The Wood King: Part Four


    Contains ugly language


    Dawn found the young slave damp with dew beside Mallariel’s tent, staring blankly at the pale-faced sky. The night had been punishing. Mallariel had cut his ropes and gave him a skirt to wear and a cloak for blanketing himself, but it was not the cold that kept him awake. It was the noise. The terrible humming. This place was permeated with it and its burning aroma. That damned noise grew worse in the silence, when it wormed into his ears and drilled through his brain.


    The pain was unbearable.




    He should carve out his eardrums with a sharp stick.




    No. No. Morning will come.


    And it did, but he was not aware of it. He was busy someplace else, walking an open-eyed dream wherein lay a long hall lined with doors. Through each door he peered and found a memory. The pain of Corentin Mouth’s rough words against his trust. A jolt every time he felt the Smoker’s presence, sickness pooling in his stomach at the sight of her face. A punch in the nose, blood filled his mouth, tears burned his cheeks. Doyen Nicon thwacked him mercilessly with a stick. The audience jeered.


    He could not enter these rooms. They were not for him anymore. He closed every door and moved on.


    Love is for women, arse-licker, said Mouth.


    Do not grow attached, said the Smoker.


    Learn to leave everything behind, said Nicon, because nothing here belongs to you.


    No. I will find you again! he called to them as he was shoved forward like a choiceless prisoner. I will find my way back.


    ‘Were you awake all night?’


    Cracks threaded, vision shattered, shards scattered. Mallariel was standing next to him, shaking out his dew-soaked cloak, shaking the dream out of his mind.


    The young slave nodded light-headedly.


    ‘Were you cold?’ asked Mallariel. ‘I will give you a thicker cloak, if you like?’


    The young slave shook his head.


    ‘Chibellan, what ails you? Are you ill?’


    Again he shook his head.


    ‘My brother in arms told me that Nirn sings on some nights,’ he slurred in a thin, tired voice. ‘I hear her sing every night in the forest. Every night. She won’t let me sleep.’


    ‘Remarkable!’ said Mallariel curiously. ‘You have very good, er, senses; many humans are not aware in the “higher dimension”, so to speak. It is the voice of magicka which you hear. It speaks stronger when the air is clear and still.’


    ‘I can’t sleep because of it,’ complained the young slave. ‘I want it to stop!’


    ‘Chibellan, I am sorry,’ said Mallariel dolefully. ‘There is nothing I can do for you. You must simply grow accustomed to it.’




    ‘Yes, accustomed. As with many other aspects of living amongst the Chis Elen. Today, little one, you will learn the etiquette of a slave.’




    Mallariel smothered a surprised grin with the back of his hand. ‘You do not understand these words, do you?’


    The young slave hung his head.


    Mallariel cleared his throat, wiping off his amusement. ‘Etiquette is correct behaviour,’ he defined articulately. He folded the slave’s cloak and handed it to him. ‘Politeness, humility, respect, obedience. You will learn etiquette under my domestic slave, Gorian. Please follow.’


    Tired and miserable, the young man wrapped himself in the damp cloak and followed. His legs were shaky and his insides felt hollow, but he was too unhappy to bother with whingeing. He and Mallariel went around to the front of the tent and found a flock of hairless humans surrounding an elf boy, earth-skinned and handsome. Thick, curly black hair was scraped into a tight tail. The boy’s head spun to the newcomers and immediately his expression was enveloped in a radiant beam. The young slave hurriedly lowered his eyes.


    ‘Chibellan!’ exclaimed the elf boy, bowing deeply and dramatically. ‘Agea ye latta vinne ni! Welcome!’


    ‘This is my apprentice, Tyaveristith,’ laughed Mallariel with audible fondness. ‘He has something of a habit of exaggeration, yes?’


    Tyaveristith spread his hands, offended. ‘Ata Ageangua! It has been seven turns of Secunda since there was another man for the hunt. My gladness is perfectly justified.’


    ‘Yes, yes,’ said his mentor with a roll of his eyes.


