She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. My viewing of so many people is but young, and my comparisons are considerably limited. Nevertheless, I have lived thirteen long revolutions of the moons on Albion and seen much, be they animal, plant or mineral. And now am playing viewer to many different kinds of people all packed together in one pulsing place. But this girl is . . . Special. Unto her own. Like no other. Her skin a darker brown than mine. Her eyes sparkling from afar. Could it be possible they contained glints of gold? I have never seen this before, and know not whether it might be. But I have dreamed. I believe. Her hair is long and lustrous, like a curling dark river at night that shines under the twin moonlight. Her hair falls over one shoulder and meanders down her chest, accentuated here and there with flower ties . . . Primroses no doubt. She is taller than I. Thinner. Long legs. Long hands. Long fingers. Everything about her seems . . . riverine.

And I wish to bathe in her waters . . .

[Break]

Now where on Albion did that thought come from? I feel warmth quickly spreading through me; from head to hip to toe and back. It is the warmth of embarrassment I realize; for the thought I have just had. But why? It is not indecent. A private thought perhaps. Such as touching one’s parts to stimulate and pleasure oneself. Clýstra has talked to me of this before when I was younger. That I was to explore and revel in my body, but to do so in private.

Yes. The warmth I am feeling now is one akin to the other warmth I have felt before. In private.

The girl has no taken her eyes from me. They continue to burn into my core, almost beckoning me.

She appears close to me in age, and I wish so much to talk with her.

I turn to Clýstra, getting her attention.

CLYSTRA: What is it dear?

THYRA: I wish to walk a little around the square. I see a girl I wish to talk with. To learn more of Sinat and its people.

Clýstra casts her gaze around the market and sees the girl who is no longer eying me in the same way. She is now turned towards a stall, studying its wares, but continues to occasionally cast a furtive glance in my direction.

CLYSTRA: Are you no longer frightened? Do you feel confident in yourself in doing this?

THYRA: Yes. And this girl will know of the town and its way. She can help me.

CLYSTRA: Very well, dear Thýra. Remember: I shall remain in this square throughout the day. We will meet for dinner. Understood?

THYRA: Yes. Thank you, Clýstra.

CLYSTRA: You are welcome. Go along now and have fun. Celebrate the coming of May day!

I can’t help laughing as I skip away and towards the girl who is now studying me once again.

[Break]

As I cross the market square, I grow nervous for the first time. Bees in my tummy, as Clýstra refers to it. I lose confidence in myself.

What am I going to say to her?

Does she wish to talk?

Do we speak the same language?

The bees are now buzzing furiously inside me. Clýstra has told me before of the many languages spoken throughout Albion. Right now all I am trying to remember is whether I understood the conversation she had been having with the ladies in the market.

But my mind is a complete blank; wiped clean due to my focus on this beautiful girl.

I feel stirrings within me that  find new and very exciting.

As I draw closer, she realizes I am coming to her. She turns and skips away from the market.

What is going on?

What is she thinking?

Has she changed her mind?

Did she not think I would come to her?

Or is she perhaps leading me somewhere? Somewhere away from the market? Somewhere possibly . . . Private?

I start to wonder if any people nearby might be able to hear my nervous bees.

I make the decision and chase after her. As I move away from the crowds, the sounds change from a noisy market place to a strong breeze shaking the leaves and the many trees. The sounds of the birds and . . . is that actual bees? Yes! I can see the hanging hive.

Then I catch sight of the girl. Her blue dress swooping in the breeze, like a bird’s wing, revealing her long brown legs.

She disappears behind a wide-trunked mighty oak. I do not think I have ever seen such a large tree.

I stop, listening to hear where she is going, but there are no sounds; just the chorus of nature around me.

I begin walking again and step around the tree . . . And there she is, waiting for me, with that vibrant smile on her face.

I stop in my tracks and am rendered speechless.

The silence begins, then stretches between us like a great bird extending its wings . . . Then she speaks in a strong, confident, but sweet voice.

MÆVE: You’re a stranger here, are you not?

THÝRA: That I am. How can you tell? My accent? The way I look?

Her smile changes, becoming something more exciting. That special warm feeling is back, spreading throughout my chest.

MÆVE: Nay. Tis something far more simple than that. I’ve lived here my entire life and have grown with all the children of Sinat. I have also spent much time with its people and in its streets and know well of the many different faces. The Circé you came with I think I have seen before . . .

THÝRA

[excited]

: You know of the Circé?

MÆVE: A little. Just some stories. Long ago when I was small, I believe I saw her face here in Sinat. I’m very good at remembering faces.

Her eyes are locked on mine now. They are flecked with gold, as I thought.

THÝRA: And mine?

MÆVE [Giggle]: No. Your face I haven’t seen before. And I would remember your face. I’m Mæve by the way.

That smile has now made the warmth inside me blossom into a wild fire. I have no idea what is going on.

THÝRA

[awkwardly]

: Oh, my name is Thýra.

MÆVE: What do you think of the town decorations?

THÝRA: They are lovely! Wonderful! I have never seen anything quite like it.

I do not know what I am saying. The words come out, but none are actually summoned from my mind.

MÆVE: Good. I’m glad you like them. It’s my favorite holiday of the year.

THÝRA [Overly excited]: Really?

MÆVE: Well, that’s not completely true. If I am to be completely honest – and you make me want to be so – I’d have to say along with Samhain. They’re my two favorite holidays.

THÝRA: And what would two girls like us do on either of these holidays?

Again, the words are summoned from somewhere I know not. I would prefer my mouth remain closed; my vocal chords still, but then Mæve would think me strange, or lacking something in my being. The words came unbidden, and I suppose for that I am thankful.

She shows me a new smile, a more complicated one.

That smile makes me want things from Mæve. I feel those lips wishing to be kissed. I have never had these feelings before. They seem to be coming from another form; someone not me. But I also know they feel so foreign because they are my true, deep, core desires. Desires I have apparently not felt before, and not given in to fully. Whether I will do so on this day remains to be seen, for I know not if Mæve shares any of these feelings.

It feels like an eternity since I asked her that foolish question, but in reality it cannot be more than a few seconds.

MÆVE: Have no fear, my dear Thýra, there is plenty of mischief we can be getting up to. But let’s first get something to eat and drink, and then we’ll have ourselves a picnic by the river’s edge. How does that sound?

THÝRA: Wonderful! I am famished. Please take me to all the food!

We skip back to the market, laughing with each other as if we are friends of many years.

