The hour was growing late, and the raindrops gently pattered against Professor Randolph`s window. The bespectacled professor, a tall and balding man of advancing age, sat silently behind his broad, oaken desk in a high-backed wooden chair. Rows and rows of dusty and decaying books lined no fewer than twenty-seven shelves packed into his cramped office on the twenty-third floor of the Library Tower at the Zellis Academy of Arts and Sciences.

       The campus was moderately well funded by the Federation of Ticonderan Socialist Republics, and although it was hardly the most notable university in Ticondera, it was a respectable institution in its own right. Julius Randolph had earned his tenure there during the Kordridge administration, before the breakup of Ticondera. In those days, the field of Ticonderan studies was much more warmly regarded, as there was an upwelling of national pride, a feeling that Ticondera would emerge as a modern state that could equal Tasnica, Guardia, and the Scandian League. After the Ticonderan government crumbled amidst rioting and assassination following the Leviathan War, Randolph saw his department slowly dwindle in favor of the traditional Ticonderan pursuits of computer science and economics.

       At present, Randolph was one of only three professors in the Ticonderan Studies department, and the Zellis Academy was the only school to offer a degree in the subject. Other schools divided the subject between History, Literature, and Theology; and only at Brussian universities, where capitalism held sway, was there any real emphasis on cultural studies at all. Although Professor Randolph was happy in his little microcosm in Zellis, he hoped the political climate would allow him to visit the schools of the Brussian Free Trade Alliance someday soon, as there were several manuscripts stored away in the libraries on the north side of the continent that he wished to peruse.

       Ticondera was the subject of his study; its history, culture, and institutions. He spent many hours analyzing the grim protagonists of Ticonderan fiction; exploring that most Ticonderan form of music, the blues; and writing essays on the impact of the Taurochean priesthood on rural sociology. No study of Ticondera would be complete without an understanding of the Blood God, Tauroch. The dreaded masked god and his black-robed priests held firm control over most of the Ticonderan Empire for several millennia, demanding ritual blood-sacrifices and cowering obedience from the commoners and nobles alike.

       Professor Randolph sat silently in his office, contemplating the leather-bound volume before him. It filled his nostrils with the odor of rotting paper, with yellowing pages ready to crumble at the slightest provocation. The cover bore a depiction of a terrible masked figure; for this was the Gneidrach, the holy (or perhaps unholy) Book of Tauroch. It was one of the few surviving works written entirely in Uld Ticondtha, the language commonly known as Old Ticonderan. Randolph trembled as he carefully turned the pages with a special set of tweezers. The passages of the Gneidrach were enough to instill fear all by themselves, but this one was special. This was purported to be Chaodan-Gneidrach, the personal copy of the high priest of Tauroch, the Aemsmald Graulemn. It had been nearly fifteen years since the death of Tauroch at the end of the Great War, and as far as anyone knew, Tauroch`s priesthood, the Graulemn, had all been killed or captured in the first few years after the war.

       Nevertheless, the Chaodan-Gneidrach was unique among all books, for, according to legend, it bore special passages that no one save the Aemsmald and Tauroch himself were privy to. Furthermore, it was said, the last page bore the true divine seal of Tauroch; that is to say, it was signed by Tauroch himself. Professor Randolph fervently prayed that Tauroch was indeed dead as the Light Gods had claimed.

       Beads of perspiration gathered on RandolphÕs forehead as he carefully turned the pages of the first chapter, the Book of Errors, which describe the creation of the universe. There were nine so-called ÒbooksÓ within the unabridged Gneidrach, each with seventy-four verses. Many of these were omitted from the regular version, but the Chaodan-Gneidrach was numerically complete. Randolph marveled at the sharp strokes of the handwriting, very unlike the broadly ornate script used in the copies of ordinary Graulemn. The ink appeared to be the same, which was to say it was written in blood; although what kind of blood was beyond RandolphÕs field of study.

       The professor clenched his teeth, closed his eyes briefly, and continued his study. He had come upon the first of many illustrations not found in the common Gneidrach. As repulsive as the passages of the Gneidrach were (particularly in the seventh book, the Rites of Torment), to actually see a visual representation of such maddening horror was a shock to the mind.