    ‘Yes, yes!’ The elf boy clicked his tongue and flapped a hand theatrically. ‘Ignore this man and his false assumptions, Chibellan; he knows me not. Soon you will join my small army and we will have such a wonderful time! Oh, oh! And I will teach you how to use the mamet! And you will know true excitement – and exhaustion, but somewhat satisfying – and we will sing and tell stories around the fire, and your skill and grace will become apparent to all, and all of the Chis Teleponei will know your n—’


    ‘Tyavi, come now,’ interrupted Mallariel. ‘Give the poor thing some time to attune himself.’


    ‘Never! Try to stop me!’


    The boy continued to call after them between chuckles, even as Mallariel turned his slave away. Eventually Tyaveristith’s attention returned to his flock, but his enthusiastic exclamations still lit the air like early birdsong. Mallariel grinned at the sound as he guided his young slave through the paths of the Walking City.


    The ways were straggling, unstructured, maundering muddled around the random stippling of the upturned cone-tents stitched of skins and canvas. The orbs of magickal light had long since diffused into the atmosphere, but the shimmering wings of dawn were now outstretching to replace them, fracturing as they passed through the canopy and thick fog.


    Elves were emerging from their tents, faces glowing fair and eyes scintillating like stars. Alien but immaculate, they strolled slowly in thin, fluid gowns and made light conversation; rollicking children ran and played with tangible energy; the elderly moved as if wading through a dream, an odd sort of clarity igniting their expressions.


    All around were pointy ears, sweet-scented perfumes, almond eyes with expansive irides of every colour and long, lovely hair cascading down slender elven backs, hung with bright feathers and hundreds of clicking beads. The young human felt encompassed in perfection.


    And suddenly he felt the ache return. Like a parched man dying, he thirsted for a glimpse of the Smoker’s austere face. He yearned for the sound of her voice, her questioning statements tying his mind in knots, the smoke of kanna or tobacco or coffee permeating the air and clinging to her clothes. She was perfection. These people were but shades of her beauty.


    Such a wondrous creature was she… How long could his memory hold her image in all its flawless complexity? He needed to see her, and Mouth, and Nicon.


    I… I need to go home.


    ‘Please forgive my boy for his intensity,’ said Mallariel obliviously. The young slave turned his head away for a private scowl, furious at having his reminiscence interrupted. But Mallariel, unaware, continued. ‘He could run his mouth to world’s end given the chance, quite like my dear friend Enaylarin when he speaks of spirituality.’ He let out a short laugh. ‘By the Light of the Upper Air, that man can talk! You might have heard him yesterevening. He talks until he is so deep in himself that nobody can understand him!’


    ‘I have many questions,’ said the slave suddenly, and broke the one-sided conversation.


    Mallariel smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you now ready to ask them?’


    He absolutely was. ‘Where are we?’


    ‘We are in the Great Forest, Chibellan. In our tongue we call her Teleponei, “Safe Veil”, for she masks our presence from the terwais, the humans.’


    ‘Why are you here? Why don’t you leave? Why will you not let us know who you are? We think you are monsters.’


    But you are worse monsters than I could have imagined.


    ‘Well, that is as we desire it, Chibellan. We are here because the knowledge of our ancestors must be preserved, but not revealed to those who would abuse it, or misunderstand it. We are the only ones who may bear that responsibility. You may think us arrogant for this, but are we arrogant for knowing the truth? If others knew of us, they would try to turn us to their side and take what is not fit for their minds. I cannot imagine what would happen if terwais came into possession of Cyromerya secrets. I dread the consequences, I truly do!’




    ‘I cannot tell you that.’




    ‘Oh, do ask another question, Chibellan. This subject is not for you.’


    The young slave huffed disgruntledly. ‘For how long have you lived here?’


    ‘In Teleponei? Thousands upon thousands of years! But only in the past three hundred of those years have we raided the Orange Road for supplies. The forests were once empty enough for us to build villages and raise crops and flocks of beasts without ever being seen by the terwais. Alas! that time has passed! The terwais began to clear some areas to erect their own villages, and the thinning of the foliage demanded that we move on. We became what you see today: Wanderers, villages on legs.’


    ‘But you are not moving.’


    ‘Well no, not right this minute!’ Mallariel laughed. ‘We must allow rest for these corporeal forms, Chibellan! But we move every seven days, so as to leave as little a mark as possible on the land.’


    ‘How do you…? I mean, how do you hide yourself so well?’


