thump...thump...

[Spix]

Now we can hear his echoing bleat.
Rise to our feet,
it commands,
once again to roam the lands.

“Why?”, Hansol asks me after a fit of coughs. I didn’t want to give away too much.

“Why what?”, I pleasantly prod. My false ignorance infuriates him.

“You come into my home and attack me while I am weak! Have you no honor, you bloated squid? Why are you trying to kill me?”, he says in a gruff tone. His presence is stronger down here. He was weak before, but this room is his domain. I’m... I’m afraid. To be slain by a man whose life I have lived two hundred times over. “Answer me!”, he orders.

My eyes lift and I hide my fear under a blanket of pride.

“Kill?”, I ask. I throw the focus of the conversation away from me and onto him, “Even if I kill you... you will continue to live beyond normal means.”

The elder scrunches his face, “I was never a religious man, Draenei, let me tell you that. That also means I won’t blink an eye when you’re dead.” He speaks with conviction. I don’t hate the man for it. I wouldn’t blink an eye, either. Such courage, though.

Finally, the answer comes to me. A light fills my damned heart and my stomach unknots.

“I don’t speak of gods and resurrection," I say, enthused, "I speak of death. I will see to it that you live forever." His face drops in disgust. He must be scared that I'm lying. “No, no. Don’t be afraid. Please, don’t. Life is imperfect. You do not deserve this. Let me save you. You won’t ever have to leave Sarah alone in this wor-” He cuts me off, screaming.

“You will never say that name again, wretched one!”, he snarls and the point of his finger snaps at me like a whip. I shiver as the room turns cold and chills my skin. I recognize that incantation!

Ice shatters around me as my own frostbolt counters his. I felt this pain in my chest. Was I too late? An emerald coil shoots from my hands and hits the stunned wizard in the chest. His eyes remain affixed to mine, unmoving.

He stood there. He was still. Silent.

I heard the faintest sound fill the room. What is that?

...thump-thump.

It was a single heart, but I could not tell if it was his or mine.

Then, both our bodies crumple to the floor.

[Spix]

We are now subject to his subtle bleat.
Once again rise to our feet.

Sarah rushes past me with fear in her eyes. She stops at the open basement door and stares into the black abyss. We stand there quietly. That hopeful light shines in her eyes, but I know it is waning. I smile.

A robed figure lumbers up the stairs and past the opening. His face is hidden by his hood.

“Oh grandpa! Are you alright? What happened?”, Sarah says, almost breathless. She goes to hug Hansol. His arms remain stiff and shake. He groans in pain.

“Sar- Sa-sa....uuuuh”, he struggles to sound out her name before returning to that broken, brittle groan.

I beckon Hansol to follow me. He slumps in my direction, but Sarah continues to hold his frail body in place.

“Please, grandpa! Please don’t go. I can get more clerics. I can take care of you!”, she pleas. Tears are falling from her eyes. Hansol continues to weakly struggle until he is finally free. The light in her eyes extinguish.

---

I leave Amber Mill with Hansol following not far behind. I’m sorry Sarah. I have stolen your grandfather from you, but rest assured he will live on for many years to come. You could almost say I borrowed him. I feel a cool, thick breeze on my cheerful face. One day, the two of you shall reunite.

The breeze catches Hansol’s hood and brushes against his ghoulish face. White flesh hangs from it and his glowing, yellow eyes look to me.

I am not a monster.

We are all goats, and death is our shepherd.

[Spix]

With every corpse it will fill,
that's one more subject to his will.

---

Due credit regarding the poem is given to Robert William Service and his piece The Goat and I for direct quotes and inspiration.

[Spix]

I’m looking into the eyes of death incarnate. He is looking back at me with empty sockets for eyes. They are void of light and life. Dead flesh clings tightly to his snarled face. I can feel my spine stiffen. I look away. I see lifeless trees beyond the cold mist, but we are alone out here.

His disembodied, harsh voice echoes through my ears.“You have a gift for me, goat?” Hansol slumps forward, and I can see the surprise in death's face. “...the man himself,” he studies Hansol for a moment before snapping his head towards me. His hollow gaze is digging into me. I feel a familiar grip around my soul, but I do not know what he is searching for, “I think you’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain, yet there was another task I had for you, if you recall.” Yes, there was. I dare not speak. “Return to Amber Mill. I’m taking a risk harbouring your kind in my order. Prove to me it’s worthwhile.” Those empty pits stay affixed to me as he slowly drifts back towards the crypt with Hansol not far behind. I can feel the fingers loosen their hold and eventually dissipate. I'm breathing again.