[Break]

Some time later it feels as if I am in a dream, one that has come true. We sit on the bank of the river, our sandals cast aside, our feet swirling in the cool running waters. Mæve is well known and very well liked in Sinat. But then, given her beauty, this should come as no surprise to me. Payment or trade was not required for any of the items she acquired. The selection of tasty looking foods was astonishing. Some I had tried before, some were new to me. Whenever Mæve had looked to me with her incredible eyes, questioning whether it was a food I desired, I immediately nodded, unable to say no to her.

There are cheeses of many kinds. A number of different breads. Cured meats that make my mouth water. Various fruits. And some delicious looking cakes.

We begin eating. I am starving, and once I see Mæve tucking into the foods with no shame, I soon join her.

[Short break]

A short while later, our hungers somewhat satiated, I ask the question I made earlier.

THÝRA: You said you knew of the Circé. Please tell me what you know.

MÆVE: Ahh, but first I need to ask you a question. I know Clýstra is a sorceress. Are you just a servant girl to her or are you learning the ways of the Circé?

A feel hot anger suffuse my body. How dare she call me a servant girl! Then I feel my anger cool, shocked at my unhinged feelings for this girl I am growing so fond for. Mæve appears to read my mind, comprehending the emotions my body is emitting.

MÆVE: Good. That’s what I thought. I had to be certain. If you weren’t full of fire and passion for the Circé, our friendship would be over. Now, let me tell you what I know. Because, like you, I too am in training to become one of the hallowed sorceresses.

As a sorceress of the Circé, life is a constant struggle of balance and guilt. Balance for all things must come about for there to be harmony; if they do not, there is discord, which must be rectified, or the discord will become worse and more severe, and will lead to some very bad things. It is the job and role of the Circé to do their best to prevent this from happening, and if it has already occurred, to rectify it to the best and nimblest of their ability.

Taking a life creates instant disharmony, no matter if you are a person grown of many years, or a child a few. This is why the teaching of the ways of the Circé are so pivotal.

When I took a human life, I was in the years of the teen, well along in my teachings, and knew the great disharmony it would cause. I could say that I was not at fault. Not to blame. But I used magic. And it killed someone.

I am a sorceress of the Circé and will accept my consequences.

[Break]

As I grew in years, in both body and mind, as well as ability with magic, Clýstra began showing me more of the world of Albion. Sometimes this would require much travel to far destinations. We would prepare sacks of supplies with food and clothes and whatever else we deemed necessary for the journey, and then walk. I was never fully aware of how remote and isolated Clýstra kept her home and her life. This was the only world I truly knew; my memories of my first years grew hazy and vague in my memories; this included what my parents looked like. So when Clýstra began her teachings of the outside world and other locations in Albion, where there were towns and people with life and activity, because I had never physically seen this reality for myself, I questioned its truth. My world consisted of Clýstra and myself and all the animals. The concept that there could be not just many other people, but hundreds congregated in one area in a collection of residences was inconceivable to me.

It was a long journey. After the second day, I began to question Clýstra’s choices and decisions, and perhaps even her sanity. It felt like we were completely lost and would perhaps be stuck out in this wilderness forever. And in a most miraculously way – so it seemed to me – the trees began to lessen until they were sparse, and a lush blue grass made itself known. There was a breeze that caused a sound from the many waving blades. I stopped, wondering what I was hearing. Clýstra kept going, having seen nothing, then she noticed my absence.

CLYSTRA: Tis just the wind running through the grass, dear.

I remained still; the answer not enough for me.

Eventually we continued on, but I stayed close to Clýstra for some time.

[Break]

It was a number of years ago that Clýstra had a conversation with me in which she sounded nervous and uncertain. I had not before, nor have ever since, heard her in this disposition. I honestly do not know why she was the least bit worried about me or having the talk about the “flowers of love” (an expression I did not learn until later). I had seen the cows, the dogs, the pigs, the geese . . . I’m almost certain I’ve paid witness to every animal copulating with the other gender of its species, and even a number with the same gender. So when I realized that this was the subject about which Clýstra wished to “educate” me about today, I kept my laughs and reactions enveloped inside as much as I could. My protective walls collapsed after less than five minutes.

The look on Clýstra’s face as I was guffawing at her was completely worth it.

I remained silent and by my look alone, she was able to understand why I was laughing at her.

She abruptly stood up and began preparing dinner, acting all huffy. But there was a small smile on her face.

She had little to teach me in this matter, so far as what I was paying witness to.

I know not why I choose to tell this short tale in this instant, but know of no other place for it to go, so here it be.

[Break]

The trees part like opening arms and there before us is the town of Sinat. There is no sign proclaiming this anywhere,  so Clýstra has told me. I take her word for it, not knowing whether it to be true or not. She could be lying to me, for all I know, but she would have no reason to . . . At least I believe this to be so. This all feels very new and strange. I am completely out of my element; the little world of the familiar is no more.

I remain close to Clýstra.

The town is abustle. I have never seen so many people in one place. It is . . . Unnerving. I glomm on to Clýstra, at times closing my eyes. It is noisy and dusty. I am . . . Scared. Very scared. Clýstra knows this. And lets me be.

I feel they are all looking at me. Staring at me. Judging me. Because I don’t belong. Because I am a . . . Stranger. But would they not be shouting at me if that were truly the case? Or staring at me in silence? But they are not. They are walking and talking and doing their everyday things. So . . . My presence is not in question. Therefore I am . . . Okay? Safe?

I force my eyes open and keep them that way. Then I get something in my eye and have to blink. But I’m watching now, taking it all in. The details. The sights. The life of the town.

It is . . . Alive.

Everyone is going somewhere. Somewhere important. They have a job to do. A quest. And they are all . . . Happy. Joyous. Big smiles on everyone’s faces. Something important is occurring.

There are flowers . . . Everywhere! A garland hanging from every door. Primroses! Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Who grew all these flowers? A lot of work went into this.

THYRA: What is going on here?

She stops and moves us to the side of the street.

CLYSTRA: What do you see?

THYRA: I see people going places. I see flowers! Lots and lots of flowers. Primroses! Primroses? Yes?

CLYSTRA: Yes.

THYRA: It means . . . It means something . . . Special. A festival perhaps?

CLYSTRA: Very good. And how do you know about those? For we have never attended one.

THYRA: You have told me about them. And I have read about them.

CLYSTRA: Good. That is good applied learning. And what do you think this festival might be?