    ‘How have we remained unfound for all these years? The answer lies in good habit. We clean up after ourselves, Chibellan.’ A sly grin spread Mallariel’s lips. ‘In the way of stealth, we are indeed “Ayleids”.’


    ‘Who are you?’


    The question nearly caught Mallariel off-guard. ‘Who—Who am I? I am a hunter,’ he replied, puzzled. ‘I can tell you about my duty as a hunter, if that is what you wish to know?’


    The young slave nodded.


    ‘Of course!’ The elf hesitated, as if wondering where to begin. ‘A hunter provides meat and slaves for the tribe. Hunting – like crafting, and alchemy, and foraging – is passed from master to apprentice. Usually a man of work will take his sons for apprentices, but some of us do not wish for wives or children, so we take the younger sons of other men. Tyaveristith is the third son of Artyesto, a hunter like myself.’


    ‘Ty—Ma—Master Tyaveristith is not your son?’ stammered the young slave. The love between them seemed like proper blood love, clean and honest.


    ‘Certainly not,’ said Mallariel, giving him a curious glance. ‘He looks nothing like me. He has that lovely dark complexion, and luscious curly hair, and eyes like the armour of a black beetle. Ha! I wish he were my son!’


    Chibellan furtively noticed the moist gleam in his eye.


    ‘But,’ continued Mallariel, blinking fiercely, ‘now that Tyaveristith is grown, I no longer lead the hunting party. I have given to him my slaves of the hunt, that I may pursue immaterial goals while he overtakes material obligation.’


    ‘And… and I am to become one of Master Tyaveristith’s hunters?’ asked the young slave nervously.


    ‘Soon, yes. But first you must learn your manners and duties.’ Then he drew in a deep breath and let out a tinny, high-voiced shout: ‘Gorian!’


    The young slave’s eyes flew off the ground in bewilderment. He had been so absorbed in trying to grasp the foreign nature of the conversation that he failed to notice his surroundings morphing. The streets had fallen open to form a circular glade. Speckled between the trees, under the threads of dawn dripping through the canopy, humans were everywhere. Fifty or more. Men, women, children.


    They were all bald. And they were all cooking.


    Cauldrons and grills peppered the glade, roasting meat and stewing soup. The overwhelming smell bludgeoned the young slave with sudden starvation. How long had it been since he had eaten? He could not even remember! Saliva welled in his mouth. He wanted to run forth and devour one of those bubbling pots whole, metal and all.


    The humans were talking quietly amongst themselves, but when they heard Mallariel’s call they fell silent and dropped their eyes as a synchronised hive mind.


    ‘Nay, carry on, welkeiskemen!’ amended Mallariel, raising his hands submissively. Then he cleared his throat and continued with his shouting. ‘Gorian! Gorian!’


    ‘Yes, Master,’ said a voice unexpectedly close. Mallariel flew like a feline into the air and twirled around to face the speaker.


    It was a human. A very tall human. He was so tall he completely dwarfed the elf, and towered a good five inches or so above Chibellan’s head. Three black, parallel stains trickled from each of his lower eyelids and down his cheeks like tears, and spotted the borders of his thin brows. But the rest of his appearance suggested exceptional harmlessness; he was skeletally thin and gentle-eyed, with a smile so beautiful it must give women cause for envy.


    ‘By the Stars, you could have killed me,’ gasped Mallariel, clasping his hands over his heart, but behind his alarm was a broad grin – the sort a father might wear when outsmarted by his son. ‘Chibellan, this is Gorian. One would never suspect such a sweet child might be so frightening!’


    The young slave offered his hand for shaking, but was astonished when Gorian brought it to his lips and kissed it! He recoiled uncertainly.


    ‘Why would you do that?’ he asked.


    ‘I—I love you,’ said Gorian, his smile wilting shyly. He had a strange voice – smooth, clear, almost child-like.


    ‘Such a greeting is our way,’ said Mallariel to Chibellan. ‘It is natural for us to show love to each other, whether or not we are acquainted.’


    ‘You can’t love someone you haven’t met,’ said the young slave warily.


    ‘You can, and we do,’ said Mallariel. ‘Do you trust the plan of the universe, Chibellan?’


    The young man blinked. What a very odd question. Was there a plan? Mallariel seemed convinced of it, and he was very intelligent. Almost as intelligent as the Smoker. Perhaps she was aware of a plan as well. But if there was one, Chibellan certainly could not trust it. Where had it led him? Betrayal, isolation and slavery. The universe was unfair to him. It treated him wrongly.