I look around and find myself once more lost in the ruins of the Silverpine forest. However, this time, my intentions are my own... and they are drifting further from the Light than they ever have before.

It’s time to finish this.

[Spix]

I must admit... there is this hunger that has grown with the twisting and churning of my gut, that calls and compels me like the words of a beast of legend. A beast that I intend to feed.

“Hello?”, comes a meek, woman’s voice. Sarah’s head peeks out from behind the door to her home. They widen. She recognizes me. Good. She opens the door all the way and looks up at me. I smile. Her eyebrows raise. I continue to gaze at her. “Well then?” she inquires with some authority.

“Well what, little goat?”, I reply, amused. I find myself answering questions with questions too often. She is not as humored, and her face becomes cross.

“Don’t play games with me, Thaddeus.” That’s not my name. Should I tell her? No! Fool. “Answer me!”

“What?,” my face lifts in surprise. I had gotten lost in thought. Her frustration is growing. Her hands are clenched.

“Where is my grandfather?,” she takes care to force each word slowly through her teeth. I... I hadn't anticipated that question. I don't know why. I haven't thought of Hansol for days. What do I tell her? Your grandfather is dead, but... not. How can I make her understand?

Undeath. It’s a second chance, that is all I have ever believed. Hansol deserved that second chance, he earned it. There was nothing left for him in life, he was content. She would never accept that. If anything, she would accuse me of hypocrisy. Why are you not undead, then? She would ask. The world deserves Hansol's wisdom, I would reply. It does not need mine, for I am not content as he was. I have purpose.

No, no. She is but a young, human girl. A fruit ripe with fear.

Wait! A thought comes to me. There is a way. That ancient beast whispers the answer in my ear.

“Perhaps you should invite me in first," I suggest.

“No.” There is a bitter tone in her voice, but I ignore it.

“Pardon me, then. I should be on my way,” I idly state, turning on my heel. I do not expect her to call my bluff, for I know this little goat. I do not see her, but I can imagine how she loses her breath and hunches over in defeat. She is lost.

“No. Please, don’t go. I’m sorry,” she says softly, almost a whisper. I notice the absence of power in those words. Good. “Come in.” I turn back around, the hunger is stronger than it has ever been before. The beast of legend stirs.

Once again, Sarah Whitewand invites a monster into her home, and this time... she will regret it. For I have a purpose.

[Spix]

This is an interesting dinner. I’m sitting here. Sarah’s sitting over there with her face in solemn disbelief. I grab my cup, she stares. I raise it to my lips, she stares. I taste milk on my tongue, she stares. The liquid wets my mouth like the tears forming at the edges of her eyes. The corners of my mouth rise in an effort to cheer her up. It doesn’t work. Oh well.

Her wobbly, low voice fills the empty air, “I...I need to rest.” She excuses herself from the table. I hear her heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then the slow creaking of her door until it closes with a clink. What a strange place to mourn her grandfather. I saw those eyes, though. Those wonderful eyes. So full of life, so far from death. She has her grandfather's eyes.

Hansol must have enjoyed their company.

I think to myself. After all these centuries, am I capable of loving a person... a human, of all things? I love music and paintings... beautiful, immortal things. The colors and reflections, the feelings they give me. The feelings I get when I look at those eyes.

Have I mistaken this feeling in my stomach as only guilt the entire time? Perhaps it is something else. Maybe. There is definitely guilt in there, but it mixes with something like a boiling brew.

I feel awful about this entire ordeal. Regardless of the countless families I have seen to the afterlife, I cannot use that as an excuse to do bad things. I am a monster until Sarah and Hansol are together again.

Still, life may be old-fashioned, but there is still beauty in it. In those eyes. It would be a tragedy.

I bring a cold hand up to relieve my tired mind. I get up from the table and make my way upstairs. Perhaps I would sleep tonight, and make my decision the next morning with a clear head.

Sarah made sure that I would do neither.