THYRA: I see lots of happy people. I see lots of animals. Many cows. Lots and lots of cows. And we are coming towards the end of spring. It is getting warmer. Could it be something to do with summer?

CLYSTRA: Excellent! Tomorrow is Mayday. Considered the first day of summer. A celebration of the warming sun in the sky. A call for those looking to work, to tend the fields. To get the crops seeded and ready for growth and life. To move the cattle herds to new pastures. Booleying as it is so called. Traditionally women will do it in groups. Young women. Girls also. As a sign of fertility and readiness for the next stages of their lives.

THYRA [Scared]: Is . . . Is that why you brought me here?

CLYSTRA: Oh, no child. I wanted you to see some of this lovely world of ours. Have no fear. You are still too young. But don’t be surprised if you catch people looking at you with lust in their eyes. For you are very beautiful. But come, I have some people to meet in the market square.

[Break]

THYRA: They have all done so much work for this . . . May-day.

CLYSTRA: Yes. Of course! They are celebrating the complete end of winter. A banishing of the dark, cold days. A welcoming of warmth and light and life. You see there. All those people grouping together.

THYRA: Those men and women?

CLYSTRA: Yes. They are looking to work the fields, to be hired by farmers for pay and hard labor. To earn their keep, but also grow. Grow in themselves and grow what they are making. Be they crops or fledgling animals. They are playing a part in the growth of life. The great circle of life. They will work long and hard through the summer and then into the autumn. And then, come next festival. Samhain. They will celebrate the end of the summer, the approach of the dark and the cold once more. But also all the crops and food and stock they have reaped and stored.

THYRA: It’s . . . [softly] Beautiful.

CLYSTRA: Isn’t it just? And now I must talk with these women. Stay close. It is busy here. I do not want to lose you.

I held on to her skirt as she led me across the square, slicing left and right between market stalls like a great scythe. And then she reached the women, who greeted her with respect and joy. I was introduced and bowed and said my words, and then turned to focus on the thriving life going on around me.

A smile blossomed on my face. It was all so . . . Wondrous.

And then I saw the girl. Across the way. She was looking at me . . ?

Yes! I was sure.

Her eyes were focused on me, burning in my direction. The smile on her face was a lot like mine. In my heart I felt a new warmth I had not beheld before.

I had attained a great amount of skill before I took a life. Many years had passed: some had taken long, were harsh and painstaking; others went by seemingly within the blink of an eye, though perhaps such a statement should not be uttered when concerning magic, for perhaps if I had asked this boon of Clýstra – to make a significant amount of time pass within the literal blinking of an eye – she might possibly do it just to reveal there were no limits to her many abilities. Though I cannot begin to fathom the amount of power and life it would be require.

But I am changing my topics. This story was not to be about Clýstra, but about me, as all these stories should be; at least that is my hope, for if I am to truly regain all my powers, I will have to be both painfully and brutally honest in my telling, as much as it may pain me. I feel it is only in that way that I may truly be restored to my former glory.

[Break]

Clýstra had instructed me very specifically and repeatedly. This is a magic of taking; always taking. There is the taking from inorganic material – rocks, dirt, water, air, which are in fortunate abundance on the planet of Albion, but also do not give the sorceress much power to work with. If you are solely using inorganic material, great volumes of it will be necessary to successfully complete most spells, unless they be very simple ones. When power and life is taken from a living entity, the amount is many fold but always comes at a cost. To take from plants and trees and flowers withers and desiccates them, leaving them dried up and most importantly dead. There is no coming back from this; no further power can be gained. No vitality remains. There is nothing left but to cast it into the wind.

Clýstra was incessantly clear on this and drove the harsh reality into me for many a year, often making me repeat it back to her, explain it, come up with examples to prove I fully understood what was being done here and the gravitas of it all.

There was also a third choice for the acquiring and use of power, but one that should only be used as a last resort, when no other option remained. Clýstra did not teach me of this third way until I was considerably older, so I could fully comprehend what this decision would be and its significant consequences. She only taught it to me once, perhaps believing I would not remember and therefore never use it. Only if extremely necessary, when one has no inorganic or living material to derive power from, one can extract it from oneself. The same rules apply. The same costs apply. If you take some essence from yourself, you will naturally feel weaker and less able because of it. The more you do this, the weaker you will become. And if you take too much . . . You will die.

Undeniably.

Lesson quickly learned.

[Break]

I took my first life when I was ten. A very young kitten. I found it all alone in a bush. It’s mum and siblings had abandoned it. It looked sickly and frail, even for a kitten. I have lived with animals ever since Clýstra took me in. Cats, dogs, chickens, ducks, geese, cows, pigs. They have surrounded me and been part of me for all of my life it seems. I have helped the birthing of many an animal babe, and know what a healthy creature looks like . . . And an unhealthy one. This kitten was very much unhealthy, destined to soon pass and leave this world. But I was ten, and even though I knew deep inside of me that this was all part of life and that animals were meant to die as part of the great cycle of Albion life, I wanted to do something.

I wanted to try and save the creature’s life.

I knew it was not meant to be. Deep within. I had learned much already from Clýstra and knew of the rules and the balance of nature and life, but I was still a ten-year-old girl. I wanted to do something. Seeing this helpless creature affected me greatly, made my insides feel like slime and bad things that wanted to leave my body.

I put my knees upon the ground, and my hands gently upon the kitten’s quivering body. It’s heartbeat was faint and oh so slow for one so small. I could feel so much beneath my fingers and palms, just as Clýstra had taught me. The soft, downy fur almost like thin tickling feathers. The warm skin beneath, pulsing with life giving blood. Beneath, the fragile ribcage and bones, so tender and weak. All too seldom there was a slight rising and falling, as a frail breath was taken in and exhaled. The kitten didn’t have long left.

I closed my eyes and concentrated, and tried to give the pathetic creature some of my life, my living, my existence, and keep it alive. I thought it would require some of my energy, would make me give it away and weaken me, but I thought it would not be much, for I was a human many times greater in size to this frail feline.

I felt something happen, grew tense with excitement. I held my breath, trying to freeze my body in place, and also be ready for a weakening in my form. But it never came . . . The opposite happened. That’s when I knew something had gone wrong.

Terribly wrong.

I felt life flow into me, imbue my body with strength and excitation; I felt both incredibly light and incredibly powerful. As if I had just had many a night’s sleep and a filling, wholesome meal, and was prepared to do anything I chose. I felt . . . Limitless.

I opened my eyes, then took my hands away from the kitten, folding them again my chest in a gesture of protection.