    ‘No, no, I… I do not trust the plan of the universe,’ he said at last.


    A sad look crossed Mallariel’s face. ‘Then this is where you will learn to do so,’ he said, and the certainty of his tone lit within Chibellan a spark of anger.


    ‘First I am going to eat breakfast,’ he said, his tone barring any argument.


    Mallariel’s sad look was dispelled in the light of a laugh.


    ‘Of course, little one,’ he said. ‘Let us eat!’




    For the next few days, the young man was required to tail Gorian like a small shadow, asking questions and learning like a schoolboy. Each dawn while the elves yet rested or meditated, all slaves journeyed to a nearby river where they would bathe, shave and perfume themselves with flowery scents. As a Colovian who bathed only once a month or two, Chibellan found the ritual demeaning and uncomfortable. He was also led far downriver, wedged between the hunter-slaves and the domestic men, so that he could not see the women bare.


    It was on his first day by the riverside that he got a nasty shock. When the domestic men removed their clothing, Chibellan discovered that they had all been unmanned. Some even since childhood. Like Gorian. No wonder his voice was so sweet, his skin so smooth.


    ‘I don’t want this,’ whimpered Chibellan, covering his privates defensively.


    Gorian sputtered a laugh. ‘It is not a choice! But you are lucky. You are to be a slave of the hunt – you will need your masculinity.’


    His words sluiced Chibellan’s mind, rinsing off his distress. The young slave relaxed enough to regain a bit of curiosity, and he looked around at the black-marked faces of the slaves. The markings did not wash away in the water. Perhaps they were magickally etched.


    ‘Why do they mark your faces?’ asked Chibellan.


    ‘These are the insignia of ownership,’ said Gorian, instinctively tracing the scars running down his cheeks. ‘Other masters will know to whom we belong when they see our faces. This is the mark of Mallariel.’


    ‘What about Master Tyaveristith?’ asked Chibellan. ‘What is his mark?’


    ‘Oh. No. Marks are inherited,’ explained Gorian. ‘Master Tyaveristith’s hunters bear the same mark that I bear. Every mark is very old, Chibellan, passed down from the Cyromerya purebloods since the tradition first began. Now please, shave your legs.’


    After the cleansing, the slaves gathered water in buckets and brought them to the glade. Chibellan had never in his entire life expected that he would be made to suffer through the humiliation of cooking, but that was exactly the sort of duty expected of a domestic slave, and the sort of task he was required to learn. He felt like a bald, ugly witch as he slaved over his cauldron of watery porridge.


    Fortunately, the pairing of Gorian’s patient guidance and Mallariel’s mellow critique soon had him preparing decent meals every morning and evening. The food was more for the slaves than for their masters, explained Gorian, as elven appetite was very modest compared to that of mannish races – but he made sure to impress how important it was that Chibellan learn to feed the People of the Oak.


    Acceptable manners (and indeed the civilities of the entire Walking City) were trickier to grasp. Gorian lightly flicked him on the nose every time he glanced at an elf. Keeping his eyes on his feet when in elven presence required so much concentration that his senses were buried under the mental strain. He soon became aware of how heavily he relied upon facial expressions; now, being unable to focus on visual cues, he found himself falling into habits of digging his bare toes into the grass and picking his fingernails. Conversation went right over his head.


    But Gorian’s soft, honeyed voice flowed every day through his mind, until the maxims became second nature. All other instruction was swept aside.


    Eyes down please, Chibellan.


    When meri are listening, you must have permission to speak.


    No; you always have permission to speak to Master Mallariel. He is very kind.


    Please pay attention. I am trying to tell you something.


    Please kiss an offered hand, then offer your hand for kissing. What? Why are you embarrassed?


    No; please don’t offer your hand to a mer. That would imply you want their respect.


    Never shout, please, never shout. Be small and humble.


    Less spice, please.


    You burned it. No, please don’t panic.


    Politeness, humility, respect, obedience. Master them please, Chibellan. Also, less spice.


    He obeyed. He remembered. Mallariel praised him constantly, filling him with a confusing sense of adoration. Then, on his fifth day in the Walking City, as the sun seeped through the morning mist, his master interrupted his cooking session.


