Twilight Of The Writers

He had built the tower of slate and pig iron. He had barred the doors, disdaining locks. He spent each day blindfolded, ears plugged, thinking of only a few creature comforts and his own, quiet breaths. He did everything he could think of, and still they came.

Jarvain of Mistroud groaned as he heard their wings battering against his defenses. The sellswords he had hired to defend this sanctum all left long ago - only a few foolish men (and one young girl, pretending to be a man) remained at their posts, writing beautifully tragic poems on the slate and iron walls, which were later filed off by Jarvain's command. They saw all around them awe-inspiring symbols that their cause was doomed, but were still loyal enough to the legendary playwright they would not abandon him to the nine monsters who howled through the night and sung through the day, cold, immortal, and merciless.

Even with his hands over his plugged ears, Jarvain could hear the singing. His body spasmed with the desire to rush down to the cellar, unearth his buried pens and paper, and-

He fought the urge down, and began eating his morning gruel.

It hadn't always been like this, of course, When he was young, his life had been quite orderly, with ideas that flowed smoothly around him. There was time then, for food and drink and travel and love. More and more, however, the food made him think of how to cook better, the drink moved him to song, he painted masterpieces of his travels, and his love was lost beneath piles of poetry. He had begun to wonder if there was a man left beneath all the-

A touch against his hand startled him, and Jarvain stopped abruptly, realizing he had been narrating his life out loud. He glared at the inside of his blindfold, in the direction he imagined his enemies lay. "Give no report," he whispered to whomever it was who had come to him (probably the girl-as-a-man, she usually drew the short straw for this sort of thing). "The last thing I want to do now is think of tactics."

He waited until he was sure the brief visitor had left, then lay down on his bed and tried not to find inspiration in his hopelessness. Outside, far above him, the Muses continued their assault.