I gasped.

[GASP – couple takes]

Where my fingers and palms had been touching the creature, the fur had now turned a sickly yellowish-white. My small fingers clearly outlined. It was haunting. It was not necessary for me to place my hands back upon the creature in hopes of finding that weak heartbeat and forced breath. I knew its life, its essence was gone . . . For I had taken it. All.

It was dead.

That was when the tears came and then the sobbing.

Clýstra came to me. She could have been cross with me. Perhaps she should have, but she was not. She took me in her arms and brought me back to the house. She held me for as long as I needed. I cried and sobbed and bled my tears until I felt there was no moisture left within me. The dry heaves came next, and then I was finally done.

She sat me on her fur-skin sofa and put her arm around my shoulders.

She spoke in a soft and kind voice:

CLYSTRA: Why did you do such a thing?

THYRA

[young girl voice]

: I wanted to keep it alive. To give it some of my life. My essence. So it would live.

CLYSTRA: Did you not think of the cost to your own life?

THYRA: Yes, but I thought it would only take a little. A little I felt I could spare.

CLYSTRA: Very well girl. But sadly this type of magic is something that can never be done by a sorceress. We can only take, but never give . . .

THYRA [Shock]: What?!

CLYSTRA: Ours is a magic of taking life and energy from other matter, be they organic or not, but we can never give back that energy. We can never put it back within a life-form. It can only be taken away, removed. And once that is done there is no turning back.

I scrunched up my face and became angry.

THYRA: I hate this magic. It is silly. It is mean. It makes me feel . . . Helpless.

CLYSTRA: Yes child. These are all feelings I and many other sorceresses have felt before. Perhaps all of them have at one point or another. But it is the way of the magic of the Circé, and it is also its failing. It cannot be changed or altered or improved. It simply . . . Is.

That was when the tears came again, and I discovered I did have more water to shed from my body. Clystra took me into her arms once more; it was not long before I fell into slumberland.

I never knew my mother . . . Or father. Least not when I was older. As a newborn bundle they were there, helping me, supporting me, nurturing me. And then they were gone. Gone from my life. Gone from this world. Their bodies were never found. No one knew anything.

As for me, a babe of just six months, I was rescued by a very special woman. Clýstra was her name. She was old when I was still very young. When I grew to my teens, and over-teens, she was older, but did not seem so. She appeared just as I remembered her when I was fifteen, ten, and five. But I knew before five that she possessed a special gift, a gift she chose to impart to me.

For she was a great sorceress.

A Circé.

[Break]

She came upon me in a setting that bares more than a passing resemblance to a quaint tale out of a very old book. I lay wrapped in a swaddling blanket in my wicker crib, studying the intricacies of my toes and their ability to move independently, as if they were their very own tiny little creatures. It made me giggle endlessly. My giggles grew louder when I discovered I could in fact reach these little toes and my face grew shocked when I learned they were part of me.

You are perchance wondering how I could recall a moment in such detail from a very young age; how the mind does not begin to keep and maintain thoughts and memories such as these until a few years greater in age. Let me elucidate and by the same token reveal the awesome power of the incredible Clýstra.

On the day she performed this complicated spell, I had no idea what her plans were. She had told me nothing, but let me stew in my wandering thoughts. I merely watched her as she assembled her articles. Picking up certain rocks from various baskets in her storehouse and assembling them in a crude pyramid before me. Then accumulating a number of sticks and twigs which she carefully lined up against the rocks, all seeming to come to a tapered point.

CLYSTRA: Wait here

Then she stepped outside her home. She was gone for but a few moments, and returned with a gorgeous vibrant green rose, the burgundy leaves framing the exotic color of the flower. The fact that this rose’s color was the same as my eyes was not missed by me, especially since Clýstra has told me this myriad times over my years. I knew then that this was certainly something involving my person. I grew nervous.

She delicately placed the flower on the rickety scaffolding of sticks and rocks. I thought it would all come tumbling down, like Eggy-Freddy, and it did but tremble for a second, like an insect about to take flight, and then held.

CLYSTRA: Are you ready?

I gave her a look that said I knew not at all. She nodded in acceptance and began.

[Break]

Her legs folded beneath her and seemed to disappear. Clýstra held up her hands, palms out, as if she were absorbing warmth from a fire. Eyes closed, she was concentrating.

I watched and learned.

Something happened, but I didn’t know what. It seemed like nothing, but then I saw we were no longer where we’d been.

Now inside a thatch house, sitting in the same position, Clýstra before me, sitting just the same. Except . . . We were not alone. I was able to immediately know this by the sound of a child . . . A very young child. I turned my head to see a wicker crib in a corner of the hut. From my angle of view I could not see who was in the crib, though the noises  made it clear it was a babe. Then I saw wriggling hands and feet reaching and kicking out until they came in contact with each other. I couldn’t close my eyes; I couldn’t blink. Those tiny limbs, so soft and pure and innocent. I was mesmerized. Entranced. Hypnotized.

CLYSTRA: That’s you

How is that possible?

CLYSTRA: We have traveled. Through time. To the past. In a short while someone will walk through the door . . .

“You?” I ask in wonder.

CLYSTRA: Yes. You catch on quick, girl. And this is the day I found you.

THYRA

[hopeful]

: So you know what happened to my parents?

CLYSTRA: Sadly, no, my dear. I tried. I tried very hard. I used spells. All the ones that might work. And I talked to many and all. No one had answer or even a clue. One day they were there, taking care of you. The next they were gone.

I wanted to move on. Not talk about this still fresh and open wound.

THYRA: How have we traveled in time?

CLYSTRA: We do not have long, so I will be terse. You know the essence of magic is in the life of things, be they organic or not. Living or lifeless. The stones I chose because they are equal to those in this hut.

I can’t help asking:

THYRA: you remember the exact stones?

CLYSTRA: I remember everything I see, because I have to. Because it is a focal part of the craft. Because it is a requirement and a tool of the sorceress. A tenet of the Circé. I took a little from each stone. The stones and rocks of Albion are almost as ancient as the planet itself. I only need a little time, so I was very sparing with each stone. If you examine them, you may notice a new scratch; a small nick; nothing more. The more essence you take, the greater toll it takes on the object.

Hearing this, my eyes returned to the grouping of magic items and I gasped. The sticks were no longer there. Gone. But no . . . There were small piles of wood dust around the rocks. They’d been converted to oh so tiny pieces. The cost of the spell. The sacrifice. I could also see the rocks now, and Clýstra was right. While I had not paid much attention to them before. I could see a visible white scratch on one, a scratch that looked fresh. On another a small piece was absent, as if it had been deftly cut away, or dropped onto a sharp edge.

