Conniption Extract – Fuhlren Grille’s Diary

Fuhlren Grille is an amateur Archaeologist consumed with discovering as much as he can about the Sahrail and his origins. His diaries were written a few hundred years before the main plot of ‘Conniption’ takes place and punctuate the chapters of the book like the letters between contemporary figures also do. His diaries are considered the seminal works on the Sahrail and have been studied in the University of Toulinglish in Athburgh since their discovery (where they were discovered remains a secret!) This is half an extract from one of Fuhlren’s entries when he meets the mysterious “Chained Enchantress” in a cave that the tide pulls away from the land when the moon is at its highest in the sky and where shadows dance warnings on the cold, damp walls. Enjoy. 


“How did you find this place?” a woman had asked.

Well, I say a woman. More like a Goddess. She was beautiful, beyond beautiful actually, magnetic! Yes! That’s the word, magnetic. I couldn’t help but stare at her, my mouth agape, as she slowly lowered her hands and let whatever offensive spell she had brewing at her fingertips dissolve into the air.

Even now, as I write this, I am staring at her every few words. She’s doing nothing of note, just adding ingredients into her ever-cauldron. A sprig of parsley here, some jelly fish bones there, absolutely nothing remarkable at all. And yet, I can’t keep my attention from her.

Her hair is mahogany with tips of pink. She wears a cloak of sheer red that’s adorned with diamonds and shattered glass. Its sown into the fabric and sparkles off the lights of the hundreds of candles that line the damp cave walls. She’s like a blood red universe, a sky of war and rust, which still glistens with the shine of a thousand stars. The soft curves of the cloak cascade from her hair and drape themselves over the large and voluptuous curves of her bosom. It sheers off along her waist before drifting out languidly down her legs.

“Who are you?” she had asked me, her voice light yet piercing. “This is a place of worship,” she had warned, “you must not be here.”

“I-I… I was just looking,” I had stuttered through lips that wanted to do nothing more than taste the cream flesh of her neck, only just visible behind a clunky, grey chain.

“Looking for what?” she had asked, her eyes galring through the darkness. Shadows danced along the walls as she spoke, warning, ushering me to leave this place. Had it not been for her, perhaps I would have.

“For, well, for evidence,” I answered.

“Evidence of what?”

“The Sahrail.”

And then she wept.

I rushed to her, all thought of my mission abandoned, and wrapped my arms – as best I could – around her weeping frame.

“It’s been so long,” was all she could stutter between sobs. “So very, very long.”

She calls herself ‘The Enchantress’, and boy is she! She has cast a spell on my heart without even meaning too. As far as I can tell, she has lived in this cave for years too many to count. She knows nothing of the Wreck of Warts Dip – and everyone knows about that. Nor does she know who the Monarch is, or what year it is, or anything really, except one thing – the Sahrail.

I can see it in her eyes, those beautiful, specked with coral eyes, that she knows something about the Sahrail, something spectacular. I mean, why else would she be here, Brendon? Alone in this cave, if it were not for some knowledge that she keeps from the world. I asked her, I said, “I’m looking for answers, answers on the Sahrail and his power.” But, all she replied was, “This is answers come to perish and Power comes to die.”

Why would she say that?


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