Joint pain, that was the one penalty of old age that Anias resented the most. It seemed like he might never stand again when he woke in the mornings. Under his warm fur blankets he began to absently rub at his aching joints. Next to him in the fire place, the last dying embers of his fire gave off the only illumination in the room, and beyond their feeble light it was pitch black.

Sitting up Anias seized his staff and muttered a few unintelligible words. To the untrained what Anias’ words caused seemed simple and elegant, however much more was involved then a few words. By stilling his mind and concentrating he had channeled the very energies of creation and reshaped the universe to his will. Even the simplest spell could be dangerous, for if he lost control of it there was no telling how the universe would be reformed.

This time brilliant white light illuminated the room, casting long shadows amongst the stacks of books. Anias set his staff against the wall so that he could rekindle the fire and make himself breakfast. Taking out some grain meal he mixed it with water in a pot and placed it on the fire to heat. He wanted to be off as soon as possible to Hillsboro to gather the supplies he would need to make this place into more of a home. Then the real work could begin.

Welp, Part Five of the temporarily titled Well of Vulgaris writings will be delayed somewhat. The next part is probably going to be very long and very hard to write, though it is looking like part five might become part five, six, and seven. The last post is from another continuity that my mind has thought up, the main character is going to be some sort of inquisitor or witch hunter, not sure what exactly yet. Currently I am working on editing parts two and three.

Next update sooner or later. Oh, I really don't much care for writing fantasy as it were. I would like to start up a short story or something with a different genre. Suggestions will be taken.

Later, The Alchemist

His fingers were cold, from prying dirt from the frozen ground. His face was cold, from the icy kiss of the wind. Winter was a cruel lover, and as it wrapped Heinrick in its chilly embrace, he shuddered. He had been through worse. Besides, the weather nearly insured that no one would pass by and catch him about his macabre work. A man has to provide for his family somehow, doesn’t he?

And so Heinrick dug his hands into the earth of an old grave in the churchyard cemetery, hoping to find something worth selling to Gavin, the shopkeep in Bramsford. Gavin was what those in the business called a fence. He bought stolen goods cheap, and sold them to passers through the town. Not that there were many of those this time of year. Winter is not the best season for pilgrims, or other sorts of travelers. No indeed, not the best sort of weather for anyone. If he found anything valuable Heinrick’s first act with the money would be to buy himself a nice warm coat, and some new working gloves. The ones he had on had holes in nearly all the fingers and let the snow in.

In his pocket was a silver crucifix and a finger bone. The crucifix was going to Gavin, and as for the finger, an old woman outside town always wanted odd things like that, from the graveyard. Heinrick new better than to ask questions of the likes of her. Like as not to bring some sort of curse down on him she was. It was whispered around town that she was a worshipper of some forgotten pagan god, or maybe even the Old Dark. He doubted it. She was nice enough when brought what she wanted.

Nothing worth taking, as usual. As Heinrick began to pile the dirt back into the grave he heard someone speaking from behind him.

“O Heinrick” the voice began “I never thought I would find you here, thought you were on the straight and narrow.”

Heinrick found himself frozen by more than the wind, but with the easy grace of the lower class went right back to business as if nothing was wrong.

“Oh no sir, yoe see sir, I was just…”

“Spare you excuses,” the voice interrupted “they are better saved for some other fool who might believe them.”

He knew his goose was cooked, it was hard to come up with an excuse for why you were digging up old graves.

“Empty out your pockets Heinrick.”

He did as he was told. The man leaning against the corner of the church came over to inspect what he had.

“Who did you get this bone for?” The man asked.

“Poor old woman.” Heinrick thought, “She’ll be roped to a pier before the sun sets.”