[Spix]

I knew I was going to die tonight. I wake up with death at the foot of my bed. It’s cold. Moonlight is pouring through the window. He is still. Staring at me like Hansol in the basement. My heart is in my ears, but I stare right back. He stirs. Enough of this.

I glance at the candles in the room and they burst alight with flame to reveal Sarah. Those beautiful eyes peer at me. In her trembling hands is an open tome. The secrets of necromancy, my secrets, exposed to the open air.

Sarah is paralyzed, with nary a twitch. My face is getting hotter, my fists are clenching. Thief! Whore!

She screams as a wave of force knocks her back, and another tosses the book into my grip. A loud thud follows as her back collides with the wall. The candle flames lick the air wildly. She is sitting against it now, the wretched thing. I set my book down and climb out of the bed to face her.

She speaks, broken and soft, “I know what you are.” I don’t care, you stole that knowledge. “You lied." You stole! Her hands plaster against the wall as she forces herself up. I bring my hand down with another wave of power. She falls onto all fours, the breath knocked out of her.

My stomach turns, and I... I don’t want to hurt her. I stop. We’re both breathing heavily. I figure it’s too late now to spare her feelings.

“I did. I am Bastius. I killed Hansol,” I say. There’s no emotion in my words, not even a matter-of-fact tone. I just say it. I’m calm. She’s sobbing, but her fingers are curling into fists. Courage runs in the family, I see.

She snarls her words like a wolf, “I sent for the cleric before dinner. He’ll be here in the morning. You can run, but he’ll get you! You’re a dead man. Light damn you!” Those eyes, stained and wet, are glaring at me through stray strands of hair.

“I don’t intend to run.” An emerald glow is coming from my right hand. She is right there...but I cannot bring myself to do it. Why? Despite her pains, she manages to escape through the open doorway.

I glance at the entryway for a second, then I notice a peculiar object by the dresser. My painting, with that little town surrounded by weeping trees. I sigh.

Once again, I’m alone. Intentions lost, as always. I can’t help but smile at that thought.

---

There’s a rustling downstairs. I haven’t heard the front door open or close. She’s still here. I have a chance. There is a way to fix this. She may have stolen, but I can forgive her. It can be forgiven, like when a composer misses a note, or a brush stroke falls too short. The beauty is still there, despite its flaws. Life.

I trod into the doorway and look up and down the hallway. Noone. I’m at the stairs now, looking down. Not a soul. I make my way down, using the moon as my light. A great portion of the house is consumed by shadows, but I feel her presence. She is close.

“Sarah?,” I call. A useless gesture. I need her attention. “If you know what I am, then you know Hansol still lives.” I’m at the base of the staircase now. “You are probably afraid. Scared witless even, but I’m sorry.” I truly was, I should not lose my temper. I turn into the dining room. Across the way is the kitchen. There’s an increasing pressure in the front of my head. There is defintely somebody there. I continue my plea, “You can see him again, you know. There is little difference between life and death, surely you can see past such labels.” I step into the dining room. “Death is an enlightening experience, just one more step along the path of existence. You still have so many experiences you'll be dying to see... I will not bring lasting harm to you.” There will be pain, though, but I hear that it quickly fades during the transition.

I’m in the kitchen now.

“You...you won’t?” Her soft-spoken voice comes from the corner of the kitchen, by the cupboard.

“I am through lying to you, Sarah. Lying is... an evil thing to do. I should have never stolen the truth from you.” I seriously believe that now.

I can make out her figure in the dark. She stumbles towards me. Her mind must be going. I extend my hands, offering to embrace her. How I wish I could see those eyes. She must still be crying. My hands are beginning to wrap around her, those green strips of light swirl around my fingers. She's surrendered. I promise myself that she will see her grandfather. I owe that to her for all those lies. A good person keeps their promises and doesn't steal.

Then, I stop. I feel a stinging pressure in my stomach, then this sliding sensation as a knife pierces the skin. The magic in my hands dissipates as I hunch over and catch myself on her shoulders. From this angle, I can see the moonlight reflecting in those eyes. They’re cold, waiting to watch me die.

I feel blood dripping from the wound, but any feelings of guilt flow with it. My hands make their way to her throat. She tries to step back, somewhat shocked. They keep slithering their way up, holding her in place. She struggling. I can feel her throat and skull in my hands now.

With a quick pull and resounding crack, I finish it.