I looked for the last ingredient to the spell, and for some time could not find it. The lovely, vibrant, green rose. There was no greenery to be found anywhere on the floor between us. Then I did see a blackened, shriveled piece of something . . . A small discarded banana skin that has been left for days to the elements. It was barely a husk; a nothing; a no longer. Something that could never come back and be the beautiful thing it once was.

The greatest cost . . . The highest toll had been on the rose, which did not exist anymore. All its life essence subtracted . . . Removed . . . withdrawn.

This was an important lesson for me. One I would never forget.

Clýstra said nothing during this time, knowing that what I was seeing was teaching me far more than any service words could perform.

Then the thatch door opened on the thatch hut and in walked another Clýstra more than a decade younger, although she did not look much changed from the one kneeling before. Perhaps a few less wrinkles, more black to her hair, and a brighter light in her eyes.

I pulled myself to the side, attempting to cower before this new person, hoping to hide myself.

The Clýstra from my time snorted at this.

CLYSTRA: She cannot see us.

I understood this response, but had trouble accepting it.

The younger Clýstra walked through the old woman, then through me, over to the child. She began cooing at the babe, and it made sounds at her. She bent down and picked up the child, putting her over her shoulder.

The babe’s head was turned towards me; her face looking at me, and I looked back.

Then the child began to fade; grow transparent. As did the younger Clýstra, and then so too did the hut.

I looked quickly to my Clýstra and was immediately relieved to see her solid and corporeal.

Then the thatch hut vanished, like a flicker at the corner of my vision, and we were back in her stockroom.

I let out a deep breath . . . A breath from the past, from a different moment in time, perchance?

But then are not all breaths when taken in, expelled at a different moment in time?

For time is always moving forward, whether we want it to or not.

I turned to Clýstra and saw her looking at me, as if waiting for a question. And then I had it.

THYRA: How do you know what ingredients to use in a spell like this?

CLYSTRA: That is the correct question and an easy answer: I do not. I know much about the objects of the world. Those living, and those that are not. But for conducting spells, there are no books that tell you step by step what to do, like a recipe for cooking a favorite dish. It is all about . . . What the spell is; what it is for . . . And who it is for. I knew I wanted to take the two of us back to this moment in time. I knew the stones that would be required and how much time we needed to travel in to the past. I knew the amount of life energy that would be required from past experience. And I knew the element that linked to you specifically would have to be very strong and potent. I only have one more of those rare green roses left on the bush in my orchard. I know not if more will bloom, or if the plant may die. Magic is all about tolls on life. The role of the sorceress, the Circé, is to know the toll, and to confidently know whether that toll is truly worth it.

The world and planet I’ve called home since my birth is named Albion. It is a swirling concoction of islands large and small. Some wear great lakes like strange, ill-formed birthmarks; others tiny ponds and pools like moles. Upon them are patches of hair . . . Forests of deep and thick green. Hills and mountains, like strange protrusions and skin formations. You see, to me . . . Albion is a living thing. An entity. I have heard the Earth called as such before. Gaia. Albion truly was alive. Is alive. I assume it to still be so.

I hope it to be.

I have not returned. Since I was taken.

Taken to Ostium.

[Break]

Albion has been in existence for a very long time. Perhaps its time can be measured by those who know more of these ways . . . Scientists . . . Priests . . . Circé . . .

Like I once was . . .

How it was made is an interesting one, and the tale I’m choosing to share with you today. Not in its entirety. That would take a long, long time. But by end, you will ken somewhat of how Albion came to be.

The great goddess of all, Asifá . . . Goddess of the entire universe and all it contains, has existed for a very long time. Hundreds and thousands of times that of Albion’s living. Throughout her long and tumultuous being she has spawned many offspring. Female and male; those that are both; those that are neither; and those that are gradations of the in-between. Some she birthed with male gods; others she birthed with female gods. Sometimes she mated with male and female gods and they in turn birthed her offspring themselves. Sometimes there was no other god involved, just the mighty Asifá, choosing her destiny, her consequences, and what will come next in the universe.

[Short pause]

On this special day, in a very ancient time, she choses to create Albion. She choses two of her male offspring. They are very beautiful. They have never met. She brings them together in a part of blackness somewhat close to a giant sun that will grant them heat and energy to thrive. They know not why they’ve been brought here or what they will do. Brutá and Hasafá are their names. When they gaze upon each other for the first time there is a conflicting duality of emotions: envy . . . and desire.

Envy, for each sees the great and godly beauty and perfection of the other.

Desire, for each immediately lusts after that godly beauty and perfection and wants to partake and possess of it.

And so begins a powerful relationship filled with moments of lust and love for each other, but also moments of anger and violence. Asifá allows them to exist like this for an eon, solidifying their need and want for each other so they will never feel the need to part. Then she encloses them in a flexible, malleable ball . . . an ensnaring core to contain them. Around the core she manufactures a mantle, pulling particles and particulates from the far reaches of space and bringing them together, forcing and condensing them into a thick layer . . . A chewy insulation around the core.

Asifá dreams of the wonderful world this will become with its wide variety of plants and animals and diverse peoples and she is brought to tears by the thought. The tears of the goddess fall and soon form the ocean encompassing the entire planet of Albion.

Asifá picks an assuming large moon orbiting a dead planet and cracks it between her fingers. The pieces of moon crash onto the planet in all shapes and sizes, creating worldwide tidal waves. And thus the islands – both large and small – are made and fertilized, for Asifá’s tears contain not just water, but the very building blocks of life.

And so life begins blooming and growing and reproducing and spawning on Albion. But it still remains a very flat and unassuming planet, until Brutá and Hasafá have their first argument, their first fight, and their first battle. It is violent, perceived as unrequited by each of them. Brutá slams into the side of the rubbery core first, his elbows pushing against it . . . two new mountains form. Hasafá is next, colliding headfirst and creating a new and mighty mountain range. The duel rages on, creating cracks and new shapes on the surface on the planet.

The first, few simple creatures are unable to comprehend the intense earthquakes they are experiencing.

But time passes, and like all things, this fight comes to an end. Brutá and Hasafá resolve their issues, their differences, and fall in love with each other all over again. Then a further period of physical world building begins; a result of their lovemaking. New hills and mounds are formed on the islands until the two gods are eventually sated, and then Albion enters a period of peace and quiet for a number of eons.