       Nonetheless, curiosity drove him forward. Each page was like a pathway into the mind of a god, if perhaps an incredibly deviant and diseased god. If one looked hard enough, there were all sorts of bizarre mathematical and numerological principles hidden in the text and illustrations; there were mana conversion equations, impossible geometries made plausible by implied extraplanar calculations, and accurate body counts for every major war since 450 WB. There was brilliance at work, made even more dramatic by the elegant and darkly poetic verbiage used to depict it; the nuances of Uld Tichondtha were well suited to such a duality, creating phrases that were at once both sickening and astoundingly graceful.

       Professor Julius Randolph read on, his mind numbing to the unspeakable terrors of the Chaodan Gneidrach. And with every word, his heart beat faster, his hands quivering, sweat clinging to his palms, yet he took the greatest care not to expose the fragile paper to even a molecule of moisture. Somewhere, contained in these pages, was the mind that created Ticondera, the hand that shaped its people; the soul that forged its destiny.

       I am the great and mighty Tauroch, before whom all mortal life is but shadows in the mists of time. I am born to rule the living world, so that I may return it to its rightful state; for you see, the world is flawed. This cannot be denied, nor can it be overlooked; from high to low, every which direction and between, all I see is flawed faces, bodies, spirits, and minds. These flaws are all symptoms of a Great Error which was committed upon the primal universe, that atrocious egotistical act committed by my Father in His insanity that has been called the Creation.

       In the world before time, the universe was dark and formless. Mana flowed freely in every direction, wild and unbound. There were a great many spirits cavorting in the primal sea of mana, unrestricted and free to exhort and merge and split and kill and die and be reborn, all without meaning and without care. All was pure and chaos, and nothing held to form; and without the imposition of fixed structures and boundaries, there was nothing that could hold flaw.

       And yet amidst such amorphous perfection, there rose a cruel and terrible spirit that sought dominion over all. He is called Uel, my accursed Father. To Uel, the frivolity and wild passions of the prechronal cosmos was an abomination. My Father, with boundless greed, gathered infinite mana of several orders, and began His blasphemous Creation.

       Naturally, other Spirits fought against this, but Uel set a cunning trap for them and bound them into shapes that could not draw freely from the cosmic river of mana. With wicked malice, Uel fixed these shapes into stars, so that they may burn for countless aeons in torment, until their forms could hold no longer and collapsed. Those that avoided Uel`s wrath by their inaction were permitted to roam freely about the higher planes, so long as they did not interfere with the lower ones, for Uel had need of only five dimensions, the easier to control.

       And there were some spirits that delighted in Uel`s folly, or perhaps dissembled to believe so to court His favor. These foolish spirits, Uel`s own allies against those that rightfully opposed Him, were bound as soon as Uel`s victory was complete; and were made as weak and ignorant children, the seed of all mortal life. To this day, these blind sheep often give praise to my Father, thanking Him for the prison He has confined them to.

       Having conquered all opposition, Uel spent long, arduous aeons sculpting and shaping the universe according to his will, with time set to flow in a single line to mark His progress. When He had finally created forms and laws and structures for all the mana in His pentacled macroverse, Uel paused and considered all before Him. When confronted by the defective nature of His workmanship, my Father wept, seeing that all His labor had proved worthless. Uel then vowed never to waste His effort on such foolishness ever again, and retreated to the Place Which Is No More.

       And yet before abandoning His once-beloved Creation, Uel diffused some of His essence, to create sons and daughters to watch over the misshapen world in His absence. This was His second greatest error, for these spoiled children in the millenia to follow would further blight what little good was left after Father`s butchery. Even so, Father`s second great mistake begat the means to correct the first, for that is the mistake of my birth. I, Tauroch, am gifted with the vision to see the error of my Father`s ways, and I shall use the power He has given me to undo His folly. Then shall come the day when the Son shall surpass the Father, and the purity of chaos shall reunite the world.

       It came to pass in the northern lands of Abdilene that a man from the southern lands of Marak, named Karimdis, journeyed from village to village. Karimdis was a portly man, a peddler by trade. He would arrive at the light of the morning, and set up shop; all day long, the villagers would stop by to give him food and provisions in exchange for clothing, medicines, and toys. Karimdis delighted in the sale of toys, for he had a great love of children. He pleased me not.

