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"It never ceases to amaze me how mythology errs in its recounting of events.

The important details are left to time's withering mercies, forgotten in the annals of history, whilst the small, trivial happenstance of events are embellished upon and exaggerated. Crucial parts of the stories are seemingly misremembered, or left out completely, leading to a completely different recounting of the tale. A tale that grows more warped and misperceived as time goes on, as if some obscene game of telephone.

The invention of modern writing has helped stem the inaccuracy of recorded history. Though, I must admit it is only by what I see as a small margin. New translations for old myths come out every few years or so, offering a slightly differing, yet completely changed understanding of something my own memory has recalled in perfect detail for hundreds of years.

Perhaps my understanding is flawed, though, in that I comprehend so much, and that my life has been so long. Human lives are short by comparison, and do not have the faculties to rival us. They rush about blindly, to our perceptions, and they make the same mistakes their ancestors made. And, yet, their cultures and civilizations are both diverse and thriving, whereas ours are relegated to those same forgotten corners of history.

Perhaps a short lived life and faulted memory is not such a bad thing after all."

-Falon Cenicci, private journal.

*Chapter One *

The pale fingers of dawn stretched through the east-facing window, signaling the end of the night. Unused space was the only recurrent theme in the room, each piece of furniture differing in style and even color. The largest piece was an overstuffed chair, black leather, which dominated the northeastern corner. Next to it was a dark set of shelving, occupied perhaps halfway by books of all manner of binding. A lamp sat upon a small table on the opposite side of the chair. Another chair, this one more stool than anything, was set in front of the flat, slightly angled surface of a drawing table, pens and pencils scattered in organized chaos amongst the small tray that ran along the lower edge. Upon the plainly painted off-white walls were mounted a collection of differing paintings and sketches, all depicting events and beings that were both fantastic and inhuman. The floor was nearly completely bare, with but a singular throw rug placed down upon the otherwise hardwood floor. A fan lazily circled upon the ceiling providing the slightest of drafts, which was a necessary thing, since the room tended to get stuffy and warm, regardless of the season.

A lone figure broke up the landscape of empty space, seated and leaning forward towards the table as he guided the pencil held within his grasp along the paper that was held fast to the table top by tape along its four corners. A small reference picture was loosely set near the lower right corner, depicting a columned building. The photo was glanced at occasionally as the man recreated the outline of the building's roof, his pencil strokes firm and quick, giving him tight, clean lines. He didn't use gridlines to help him, experience and a steady hand all that was necessary as he crossed the top of the columns with a singular, straight line, drawn without the aid of a ruler or other straight edge.

The man sat back then, setting down the pencil and turning to glance at the western-facing door. A singular, polite knock sounded against the sturdy wooden frame, followed by the door itself swinging open slowly, admitting another man, older by comparison. He was a stark contrast to the room, dressed in a tailored, conservatively cut black suit, a gold watch chain hooked to the lapel, and disappearing into the breast pocket. Spotless white gloves adorned his hands, matched by the collared dress shirt showing from under the jacket. Black, immaculate dress pants fit the man perfectly, falling to an exacting length just above his ankles, not coming to rest atop his shoes, yet not showing any of his undoubtedly black socks, either. A pair of shined oxfords completed the outfit, the man himself the very image of refined taste and carrying an air of immaculate nobility.

"Pardon, sir, but the guest has arrived a tad early. He is in the study." Even his voice, a pleasant baritone, was perfected, each syllable pronounced with a punctuating and crisp tone.

He rose from his seat, reaching to flick off the soft light from the lamp he was using and setting the chair neatly under the table. After moving the lamp out of the way, he swung the lid of the table back down and latched the cover in place over the unfinished sketch. "He always was overly punctual." He glanced down at his fingers as they lay against the surface of the tabletop, and then shook a head full of dark brown hair at the small flecks and spots he'd gathered from his efforts while he'd been seated. "Thank you, Mortimer; I'll join him shortly. I need to wash up."

The older man gave a light dip of his head to the other, picking at an errant fold in his jacket. "Of course, sir; would you like your usual brought to the study then? I will be bringing his, as soon as it is brewed." Mortimer's glance had strayed to the table, and now returned to the other as the lid close, a smile quirking up the corners of his lips. "And, might I say, your latest project seems to be going along quite well. The representation seems to be most, hmm, adequate and precise."

"Yes, please. I assume he will have already set up the board, and I feel that this discussion in particular will require a drink. And thank you, Mortimer, for once again reducing my artistic pursuits to such un-flattering terms; I appreciate your efforts in reducing my sizeable ego." The older man smiled more widely at that, folding an arm in front of his waist as he bowed his head forward.

"Someone has to go through the trouble of making you sufferable to the general populace; it may as well be I. Your drinks will be brought to the study shortly."