Life takes advantage of the abundance of resources on the planet and the quietude. It flourishes and multiplies and evolves.

Asifá has done what she wanted. Completed her task. She moves on to other matters.

Maybe . . . Maybe one day she will return and peak in on the ongoing state of her creation. But for now, Albion is on its own.

Life on the planet increases further in numbers, constantly evolving; adapting to the conditions, as well as changing when those conditions change. People have now evolved and do their best to live alongside the diverse fauna and flora. At times it is a harsh world, very much survival of the fittest; at others it is a thriving one where there is harmony.

Brutá and Hasafá appear to have reached a peaceful coexistence, enjoying each other’s constant company and interaction. Other than occasional rumblings and tremors – a sure sign that the couple is getting along very well indeed – the ground remains quiet. There are, of course, those naysayers – there always are – who decry that one day the battle between the two gods at the center of the world will begin once again, that it will be the battle to end all battles and only result in the complete destruction and obliteration of Albion. Those few in number will continue to proclaim their doom and gloom, while everyone else does their best to ignore them. One day, these prophesies may come to pass; no one truly completely doubts it; but it is far, far in the very distant future.

For a very long time, Albion exists in the very splendor and beauty that the great Asifá originally envisioned when she began creating the planet.

And this is the short rendering of how the world of Albion came to be.

The only world that I have truly ever known.

[Break]

My tale is done. For now. For whomever’s ears wish to hear. There will be more. Many more. In time I will tell you more of my world. Of the lovely Albion. Of its people. Its incredible creatures. Its vibrant and diverse life. I will tell you of my life. My existence. My likes and dislikes. My haves and have-nots. My hates, and my loves. My conquerings and my failures.

Do not expect these tales to be lined up neatly like a marching gaggle of geese headed towards the pond. My powers returning through the stories I tell does not mean my mind is assembled and well arranged. In time you will understand much that I have been through.  Tomorrow I may tell a tale of my birth, followed by a story of my later years, and continuing a few days later with a tale of childhood. If I am to regain my powers, it will by whatever means I am able.

And I will . . . eventually . . . tell you of the love of my life. The woman whose face I see when I wake in the morning and go to sleep at night. Who I believe is still alive, hale and hearty, and awaiting my return.

Awaiting me.

One day I believe it shall happen.

My dear Pragma.

But for now, I will take comfort in the small blossoming heat I feel in my chest. It is where I keep my love. It is also where I keep my magic. I have not felt this heat – in any sense – in a very long time.

This is good.

It means this telling of tales is working.

It means I now have hope . . .

Hope to regain my powers. And hope to one day be returned to my love . . .

Darkness takes many forms. Some may be friendly, others vicious, spiteful, vindictive, malicious. Trust of the darkness needs to be earned, never given. Never handed over without question. Never left without regard, like a powerful talisman that one cannot live without, and yet gets overlooked, forgotten, abandoned without foreknowledge, and then regretted later.

So regretted.

[Break]

Leave your magical powers at the door. Where you’re going you won’t be needing them anymore. Whether you desire them or not, they will be taken from you. Stripped from you. A lump of flesh excised. Without your consent.

All for the greater . . . [Spit out this word] Good!

Whether it tears you up inside; percolates your guts so that only the nerve endings and the nerves themselves remain, to be strummed like lyre strings, stretched and twisted, until they fray and break and all you can do is scream.

And scream. And scream. And scream!

Until there’s no voice left. Until the vocal chords feel like those lyre strings and your mouth is just open and there’s just hot air coming out . . . but no sound.

And then . . . And then! You find someone. A something. An itty bitty widdle fing that can just be taken care of. Poof! Gone. Just like that. And then everything will be better . . . Peaches and cream . . . Tea and biscuits . . . Cookies and coffee . . . Blood and guts . . . Because I want to end him. Make him not be and never was. Make him inevitably obsolete. So I do. I try. I get him. Drag him through my hole . . . The one I made to that other place.

I took many people. Many delicious, wriggling figgity giblets, but t’weren’t enough. No no no. And then . . . And then! They were all gone. All eaten up. Lick my lips clean. And then some more came. Strong ones. Powerful ones. And then I found him. The one I’d met before. With the other. He who was . . . Special. He who was . . . [sigh] . . . Molecularly inclined to here . . . To [Word said with distaste] Ostium. Like they shared a melange of DNA and magic, all smoothied together. So . . . So . . . So! I knew he could help. Help me. Help me! Perchance. Permaybe. Perpossibly. Per . . . Hopefully.

And I reached. And reached. And scratched. And reached. And clawed. And reached. And tore and reached. And he . . . Zapped me. With his magicks. His mysteries. And they hurt. They singed. They burned. They pained. So . . . Like a delicate feline, I watched and waited and when he least expected, I pounced! Got him! And in he came to my word. My refuge. My sanctuary. My prison. My asylum. My oubliette. And I took him to my place. To prepare him. To tenderize him. To fatten him up for the oven!

But when I came back he had another of them with him. She . . . She! She evaded me. As she has before when I have sent my own magicks after her, to catch her. And this time they worked together.

Symbiosis.

And it hurt. Again.

So much hurt.

All the time.

[Childish quiet voice] Why me?

And then . . . And then . . . And then! It got much stronger. The burning. The screaming. The . . . Paaaaiiiinnnn.

And everything became dark. A good dark. A faithful dark. A friendly dark. A dark in which I could sleep and not worry. Not fear.

So I rested.

[PAUSE]

And ripped into light and awake and conscious and screaming. But not I this time, but another . . . Her. The one who dealt the hurt before with him. She wanted him. She had lost him and wanted him back. He was on the other side. In that [Again hate of saying the word] Ostium.

But . . . I . . . Wasn’t . . . There anymore. I was . . . Outside. Free. To be free. To be wild. Just like a child.

It has been . . . Is . . . Will have been . . . so long. To a real light. A real world. Not a filtered, artificial, confabulated, contrived, constructed thing.

[In a whisper] Pure.

But then she pointed that thing at me again. I knew what pain it could inflict from whence it came. I hissed at it. [Hissing sound]

Did as she asked. With what little I had left of my essence. I didn’t want no more pain. No more suffering. No more agony. Even if it would end things for me. So I did as she asked. Opening a little cabinet for her to crawl through. She didn’t care where, cared not when. One, done and gone.

And then I put my head to ground again. Letting the dirt and stones form a pillow for brain and body.