[Spix]

I leave Amber Mill, alone. The air is chilly with the waking Sun. The wound is healing, but I still feel the stinging pain. I’m not sorry for how things have turned out. In the natural course of things, I still granted her that second chance. I made a promise. Somewhere, in that town, the cleric is opening the Whitewand’s front door, calling out.

I realize now what this was all about. Like many of the living, I am flawed. I thought I saw beauty in it all, in people like Sarah, but look where that has gotten me. I can imagine the cleric is closing the front door behind him, stepping into the house. He notices the mess in the kitchen, Sarah sitting on her knees in the dim light. He’s calling out to her, asking if she’s alright.

I kept my promise, but Sarah will have to find Hansol on her own. I will not hold the hand of a liar. I think, he’s probably approaching her now, noticing her low, unearthly weeping. He calls out again. She stands and turns, back hunched and knees weak. Her head is resting on her shoulder. The only thing that holds it to her body are a few strands of putrid skin and a deformed spine. Her teeth are stained, and her eyes are hollow. She smiles before opening that hungry maw with a growl and charging him.

I give my painting one last look before throwing it into the forest to be lost forever. I reach into my pocket and pull out two white marbles. Their blue irises stare at me. They're so beautiful.

I hear a scream. A spooked crow stirs from a nearby tree. I glance once more at the woods around me before continuing along my way.

Such is the nature of things.

I am not a monster. I am not a liar, nor a thief. I am not a shepherd, nor a servant of death.

I am the Goat of Amber Mill.

---

A special thanks to Sol and his character Jared of the Black Harvest for assigning Bastius' this quest and providing Jared's actions and dialogue in the beginning of part II.

[Spix]

It dances and it flickers.
It whispers and it laughs.
It disappears, taunts, and morphs,
And I hear it as I pass.

“Bastius... we’ve been worried about you,” speaks a gentle, melodic voice. I glance towards the sound. Her transparent image ripples with static for a moment. This was an awful idea. My eyes drift away until I see the floor at my hooves. This corner of Shadesfell Hold is dark, but the light emitting from the hologram pours the cobblestone in a purple glow. I admire those cold trenches and turns. The ancient pattern. “Bastius?”

I push cold air from my throat, “Svencara.” The epitome of control. Tail swaying with purpose, dark hair pinned with precision, words spoken with caution. Eyes. Watching. Worrying. Waiting. Interference shimmers across her body, once again. “This is my decision.”

“Yes,” she interrupts, “but that doesn’t - it doesn’t have to be this way.” My head tilts. I stare at her. “I mean, you didn’t... I don’t know. There’s no record why you left. Where you went. Where you are.” This is pointless.

“Doesn’t matter,” I retort. The words rumble from my mouth, and glide low in my ear.

“I- alright. Very well. Um... you’re trying to access the Vault databases?”

“Yes.” My patience is waning, melting like wax. Each second spent in the presence of the flickering woman fills my head with another gust of boiling air... pressure.

“I’m rerouting you now.” My shoulders tighten. My back is tense. I relax. “And Bastius...” I stop. Freeze. “Be careful. That’s from all of us.” I’ve only spoken to her once before, and now I know why.

“Of course.”

“I trust you’re using this information for research.”

“Would I lie to you?” Her eyes dig. She finds nothing.

“Naaru’s embrace, Bastius.” Her image gently bursts into millions of tiny, violet fragments. They float there. Then, they reform into countless numbers and words. An infinity of digits and letters that will ensure the eternity of Shadow.

[Spix]

It says I am the shadow,
the one who follows it.
I'm the one that shrinks away,
when the lights are lit.

“You’re a heretic.” My finger joints harden. An algid scalpel pushes against their tips; the point of which is still embedded in the skull of a restrained corpse.

“It -could- be said that I am at odds with the general population,” I evenly reply. A grunt sounds over the operating table. The man clicks his teeth. My mind smiles, knowing I had denied him the desired response.

“Yeah...yeah. I could say that, couldn’t I?” I hear his joints creak through that decaying skin, washed with cankers and blight. My hand pushes the tool further into the specimen’s head. His throat tenses in disgust, “I could also say that you’re wasting the Executor’s time with this cure nonsense.” I stop.

“Nonsense?” My eyes widen, eager for his elaboration.