    ‘You have done well and learned quickly, Chibellan,’ said Mallariel, reaching out his arm in an invitation to approach. ‘Would you follow me?’


    Through the vermicular grass-paved streets they snaked. Chibellan was now good at keeping his gaze to himself, and though he still felt tempted to look at his surroundings, he had impressive control over his eyes. Mallariel seemed to sense his self-satisfaction, stroking his cloaked back with a sigh of contentment. The young slave did not blench at this gesture anymore. It was nearly comforting, in fact – until he remembered himself, his dignity, his masculinity, and pulled away coldly.


    ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.


    ‘To meet a dear friend,’ replied Mallariel with an air of mystery.


    Chibellan would have none of that. ‘What friend?’ he persisted.


    ‘Do you have no appreciation for surprise?’ laughed his master. ‘You will find out!’


    And indeed he found out. After they had been walking for some time, a sudden exclamation of delight pulled his head up like it was on a puppeteer’s string. Smiling in warm greeting was a familiar face, inlaid with blue eyes which glittered like sapphires. Mallariel waved enthusiastically.


    ‘Enaylarin!’ he called.


    ‘Mallariel!’ returned the elf in kind.


    While the masters embraced, Chibellan spotted two shapes shuffling around in one of Enaylarin’s dark tents. He recognised the stocky man who had been with him when he first awoke in the Walking City, and the other shape had emerged with Murrius that day. They seemed to be arranging something.


    The stocky man all at once met Chibellan’s stare, and flashed him a look of vague amusement.


    ‘Chibellan, child, it is good to see you again,’ said Enaylarin.


    Now that the elf’s attention was on him, the young slave dutifully took his hand and pressed his lips against it. Unexpectedly, Enaylarin did the same, reaching for Chibellan’s hand and kissing it, then holding it clasped in both of his palms. A hot flush of embarrassment washed over Chibellan.


    ‘You look rather dark-eyed,’ said Enaylarin. ‘How is your sleep?’


    ‘It’s not very good,’ admitted Chibellan, keeping his head lowly bowed. He felt red all over his face. Why did they touch him so much? He was not an animal to be petted!


    Enaylarin tilted his head and gave Mallariel an accusing glare. ‘Why are you not taking care of him? Let him stay in your tent for now!’


    ‘Don’t make your judgements so soon!’ said Mallariel with a snort. ‘It is the magicka which keeps him awake. Whether in the tent or out of it, he will be unable to sleep until he grows accustomed to it.’


    ‘Ah, I see. He is a rather sensitive one.’ Enaylarin rubbed a cheek, his gaze veiled with thought. ‘I do wonder why. Why…? Why, indeed. Why does he deserve a name like that…? Oh, but I am getting lost again. Keep me out of contemplation, Mallariel.’


    ‘Of course. Let’s get to work, yes?’


    ‘Burois! Kindly bring the equipment.’


    In wordless obsequence, the slaves exited the tent – gladly it seemed, for the stocky one had an unnerving smile in his eyes – and set down several items. There was a straw mat, two small lidded pots and wooden box. The slaves spread out the mat, unlidded the pots and opened the box.


    It was full of needles. Very long, spear-like needles.


    Chibellan could not help himself. He turned to Mallariel in horror, pleading silently.


    ‘By Gods, no!’ cried Mallariel, hiding his face behind a hand. ‘For Gods’ sakes, Enaylarin, do this quickly. I cannot stand that look of terror!’


    Enaylarin made Chibellan, who was now quivering in abject apprehension, lie upon the mat and hold perfectly still. His slaves then dipped their fingers into the larger pot, withdrawing them smeared with a yellow-white paste. They began to layer it on Chibellan’s face only to instantly wipe it off again.


    ‘It is abavinda,’ said Enaylarin. ‘It will eliminate your pain, but your face will be immovable. Do not try to speak.’


    The young man could only whimper with an impassive expression as Enaylarin dipped a spear-needle into the second pot, filled with black ink he realised, and brought the point to his eyelid.




    ‘I see you have been marked.’


