Part IV: That Meddling Kid
Chapter 4: Secrets of an Old Man
Location: Monthaven
Timeline: Sixth Age of Substance, 45th Year, Mid-Autumn
This chapter, at least, holds a flicker of intrigue—a moment that, had I known of it then, might have altered my fate. But I was blind to Monthaven’s quiet secrets, and so the wheel of fate turned against me.
The night air of Monthaven was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of decaying leaves and the faint musk of woodsmoke from distant hearths. A crescent moon hung low, its pale light casting jagged shadows through the skeletal branches of oak and maple trees lining the dirt path. Stars glittered like cold, unblinking eyes above the rolling countryside, their brilliance undimmed by the village’s few flickering lamps. Alfranco Azop and his grandson Emcorae walked slowly, the old man’s steps uneven from the ale, his breath puffing in frosty clouds as he leaned on the boy for support. Emcorae’s boots scuffed the path, kicking up small clouds of dust that shimmered faintly in the moonlight, his thoughts drifting with the changing season.
Fallen leaves lined their path, like a cascade of amber and crimson littering the ground, crunching underfoot with each step. The nights stretched longer now, the chill seeping deeper into the bones of the land. We’ll have snow soon, Emcorae thought, a pang of dread settling in his chest. No more playing outside. No more late walks with grandpop. Last winter had been brutal—his mother, Beckali, had barely let him out during the day, the cold so fierce it bit at his fingers even through his woolen mittens. The nights were worse, the drafty cottage offering little warmth. Emcorae always piled on blankets—hand-knitted by his grandmother Pallina, their stitches tight with love—but he’d overheat in his sleep, kicking them off in a tangle, only to wake shivering, his breath visible in the icy air. That ritual often ended with him catching the Winter ‘Choo’s, a miserable week of coughing, sneezing, and aching that left him bedridden.
[I can’t help but smirk at the boy’s plight. The Winter ‘Choo’s—what you mortals call the flu—was one of my finest creations, a little experiment that has plagued your kind for eons. A brief effort on my part, yet its misery endures, a testament to my ingenuity. Score another win for ol’ Azazel!]
Despite the sickness, Emcorae secretly relished the attention it brought—his mother and grandmother fussing over him, bringing warm broth and extra blankets, their love a balm against the fever. So, within a moon of recovering, he’d feign illness again, craving that care once more. Beckali and Pallina, blind to his ruse, doted on him with all their hearts, their affection a warmth no fever could match. Still, the boy sighed, dragging his feet beside Alfranco. I’d rather be playing outside than stuck in the house—
“Whoa! Grandpop, are you okay?” Emcorae’s thoughts snapped back as Alfranco stumbled, leaning heavily on the boy’s shoulder.
These near-falls were nothing new. Alfranco could spin a tale flawlessly, no matter how many lagers he downed, but his balance often betrayed him. Emcorae, though accustomed to his grandfather’s unsteady gait, felt a twinge of worry each time.
“Ho, ho, don’t ya fret ‘bout yer old granddad, Em,” Alfranco chuckled, taking a puff on his smoke stick, the ember glowing like a tiny fire in the dark. “Sleepy Monthaven holds no fear for me. Save yer worries for yer da—I’m glad Alboris stayed home tonight. He needs to finish them cabinets, or yer ma’ll never let him hear the end of it. Mind ya, Em—I go to the Brandonale ‘cause I like a drink, a smoke, and a chat with the other ol’ farts, but yer da… he goes to escape his troubles. Don’t end up like either of us, ya hear?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, grandpop,” Emcorae said with a laugh, kicking a pebble down the path. “I’ve spent enough time in bars to last a lifetime. Look, there’s gram!”
Ahead, the Azop cottage came into view, its thatched roof silvered by moonlight, the windows glowing faintly with the soft flicker of a hearth fire. Pallina stood on the porch, her shawl wrapped tightly against the chill, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She smiled warmly at Emcorae, but her eyes narrowed at Alfranco, a silent rebuke in her gaze as she took in his unsteady stance. Without a word, she turned and went inside, her nightly ritual awaiting—prayers to Yahway and Meree, whispered hopes that her husband might one day change his ways, or at least pass out on the porch, sparing her the reek of smoke and stale ale that clung to him like a second skin.
Emcorae, oblivious to his grandparents’ quiet strife, felt a glow of warmth at Pallina’s smile. I wonder what she’ll make for breakfast—
<SMACK!>
“Grandpop!” Emcorae cried as Alfranco tripped on the bottom step, cracking his head against the wood with a dull thud. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, mighty fine,” Alfranco mumbled, sitting on the ground, a hand pressed to his forehead where a small gash trickled blood, dark against his pale skin.
“You’re bleedin’! I’ll get gram!” Emcorae turned to run up the steps, but Alfranco grabbed his arm, his grip surprisingly firm.