Moments later I am shouted back to consciousness by a [petulant] very loud man.

It is him. That one. Not the one that caused me all that trouble, but the other. The one I chased in my realm . . . And he evaded me. The little brat. And now cometh the moment of my comeuppance, until he reveals an object I’ve become all too familiar with. The little weapon of such malicious intent. The one she had that hurt horrendously.

STEVE: Oy! What happened here?

He spakes words that meaneth little to me.

STEVE: What are you bloody saying, you old hag! Where are Jake and Monica?

Could he be talking about those no longer with us? Perchance tis true. I’ve witnessed this one on his lonely self, and with the other him. And I have seen the other him with her. Goes to show they should all be within voice range and friend range, no?

STEVE: I repeat: [yelling] WHERE ARE THEY?

THYRA:: They . . . Left . . . Of their own accord . . .

STEVE: You what?

THYRA:: They have passed on to the hinterlands . . .

STEVE: Speak bloody English . . . [exasperated] please!

THYRA:: What did you call him? [Getting louder each time name is said] Jake . . . Jake . . . JAKE! Yes. He . . . He chose not to join us in this lovely little place . . With the big pointy mountain. He chose to stay on the . . . Other side.

STEVE: What? Jake? He didn’t come back?

THYRA: Nay sir! I think he liked it better there. Methinks at least.

STEVE: Why? Why would he? He wanted back. I know he did. You must’ve done something, you foul crone.

THYRA:

[breath]

No . . . No . . . NO! They brought me to my freedom. They brought me to this side. After they bested me. I . . . I  . . . I was but a patsy, a scapegoat, a dog with its tail betwixt its legs.

STEVE:

[grunts of disbelief]

Uh . . . Uhm . . . What about Monica then? What about my bloody mum?

THYRA:

[with confidence]

Oh, really? Your mater she be? How [relishing the word] interesting. I suppose I should’ve been one to spot it. You are both much alike in stature, visage . . . And weapon.

STEVE: You mean the gun?

THYRA: Aye. It be why I am so subject to your whims at this very moment.

STEVE: So where’s Monica then?

THYRA: She pointed that at me and demanded I grant her passage to the back and beyond . . .

STEVE: She . . . She made you open a door? An ostium?

THYRA: A foul word for a foul thing. But essentially . . . Yes.

STEVE: Why? Why! Why would she do that?

THYRA: You ask moi? Why would I have a clue? An inkling? An iota?

STEVE: Because you were here! With her!

THYRA: As I have made it perfectly clear to you, wastrel, I know naught. But if you would like me to infer a little . . . I believe she went back because of that man. Because she couldn’t stop herself. Because . . . She loves him.

STEVE: What do you bloody know of love?

[Short pause]

THYRA

[emotional]

: Her name was . . . Pragma. She was . . . My heart. My essence. My reality . . . My everything. And then . . . [starting to cry] then I was taken from her. Snatched away like a tiny purse of great value, never to be seen again. She had no . . . She has no idea that I still live. That I wait. That I pine for her. Every day. Every second. Wanting. Wishing. Hoping. All . . . To no avail . . .

[Short pause]

STEVE: Look . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry, alright? That was a bit far and I didn’t really mean it. You said Jake and Monica brought you here?

THYRA

[quietly]

: Yes.

STEVE: Okay. They must’ve had their reasons. You’ve . . . You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?

THYRA

[quietly]

: Yes.

STEVE: You’ve been in that place . . . In the margins of Ostium for a long time, haven’t you?

THYRA

[quietly]

: Yes.

STEVE: You were taken. Kidnapped? Against your will?

I look into his dark eyes.

THYRA:

[strong/fury]

: Yes.

STEVE: Maybe you should tell me the story. It might help?

THYRA

[deep breath]

: Not. Now. I need rest and respite. This plot of earth looks just right. Nice and cozy and cushy.

STEVE: Now, come off it. That’s not how we treat guests here at the Ostium Network.

I attempt to cleave him asunder with mine eyes.

STEVE: Let me help you, and I’ll get you into a warm, comfortable bed and you can sleep as long as you need to.

I flinch like a bitten animal when he touches me. He is gentle and careful. I respect that and with his aid am carried to some sort of contraption with wheels. I don’t discover its means of propulsion, for my head is down on the seat and I am already in slumberland.

[PAUSE]

I awaken to the smell of food and sustenance. I feel I have slept for a long time. I have not slept for a long time in . . . To be redundant, a very long time. The fates have kept me at bay, never letting me rest. Or eat. Or perhaps breathe for that matter.

I drag myself from the unconscious, pulling myself up and out of the comforting bed and its warm, welcoming blankets.

STEVE

[from a distance]

: Oh, you’re awake. Welcome to the land of the living. Would you like a shower?

THYRA: I know not what that word means.

STEVE: I suppose that’s one way to say it. Erm . . . Would you like to  . . . Bathe? Understand that?

THYRA: Cleanse myself?

STEVE: That’s it. Right on. Would you? And after that you can have some nosh.

The mere thought seems both abhorrent and enticing to me.

THYRA: I have done nothing I used to do while in the lands of Ostium. No sleep, no consuming of food, no cleansing. They are all foreign and almost forgotten to me. I have but the barest . . . Recollection of doing each of them.

STEVE: Well then, perhaps a bit T.M.I. there. I found a nice dressing gown you can use.

THYRA: A robe . . . To clothe myself?

STEVE: Erm, yeah. You’ve probably been wearing . . . That for donkey’s years, right?

THYRA: I do not understand the question, but I comprehend the insinuation. Understood.

I give him a minor bow and step into the room of washing, closing the door behind me. It is an alien action, manually closing a THYRAl, but then I suppose this one merely connects rooms and not worlds and dimensions of space and time . . .

The hot water, once I have fathomed the operation of the instrument, is pleasurably divine. The soaps and liquids I apply to my body and hair sweet smelling and rejuvenating. I feel a smile touch my lips for the first moment in eons. Then I remember Pragma and all that came after leaving her. I remember it all. Again. And again. And begin the heavy, peristaltic weeping. Again.

Fortunately, the warm water is indiscriminate, cleansing both the dirt and soil from my form, as well as the tears.

But the agony of sadness remains.

It will always remain.

[Short pause]

The sustenance is foreign and strange, but smacks of the new and enticing. I consume everything before me, unsure of what I am eating. The food is filling a hole, replenishing a void I wasn’t completely aware of until now. It is a very enjoyable experience, mated with the washing, bringing an overall feeling of euphoria to my being.