    Chibellan glanced above his cooking pot. A human stood before him, a hard glare in his eye. He, too, had been marked – his upper lip and the bridge of his nose were completely blackened, and four thin lines raked each cheek diagonally, starting at the inner brows, falling over his eyes and ending at the jaw. The mark was fresh and still slightly swollen. Chibellan tried not to wonder how long the man had lain on that mat while such a large pattern was stabbed into his face.


    ‘You do not recognise me, do you?’ said the man bitterly as he took a seat in the grass.


    ‘No,’ said Chibellan. Then it struck him. The strong Nibenese nose, narrow hazel eyes… ‘Er… Murrius?’


    The briefest, most miserable smirk shot across the man’s face before vanishing. ‘Yes, that is my name.’


    Chibellan squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Er… But that is not your name anymore.’


    ‘Pah. My “master” would have you believe I am Numoia. That is him, there, with his wife.’


    He pointed across the glade to an elven couple strolling amidst the thick-trunked trees. Their hair merged to form a river of gold as it trailed behind their heels.


    ‘Sercira and Lauriel,’ sneered Murrius. ‘Disgusting creatures. They treat me as a pet dog. Stroking, yelling, calling me by another name… cutting off my…’ He faltered and rubbed his eyes, breathing deeply. ‘It sickens me. Why must I care for another’s wretched daughters? I was a man. I am a man. I am of noble blood. I am Lucius Florus Murrius. I am not Numoia, eunuch slave of—’


    His voice cracked. He struck the heel of his hand sharply against his forehead.


    ‘I am a slave to no one,’ he hissed. ‘Call me Murrius. That name is all I have left. It is all I have to give me hope, to remind me that I do have a life waiting for my return, beyond this plane of Oblivion. Beyond this undeserved torture! And you, vagrant – despicable though you are, you do not belong here, do you? Do you not want to go back your freedom? Freedom to plunder at your leisure? Do you not want hope?’


    You are lost in a very large world, old friend.


    Gaoled again, mange-face? I’m here to get you out.


    Train hard, boy, and we will take care of you. We are your family now.


    Chibellan realised that his heart was beginning to panic, throwing itself against his ribs urgently. Did he dare anchor his ambitions to the life he left behind? Did he dare have hope? Did he dare?


    ‘Call me Crooked,’ choked out Chibellan at last. The thrill of illicit desire was unleashed. It swallowed him like a shadow. ‘That is who I should be.’




    The credit for all dialogue in Cyrodis/Ayleidoon goes to Hrafnir II of the Imperial Library.





  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  June 19, 2016
    Yeah, it's a confusing situation and I have no idea how it really went down. Nord support probably made all of the difference, as well as the presence of the Pelinal. But I really wish there was more information on what happened in the Alessian Rebellion.
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  June 19, 2016
     If they really thought they could take back their power after giving it to a human (Alessia), that's just... stupid.

    As you just said. It's stupid but not completely irrational from Ayleids standpoint. They felt superior in every way, and th...  more
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  June 19, 2016
    Could have been a mixture of both. Either way, they'd need a greater population of humans to achieve their goals, and again either way, they were unbelievably short-sighted. If they really thought they could take back their power after giving it to a huma...  more
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  June 19, 2016
    Ah, you put some serious thought into my question. Nice! And yeah, there were some Ayleids who helped humans, but I have to ask...was it because they believed humans should be free at the cost of near extinction of Ayleids as a race or did they just want ...  more
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  June 18, 2016
    I think it's perfectly possible they did it when the Ayleid Empire was still a thing, since humans to them were little more than animals. It would make a lot of sense, because they certainly wouldn't treat them like children, putting on the stern parental...  more
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  June 12, 2016
    I see our Cyromer doesn't mess around, cutting off very important parts. Gruesome, Wing. But it really fleshes out the culture.

    You think they did it back in Merethic Era? With slaves and such. Also it makes sense that these Cyromer wouldn't ...  more
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  June 3, 2016
    Good to know, thanks! Looking forward to it 
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  June 3, 2016
    Awww Idesto, that means beyond a lot. 
    Writers' block has been hitting me hard this year, which is why there are such long intervals between updates (usually two months). I was finishing up some intensive Chemistry work for the last half of May and ...  more
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  June 3, 2016
    Any idea when part 5 will be up?
    As someone else said here, I think you could be a professional writer: you have an incredible talent 
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  June 3, 2016
    I do! It's a bit too much for me sometimes too.