“Hold on, Em,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “It’s just a lil’ bump, no need to rouse General Pallina. I’ve had worse, believe me, but if ya tell yer gram, I’ll catch more than a scratch from her tongue! Help me up, now.” Emcorae pulled him to his feet, and Alfranco stifled a groan as he settled onto the porch bench, wrapping an arm around the boy. “Listen, Em—I’m drunk, ain’t no two ways ‘bout it. But ya know what? I love ya dearly. Yer everythin’ to me.”
Emcorae smiled, familiar with this refrain. Alfranco often spoke of his love, sober or not, but the ale made him especially effusive. “I love you too, grandpop.”
“I know, I know,” Alfranco said, his voice thick with emotion. “But yer gram and I, we love ya with all our hearts. Yer our favorite—ask yer grammy, she’ll tell ya the same. Yer our Number One, ya know that, don’tcha?”
“Of course, grandpop. You always say so.”
“I don’t want ya to forget it! Yer special, Em. We love ya more than our own kids, even. Yer gram… she don’t love me much anymore, can’t say I blame her, but I still love her, and she knows it. But you—she loves ya more than anythin’ in this world. Ya make her proud, me too. We both know yer gonna do somethin’ amazin’ someday. Yer blessed, boy—don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” Emcorae said, his cheeks warming despite the chill.
“And don’t end up like me or yer da!” Alfranco added, his tone firm. “We’re a pair o’ boozers, and that life ain’t for ya. Tomorrow I’ll wake with a poundin’ head from all this ale, my lungs clogged from the smoke, feelin’ miserable—but I’ll be right back at the Brandonale tomorrow night, ‘cause I ain’t got nothin’ better to do. Ya need a better life, Em, and my bones tell me ya’ll have one.”
Emcorae had heard this praise countless times. He didn’t believe Alfranco’s predictions of greatness—how could a boy like him ever match his grandfather’s adventures? Still, it felt good to know Alfranco believed in him so fiercely, even if the repetition made him squirm a little.
“Ya need to get outta this borin’ town, Em,” Alfranco continued, his voice softening. “Go see the world. Where do ya want yer gram and I to take ya on our next trip?”
Since Emcorae was three, his grandparents had taken him on small journeys around Pennal—visits to relatives, short treks to neighboring villages, enough to show him there was more to life than Monthaven’s quiet fields. “I don’t care where we go,” Emcorae said, his voice brightening. “It’ll be fun no matter what.”
“Alrighty, then,” Alfranco nodded. “Tell yer gram where ya wanna go, and come springtime, that’s what we’ll do. Now, I’d say it’s time for bed, wouldn’t ya?”
“Sounds good,” Emcorae replied, then paused, a thought striking him. “Hey, grandpop, when you were tellin’ that tale ‘bout the Morati, you forgot to mention yer dagger. And… are there really such things as gargoyles?”
Alfranco’s eyes lit up, a sly smile curling his lips despite the ale. “Ah, I didn’t forget nothin’, boy. Don’t ya worry ‘bout gargoyles—they’re naught but old wives’ tales.” But then his expression shifted, a shadow of pain crossing his face, a look Emcorae had never seen before. Leaning close, Alfranco whispered, “The gargoyles are my burden, Em, not yers.”
Emcorae frowned, confused by the cryptic words. Like other boys, he’d traded tales of gargoyles with his friends—green-scaled, winged man-beasts that swooped down on unwary villagers at night—but he’d never truly believed them. Or at least, he hadn’t wanted to.
What Emcorae couldn’t know was the truth behind Alfranco’s words. For decades, since his days in the Last Great War, Alfranco had been tormented by demons in his dreams—nightmares born of the atrocities he’d witnessed, horrors that scarred his mind and haunted his sleep. The old man’s drinking was no mere vice; it was a desperate attempt to drown those visions, to numb the pain that clawed at him. For fifty years, the ale had kept the demons at bay, blurring their edges into oblivion. But a year ago, something changed. The nightmares took form—a single, relentless gargoyle, no longer confined to his dreams but stalking him in the waking world.
Alfranco knew the legends of gargoyles just like Emcorae, but the creature that haunted him was far worse. It was a towering, reptilian horror, its scales a sickly green, its red eyes glowing with malevolent intent beneath a heavy brow. Its leathery wings, vast and veined with pulsing, engorged veins, ended in foot-long talons that gleamed with cruel sharpness. The air around it reeked of brimstone, and its breath gurgled with a wet, guttural rasp, a sound that chilled Alfranco to his core.
[I can’t help but admire the description of such a creature—a being of beauty and terror, a reflection of the baals I created and [rather foolishly] gifted to Lucifer and Lilith. As such, as I relate this tale now, it sends shivers through me – partly of delight partly of regret. For I had no hand in Alfranco’s torment from these Baal’s – it was another force that stirred those visions for the old man – much to my chagrin].