I have not felt such since . . . Pragma.

STEVE: Looks like you were bloody hungry then. No surprising, really. Being cooped up in that horrible place for so long. So . . . You ready to tell your story then? Spill the beans?

I look at him quizzically, sizing him up. Bring myself to the decision as to whether he is truly prepared to know me and my own.

THYRA: I will give you a single bean . . .

STEVE: Erm, that’s not exactly what I meant.

THYRA: I was once the most powerful sorceress in my realm.

STEVE: Seriously?

I do not deign to dignify the one word question with a response.

STEVE: You are being serious then. Wait a minute, you said you were?

THYRA: Yes. One of the Circé. Until I was ripped from my place of refuge, absconded with and taken this place of Ostium.

STEVE: Who took you?

THYRA

[breath]

: I am unable to answer that question at this moment in time. All my power is . . . now gone . . .

STEVE: All of it?

THYRA: Aye. The last thimble-full was spent opening that small doorway for her.

STEVE: My mum?

THYRA: Aye.

STEVE: So you’ve got nothing left is what you’re saying?

THYRA: What I am proclaiming is that my powers have been spent and now need to be reconstituted . . . Reaccumulated . . . Regrown into my form.

STEVE: Wow. Really? That’s how it works then?

THYRA: Undoubtedly.

STEVE: And how exactly do you do that?

I give him a devilish smile then, showing some teeth. His frozen look satisfies my intentions.

THYRA: I must tell my story. My [drag word out] history. From beginning to end, of all that has happened to me, and by me. Relive it through my words. Only in that way will I become regain and become powerful once again.

STEVE: Gotcha. Didn’t know words were that strong.

I give him a withering look this time.

THYRA: Words are the most powerful. At my pinnacle I could do anything with words and control all.

STEVE: Right. So you need to tell your story. Can it be to anyone? To me? Or can you just be talking to a brick wall?

I frown for a moment, then understand.

THYRA: There must be a listener; someone on the receiving end, be they human or beast.

STEVE: Human or beast . . . Okay then. What about this?

He raises a strange black rectangular contraption that appears electronic in nature.

THYRA: What. Is. That?

STEVE: This is my recording device. I use it to make my own recordings of everything going on here, everything happening to me. Telling my own story, essentially. And it all gets recorded here and broadcast to the world via the Internet.

THYRA: There are many words of what you just said that mean nothing to me.

STEVE: Fair enough. With this device many others hear my story.

THYRA

[devilishly hopeful]

: Indeed.

STEVE: Yeah, thought you’d like that once you understood it all. So here’s what we’re going to do: you keep noshing and I’ll get you one and get your sorted with your own apartment. Sound good?

THYRA

[awkwardly saying word]

: A-part-ment?

STEVE: Yeah, a place to sleep and eat. Your . . . Your new home. Essentially. Yeah?

THYRA

[awe]

: My. Own. Home.

STEVE: Yeah. Nifty, huh? So enjoy the rest of you tea and brekkies and I’ll be back in a jiffy.

[PAUSE]

The man is gone some time and I do as he has asked, enjoying more food and the quiet of my solitude in this new and refreshing abode. Then he returns with a device for me. It is identical to his and he shows me how to use it by touching certain points on the glass screen. I do not fully comprehend it. It almost seems a magic of sorts, but if it does as he says, this would be a great boon to me.

Then he escorts me to my new place of residence. It is also identical to his.

STEVE: Tomorrow we’ll have a look around and see if we can find you some clothes that fit. Okay?

I utter two words that I have not spoken in a very long time.

They taste foreign on my lips.

THYRA: Thank. You.

STEVE: No problem. Oh, and I don’t think we really introduced ourselves, did we. I’m Steve. And your name is?

It takes me a long moment to summon the name from my past, another word that has not been uttered in far too long.

THYRA: Thýra.

STEVE: Thýra? That’s a pretty name. Okay. I’ll leave you to it then and I’ll check on you in the morning then. Okay?

THYRA: Thank you. Steve.

STEVE: You’re very welcome, love.

He turns to leave and I think of something to encourage him.

THYRA: Steve . . . Jake and Monica . . . They will return here. Eventually. It may take time. Perchance long. But they will be back.

STEVE: I thought you weren’t able to do that sort of thing anymore?

THYRA: It is a different ability to that which I must regrow and regain. This is part of me always. And I know it to be true: they will return.

STEVE: Thanks for that. Really appreciated. Cheerio.

Then he is gone and it feels like he may never have been, but I can feel his aura leaving this place and returning to his own.

I sit upon the bed where I will soon rest and sleep again. But first I will tell a story. One small tale to begin the rebirth of my magic.

After touching the screen as I’ve been instructed, I begin to speak the words and feel their shapes on my lips.

I feel something else too. I bring my fingers to my mouth and realize it is a smile.

Hi everyone, Steve here. Just wanted to give a little foreword to these recordings you’re about to listen to because . . . Well, they’re unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. They’re just . . . Incredible. Thyra’s story is definitely a moving one, but enough about that. It occurred to me that these recordings might be received by someone who hasn’t had a chance to listen to all the Ostium recordings yet, or perhaps doesn’t have access to them for some reason. I don’t know how it all works, it’s like a foreign language to me. All I know is the recordings are being sent out from here, the Ostium Network, to there . . . Wherever there is, and wherever you are listening to this right now.

So I wanted to give you a bit of an introduction to get you up to speed, so to speak. All you really need to know is at the end of the last Ostium recording, Jake and Monica are lost behind the many doors of Ostium. Whether they’ll ever make it back I simply don’t know, and I’m trying my best not to think of that right now, because . . . Well, it’s bloody depressing. And I suppose a question one could ask oneself is if we’ll ever get any future recordings from either Jake or Monica which will clue us in to what’s going on with them.

But that’s another thought for another time. The first recording which you’ll be hearing about Thyra and the Circe is . . . The prologue . . . Yeah, the prologue. And that takes place right after Jake and Monica up and disappeared and Thyra found herself in the Ostium Network for the first time. And for clarification the Ostium Network is basically . . . The entire town of Gibraltar that’s been ripped out of its usual place and stuck in another plane of existence. Yeah, I’m not going to go into too much detail, if you want to learn more just start listening to the Ostium recordings.

Suffice to say Thyra’s here now and she doesn’t have any . . . Well, you know what, why don’t I just shut my gob and let her tell her story.

Hope this helped a bit and enjoy the story of the Circe . . .

Ta-ta.