“Experimenting on the undead, mindless or not. It’s not right. Executor - fel, even the Cult - wants to give them mercy. But you. You’re something special, aren't you?”

“No,” I answer curtly. His distractions have sent the scalpel into the wrong lobe. Damn it.

“Hmph. Heretic,” he spits again. My face is hot. My teeth are gritting. Maybe this is nonsense. The Executor has given me help, supplies, but grows tired with my lack of progress.

“Be silent,” I implore him.

“You’re gonna be burned like one, even if you do find a cure.” He speaks, fearless and convicted, “Shadow damn me, you’re gonna die screamin’ like the slaughter goat you are.” Yes. Shadow damn you... wait. That’s it! The scalpel pulses with a glint, with pure Light. “What are you doing, Goat?” He struggles against the restraints. Chains creak, but do not break. “Goat!”

My heart flutters with the complete destruction of his pride, “I would like to thank you for all the help you’ve given me.” His screams are cut short by my tightening hand. I can only imagine how much it burns. Mercy, even for the mindful. “I believe, however, I’ve just found the cure.”

His eyes bulge, and I feel his muffled words pound against my palm. He is at the edge, and my curiosity stands with him. I lift my hand.

“Traitor!,” he howls, “Traitor!”

“No. Heretic.” Another flash and he falls still.

He lays there. Then, two figures appear to throw him with countless other bodies. An infinity of bodies that will ensure the eternity of Shadow.

[Spix]

I have to wonder,
Am I even real?
Is the only proof of life
the ability to feel?

I am hunted.

Ancient leaves crunch under my weight and weathered trees fill my sight. No matter how much I run, the nature of this forest traps me in endless circles. A branch snaps, close enough to make my tail stiffen. I turn to see a brief flash of white.

The pain hits me like a blow. Monstrous. I am on the ground, a trunk firm at my back. Shattered bones grind inside my hip. I hold a hand to the bruise. Three blue figures fill the clearing, morphing into hooved, horned brethren as confusion takes its leave.

One woman. I smell her fear. I see her relic. Two men. I taste their anger. I see their crystal-endowed hammers. One which drips fresh with my blood.

The fearful one steps forward, “Bastius?” Gentle. Melodic. I focus on the sound. Her figure blurs for a moment. I sense a new presence.

I speak, but my voice is tainted with pain and fatigue, “Svencara.” The epitome. The precision. The eyes. Watching. Worried. Waiting. She blurs again.

“Bastius... I hadn’t - what were you thinking?” The words are genuine. Crafted with misguided care. Used on deaf ears. “You knew what would happen, so why would you do it?”

My tongue is dry. A hard object digs into the palm of my fist. In a hoarse whisper, “To ensure the eternity of Shadow.”

A serious throat bellows, “He is a traitor.” I hear leaves shatter and crisp. Louder and louder.

Her rage joins the rhythmic crunching, “All you’ve done is tear yourself apart!”

I feel my lips crack, their corners pulling to my ears, “No.” The gem in my fist pulses. “Not me. You.”

The man raises his mighty hammer above his head, screaming, “Traitor!” In an instant, the ghoul of Hansol Whitewand is upon him. I struggle to my feet, extending the ebony crystal towards Svencara. Her eyes stop. Surprised. Sore. Still.

She falls to her knees, "You...you tricked us." The remaining man mimics her struggling. Flesh rips not too far away.

What was it she asked? Why did I do it? I take a moment. The stone is beating in my hand like a heart. “To test a theory.” She attempts to resist, but her arms are quivering - draining. I cannot lie, though, “...and, to tie up loose ends.” Her lips part to speak, but she finds herself short of breath. Dead, face down in the undergrowth.

I give my sister one last look before leaving her in the forest to be lost forever, just as that painting so long ago.

I stop along the path, only to hear silence. That old crow stares at me from a nearby tree. I glance once more at the woods around me before continuing along my way.

Such is the nature of things.

I am a heretic.

I am not a traitor.

I am not hunted.

For I am not a monster. I am not a liar, nor a thief. I am not a shepherd, nor a servant of death.

I am the Goat of Amber Mill.

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I have to wonder,
as I listen to the call,
Am I the owner of this life,
Or am I Shadow's thrall?

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Due credit regarding the poem is given to Shana Armstrong and her piece The Shadow for direct quotes and inspiration.