The World Builder

From the perspective of one of the remaining World Builders in a fantasy place that defines our very world, this is the intro into a larger, unpublished storyline.

I must decide. Here I sit, playing a false god, among my own mental carnage and categorized possibilities. My parchments are stacked around me; colored in the bloodshed of berries many nautical miles have brought me. The terrariums gleam under a gracious sunlight; one of which I never created. I have searched long and hard for the basic chemical formula I simply know exists�"that one formula which allows the identical replication of that ever-pleasant light.  Yet it evades me with what I consider a great mischief�"perhaps that is why I cannot attain it. The very building block of worlds, I cannot attain; perhaps the golden rays have breath of their own. I believe they are waging war with me. After all, who can tell me what I do is ethical?

Those little glass jars gaze back at me with what I imagine to be smiles. It puts my mind at ease, imagining those smiles; receptivity of my surrounding beings is not necessarily common. Alana holds a great curiosity, of course. I would consider her one of the few who understands. She rarely comes around, though. I manage to ration my alchemical closet to appease her uncontrollable kinesthetic tendencies while I work.

Cronan, under the house Drismore of the pillar Bolivar, comes around now and then. His visits are more of a matter of obligation; I cannot tell for sure, in light of his patterned hesitation to leave. Alana speaks no words to Cronan, and lately, has taken a great liking to matching her visiting hours to his. I find this odd; I take care to avoid mentioning this, however. Alana stays silent at the utterance of Drismore house, and did not seem pleased the last time I pried into her reasoning. She is under the house Philomena herself; she belongs to the pillar of Lyontine. She doesn’t speak of this, either; I know solely because of the symbol she attempts to hide beneath her caramel locks.

Drismore Cronan is bent in such a way that even the raspiness in his voice parades his vicious tendencies. The creature refuses all discipline, yet confuses me with his strong sense of duty. The secrets he vaults have yet to kiss the sunlight I so religiously attempt to duplicate. Drismore vaults well. Having Cronan bestowed in my favor is the highest of honors. I cannot say he strikes my fancy, though. I once told my father that I sense a greatness in Alana that can only be attributed to the very roots of her soul. I sense a greatness in Drismore that more accurately compares to the plaster sheeting on the walls. He did not find that funny. I, on the other hand, find most of my comments quite award-worthy.

My father does not visit anymore. This is most likely due to the fact his remains washed up on the shores of Nightendale; I choose faith in his existence over that option and continue to believe it is because he has taken very ill.

My workspace is considerably cleaner without my nosy father misplacing items I did not even know I owned until the time came for me to locate it. Despite this, I miss the carpentry scent on his callused hands and the sway in his step. Unlike the rest of the mainlanders’ ancestors, my father was not a war hero. His eyes never witnessed battle firsthand, but his hands were far more skilled in weapons than any other man I have ever met. Once a blacksmith, a cobbler, and a prison guard, he did not fear the hiss of a blade. I grew quite fond of the iron’s beauty myself as I learned how precious it can be. Inlaid gem handles, temperature blades, malleable knives, and long-aged artifacts glitter under the light among my belongings. I mount my favorites around my desks for show. The fingerprints of foreign users still fade into view when my fireplace’s smoke fills the room.

My hands are hurting me as I stare at said fire. Achy joints are a curse of my kind; pained fangs and bloody coughing fits have become more common, also. I endure the insetting bodily arguments with progressively amalgamating amounts of potion. I am waiting for the day when we are made aware that it is simply the atmosphere; the altitude; our diets that are killing us from the inside out. Relocation or a simple life adjustment would forever cure the premature creaks in our very structures.

Alana playfully calls me “the dead man”. Am I? I wonder this regularly. Am I nothing but a bloodied corpse, fighting the daily dance for a sustaining and temporary treatment? At least I rise from the unconscious slips the night brings. I am hounded by the night; my kind belongs to it as if a noose was wrapped around our necks and it holds the leash. I found I can escape it with much willpower and a re-creation of my natural, bodily schedule. I avoid myself at all costs. As a builder, I have enough to deal with as it is. I cannot get my work done if I am constantly haunted by my natural state. I must live in fraudulence in order to properly do my job.

I check my watch. The time surprises me; the fire normally needs a boost by now. I sigh and stroke the nearest terrarium with a bittersweet affection. It responds to my caress with a slight shiver; I feel its purr in my nervous system and welcome it with familiarity. The electrical impulses bounce as storms within the small world. I watch the condensation drip from my fingertips inside the glass as I drag the droplets down the side. It brings a slight smile to my face. My worlds are fairly friendly. I may go crazy if they were not. I try to avoid taking contracts which require more unstable, cruel works.

I could spend hours in relaxation under the right conditions�"a warm fire and mesmerizing worlds�"but Alana is expected to show up soon. I should get her closet cleaned up for her visit, so that she will be entertained while I finish up a few alchemical projects. My research has been my focus lately, but I am careful to hide this from Drismore.

The closet stands across the room from me. I approach it and fling the door easily open on its clean hinges, beginning to organize and clean the shelves and dust the bottles. I whistle lowly as I work�"it is a quick transition into habitual movement. I fade away from my task at hand and sing to myself slightly, wallowing in the historical tunes I was taught as a child. This goes on some time before something catches my eye and breaks my trance.

There is a tuft of black ash in the corner. Upon drawing closer, a wafting scent of rancid metal touches my sensitive nose. I wrinkle my face, desiring to clean it up. Why it is there, I do not wonder. I do not watch Alana in this closet, as she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself without supervision. This has been proven.

I bend down, shoving aside several layers of ash and hot coal, feeling a slight cough erupt in my throat. I make a mental note: renew my isolation medication. The powder I’ve been huffing seems to have lost its touch. I am so caught up in my thoughts, I nearly don’t realize immediately what my soft hands have exposed underneath the litter. Cold to the touch, I pause as my fingers graze a simple, chilled orb. Upon further uncovering, it seems I have stumbled upon a terrarium.

Bile bubbles in my throat, far sourer than the coughs. The sight is gruesome; however familiar the glass globe appears to the naked eye, it chokes me with its horrendously tweaked blemishes. Just slightly off, the globe holds a somewhat malfunctioned state of darkness. It appears to have been a former iron mountain terrarium; or at least a failed attempt at a clouded, barren wasteland. Either way, what I see before me a disjointed, twitching mass of horribly disgusting perversity. A dark, mountainous world all but glitching with uncontrolled electrical impulses; completely incomplete with adjunctions of edgy, twisted, dark bulks. In truth, it terrifies me to a point where I cannot tell for a brief moment whether my hand is providing the numbing cold, or if it is the work of the glass orb.

I fear calling Alana. This terrarium sits dangerously close to her coat hook; I desperately wish to believe the worst thing for me to fear would be her possible accidental interaction with this mystery terrarium. The other option is far too painful and sickening to consider.

Author's Note

The ending goes into the storyline between Alana, the World Builder, and the Drismore house. What do you think? Any ideas?
Where would YOU go with this one? I'm still brainstorming the rest of the story.