The Sylph

prologue

~for we now know that sad birds still sing~

I watch in silence as a burly old man heaves himself out of a wooden chair. He sends it flying backwards, making a resounding crack as it hits the ground. The old man's build is large despite the frail way in which he carries himself. I can't help but notice the gray color of his skin, the dark circles under his eyes. He looked to be a resourceful and strong man in his prime days, back when Haersith flourished. Now all but the blue of his eyes is lackluster.

He careens away from his table, liquor in hand, spouting nonsense. "Even heaven knows God above...wouldn't take pity...on them," he spouts, spit soaring in all directions.

Pungent tavern smells assault me, a mix of briny rum and the workman's sweat. I sit far off in the corner of the tight room, drowning myself with liquor and watching as the drunken man argues with himself. He sloshes his drink about in a dazed manner, mind lost and swallowed by liquor. Nobody really pays him any mind. And there are people all around, of course. Even children. Taverna Losh is a second home to the people of Lower Haersith, never mind the way it is used as an escape from harsh reality, to forget the surrounding world outside.

The old man is ignored because he is here often and always drunk.

"God didn't want them!" the man yells, stumbling a couple steps over to his right. He crashes hip-first into a table surrounded by Haersith Enforcement guards, but they only grumble out a few curses and yank him off their playing-cards surface, just about as drunk and unbothered as he is.

"Just like he didn't want you?" Another man belts out, his voice gargled and thick. He has to raise his voice over the crowd, but an echo of laughter rings out around the room. The old man whips his head around in a drunken attempt to find him, eyes wide with embarrassment. I didn't think anyone was paying enough attention to the old man's display, but I realize now the ruckus he is actually making.

The old man grumbles. "God! He didn't—"

"Want you!"

Another round of laughter.

It's not particularly funny to me, but I find myself huffing along with them. My throat feels constricted somehow and coated with rum, but I take another long drink from my cup, savoring the thought that I might soon be drunk, too.

"Fallen angels, they are!" the old man screams, swiveling on his heels in my direction. For a moment I consider moving, but I'm much too comfortable now, and the five other empty cups of liquor surrounding my table might also have something to say about an attempt to stand up. I fix my eyes again on him and watch as he careens toward me.

"You! Have you heard of 'em?" He points a crooked finger aimed straight at my forehead and attempts to sit down beside me but immediately loses his footing and crashes at my feet, drink spilling out into a puddle around his body. The smell of it wafts its way up to my nose, and I stare at him sprawled out with awkward limbs and watch as the rum soaks into his coat.

"Can't say I have." I take another swig from my cup and wipe a sleeved arm across my mouth. Might as well be time to leave...or stay for another couple rounds.

The man grumbles and tries to stand up, but he's clearly going to be plastered there for a while, rum pooling beneath him in a resemblance of blood.

"You should really consider listening to me, boy," he says into the wooden floorboards, his garbled voice muffled.

I throw a look at his pitiful body lying there. "About the angels?"

"Demons!" He coughs loudly, his chest heaving.

"Demons, now?" I mutter to myself, flagging down a Servy to fetch me another drink.

"They are dangerous and I'll be damned if I didn't tell someone."

"Why?" I humor him.

"They hunt. They kill. They aren't human. They live among us." He heaves up onto his knees and looks at me with a searing gaze, eyes glazed over but hinting at derangement. "And I've seen one."

Something about the way he says it gives me pause. He seems so sure of himself, though I know he's only drunk and hysterical. If I didn't already know without a doubt he was delusional about them being demons, I would have half a mind to believe him.

But I know they aren't demons.

Because I've seen one, too.

The Servy meekly delivers my drink and runs away on his little legs as fast as they can carry him. I snatch the liquor to my lips and drink it until it's gone. I was planning on getting drunk tonight, making my way to the Slums in the morning, and finding Caiaphas soon after that. To tell him of my discovery.

I huff a deep breath and abruptly stand, much to the old man's anguish. He agonizes over how I'm leaving him to be swept away by the demons, but I ignore him as I make my way out of the tavern. I wanted so badly to revel in my victory today, but something about his old grisly voice urged me to move. I realize this can't wait.

Plans have changed.

Somehow, it's more important now.

I have some fallen angels to save.

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