Nonetheless, Alfranco was confused – for the gargoyle never fully revealed itself, always lurking at the edge of his vision, vanishing the moment he turned to face it. This convinced the old man that it was a figment of his fractured mind, a cruel trick of memory and guilt. As a result, he drank harder, hoping to erase it entirely, caring little for a life he felt held no purpose. If the ale hastened his end, so be it.
Even now, as he sat on the porch with Emcorae, Alfranco’s gaze drifted to the woods across the main road. There it was that a shadow moved among the trees, a flicker of green scales catching the moonlight. His heart clenched. Damn you! he screamed in his mind. If yer gonna haunt me, come when I’m alone!
“Grandpop? Are you alright?” Emcorae’s voice broke through, his brow furrowed with concern. Trying to think of something to cheer up his beloved mentor he asked, “Hey, what about your dagger? You never did get to that part of the story at the Brandon.”
The mysterious vision vanished as Alfranco blinked, his spirits lifting as he winked at the boy. “Yer a smart lad, Em. Them old coots at the Brandonale don’t know ‘bout this lil’ beauty.” Reaching to his hip, he unsheathed the dagger he always carried, holding it up in the moonlight.
The weapon was unremarkable at first glance—a crude stone dagger with a small black blade, a beaten stone hilt, and a black-capped pommel. Yet there was something uncanny about it – the blade seemed to absorb the moonlight, its blackness so deep it swallowed the surrounding light, casting an unnatural shadow across Alfranco’s hand. Emcorae had seen other black-bladed daggers, but none as void-like as this, as if it were a shard of the abyss itself. Beyond its eerie hue, though, it seemed impractical, more relic than weapon. Still, Emcorae knew its value to Alfranco surpassed any gold, and he leaned closer, eager for the story.
[Oh, how I curse my ignorance! Had I seen this blade then, my path might have diverged. Its power, hidden in plain sight, could have been mine—though perhaps not to wield directly, for such artifacts often carry risks even for one such as I. Still, its presence gnaws at me, a missed opportunity that burns like a brand. For was that which I had been questing for!]
“C’mon, grandpop, tell me how you found it,” Emcorae urged.
Alfranco’s smile widened, his green eyes piercing despite the ale, locking onto Emcorae with an intensity that made the boy squirm. For a moment, it seemed Alfranco was peering into his very soul, searching for something. The silence stretched, and Emcorae wondered if his grandfather had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Just as he reached out—
“Emcorae,” Alfranco said, his voice steady, “I’m gonna let ya in on a lil’ secret.”
“What’s that, grandpop?”
“This dagger might not look like much,” Alfranco said, turning the blade in his hand, its shadow shifting unnaturally. “I never used it in combat, so I can’t say how strong it is, but that don’t matter. This blade… it’s magical.” He raised a hand to silence Emcorae’s question. “No, I ain’t seen it do anythin’ strange, but I feel it, deep in my bones. It’s got power inside. Others laugh, call it an oldtimer’s dirk, but I don’t care. Let ‘em mock ol’ Franki. ‘Sides the magic, I keep it for sentimental reasons too.”
“What’s that?” Emcorae asked, his curiosity piqued.
“It reminds me of a friend,” Alfranco said softly.
“But I thought you said you found it on a failed rescue mission? Everyone was already dead when you got there. Or was this when you saved that Amorosi king?”
“Yer right the first time, Em,” Alfranco said, his voice taking on the cadence of a seasoned storyteller. “Savin’ Aslan came later. This was when my scouts and I raced to warn King Ortwin of Akka ‘bout a Derkka ambush. We rode hard to reach him and his Drokka ‘fore they were trapped—but we were too late. Not everythin’ in life works out, Em. When we got there, they were all dead—Drokka, goblins, even a myz. A bloody mess, war is, all tangled flesh and broken bones. But ya don’t need to worry ‘bout that, lad. We’re safe here in Monthaven, and that’s what matters.”
“Wait, grandpop,” Emcorae interrupted, frowning. “You said there was a myz among ‘em? I thought you always said the myz never fought in the Last Great War?”
Alfranco’s eyes twinkled with pride. “Ya never cease to amaze me, Em! That’s what I’ve always said, and I believe it’s true—‘cept for this one time. I wasn’t there for the fight, but if my trackin’ skills are worth a damn, that myz fought alongside the rest. He died in the thick of it, lyin’ right next to King Ortwin himself.”
“So King Ortwin was the friend the dagger reminds you of?” Emcorae asked. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Not quite,” Alfranco chuckled. “I never knew Ortwin. He was Kon-Herr Drokka of the Akka Mountains, and I was just a third-class human scout. We weren’t the type to share a campfire, ya know? No, Em, the friend I mean is another. I’d never have found this dagger if not for…Her.”
Emcorae’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide with shock.
[I, too, would have been stunned to hear this tale then—a dagger tied to a mysterious “her,” its power whispered but unseen. A secret that slipped through my grasp at the time and continues to haunt me to this very day…]
The Apocrypha of Azazel 