February 5, 1947

A long time ago, I was a tourist. My family was deeply religious. Thus inevitably I was forced, after months of arguments to stay in this church for a week or two; the vicar there was close family you see.

This was all to see if I'd "become one with God". Pantheism never made any sense to me, but I told myself that I'd have an open mind. I drove up the next day.

The exterior was regular, but impressive all the same. Brick after brick it towered over my vision almost scraping the clouds. This wasn't any ordinary town church, I told myself.

Regardless, I brought my luggage to the door and was greeted by a grey haired man; his robes were white, and immaculately clean, but his eyes, they lacked something. Ignoring that, I was told to come inside and was shown, hastily, to my room. There I was left, dinner was at seven.

"Not so bad..." I muttered to myself as I slumped onto the single-sheet bed I was to stay in.

The cynicism I taught myself as I grew up didn't wear off that night, as I kneeled to the statue of a Saint whilst the vicars and priests crept around the room. I knelt down and asked him, "Why do you stand so tall, in this colony of ants?" and he did not reply.

Nobody replied.

Nobody in this room of crowded knowledge could think of anything that might comfort me. Pantheists. Strange people. Instead they told me this:

'It isn't just he that is so tall; "He" is taller.', and his words echoed through my mind for the next three years.

I saw the light leaving through the stained glass window, February 6th, 1950. For years I loved Him, but for years He hadn't spoken a word of his own. Why should I be the one who speaks for you? And with that thought, the cynicism I felt three years ago crept back, silently into the back of my mind. A few candles lit my way through the halls of the Church once more.

I fell into a swift silence one quiet night among many and slept.

Its eyes were blackened by the shade of its armor; its walk was rough on the ground, staggered but orderly across the desolate pits below me, below us. One more step and I'll be there with it, with its malice emanating into me, I can't let it get any closer...

Foul screeches and orc-ish laughter spitted at me from behind. That laughter I will never forget, or forgive, for it made me right then. It made me who I am. The blue night shifted in from above, and I yelled, yelled twice, yelled thr-... there was no point, I was going to die.

The armored terror shifted from side to side each time I looked down; my eyes were blistered with the idea of ending up as a pile of fallen nourishment for that thing.

I could smell it. Some rancid creation of a horde of dungeon-dwelling beasts clanking with every footstep below, and I could smell it. A thousand sacrificial drums sounded across this empty place, empty of feeling, empty of beauty, empty of rationality. The dungeon fell into a cold silence at the sound of the final drum. I felt a stick dig into my spine; I felt the still air as I fell.

The sound of the crowd grew louder as I fell. Crashing with a crescendo of spitting laughter onto the stone-bed rock. Finally at peace in my stone-bed, I heard the trampling of armored, forsaken hate as I closed my eyes, and smiled. I was home.

They came to me the next morning and asked how I slept. I responded with a look. 'I said, how did you sleep?'.

How did I sleep? I wondered to myself. "Dearest father, I am awake." I said with a grim smile. The priest's pale eyes grew a colour, a colour of fear as I cut him; his immaculate robes began dripping with his holy blood, and as his eyes drained from his face, a little cackle rose out from my drying throat. A cackle. A laugh. That laugh? Am I...?

I went home.