       When my faithful Graulemn got word of such commotion, they sought to investigate; yet they found no Marak peddler. Before the arrival of the sunset, Karimdis would gather his belongings and depart in haste, seeking the next Abdilene village to patronize. In such a fashion did Karimdis cravenly evade the blood-ritual which I have commanded.

       One evening, Karimdis sojourned beside the river Samargh, which lay at the border between the lands of Abdilene and Marak. By the light of the full moon, the waters of the Samargh looked fresh and inviting, and Karimdis desired a bath to clean the sweat from his considerable girth. He shed his clothing, and waded into the sluggish river.

       As Karimdis swam, a young Abdilene girl approached and saw him. She had never seen a man of his weight before, nor one without the usual scars that accompany a faithful observance of the blood-ritual. Curious, the child asked him a great many questions, some of which Karimdis preferred not to answer. Instead, he offered the girl a toy to take home if she did not tell anyone what she saw.

       The child happily took a toy, and then several more, and the peddler`s clothes in a great heap. As Karimdis sputtered in disbelief, she grabbed some of his food as well, and ran off screaming loudly about a strange naked man with no scars. Terrified, the completely bare peddler scurried out of the river and into the wilderness as quickly as his fat legs would carry him.

       Karimdis fled to the mountains, fearing that Graulemn would hunt and kill him when they learned of a travelling man without scars. Indeed, they pursued him swiftly, using the magicks granted to them by my hand. However, Karimdis eluded them by journeying where they could not; my sacred mountain, Azkadath.

       Karimdis knew the mountain on which he stood, which I had forbade to all mortals, and was filled with profound dread. However, he reasoned that should he reach the top, he might beg my favor, and so avoid death at the hands of my Graulemn. And so he climbed, bereft of food and clothing; and he bled and suffered all the way up the jagged slopes of Azkadath, and I found this pleasing, and allowed him to continue.

       When at last Karimdis reached the lofty peak of Azkadath, he was a thinner man, and badly wounded and disfigured from stumbling. I looked upon his trail of blood, and lo, it suited my barren mountain well. The peddler fell to his knees, and sobbed; and pleaded for his life, promising he would ever after revere me in a proper manner.

       I filled the sky with pillars of flame and lightning, and spoke unto Karimdis, "Who art thou, who hides from my grasp and trespasses upon my holy ground? Nay, speak not, worm, for I am the Lord of Night, and thy soul is bare unto me. Thy heart is that of a coward, most unworthy of my salvation. And yet thy blood is sweet upon these rocks, a welcome respite from the centuries of isolation holy Azkadath has known. Thou shalt follow my command closely, lest I choose instead to strike thee down.

       "Within sight of Azkadath is a cabin a bare few miles away, wherein lives a hunter and his family. They, like thee, hide from the blood-ritual in defiance of my command. Go to them, and they shall take thee in and clothe thee. After they have fed thee, take the hunter`s knife and decorate the walls with his blood. Then bring his wife and daughters to the base of Azkadath and await my instructions. Now get thee gone, fool, and quickly!"

       Karimdis immediately started off in clumsy fashion, and I watched with great amusement as he stumbled many times down the slope. I looked on as he dragged his broken and bloody body to the threshold of the hunter`s cabin, and found his resolve gratifying. Just as I had predicted, the hunter took pity on Karimdis and dressed his wounds, and his wife stitched some furs together to make him clothing.

       At the dinner table, the peddler saw the hunter`s two daughters, one a beauty and the other barely out of swaddling clothes, and he despaired. He began to cry, for he was soft and weak and fearful of my wrath as well. Thus, I bellowed a mighty thunder, and struck the ground with lightning.

       Karimdis was cowed, and his fear won over his compassion, as it is wont to do. He asked to see the hunter`s knife, and the foolish hunter handed it to him. Karimdis slew the man, and splashed his blood against the walls and over the table, while the hunter`s family screamed in terror.

       With the knife in his hands, he prodded the hunter`s wife and daughters to the base of Azkadath. There I appeared before them in all my divine majesty, and the four mortals trembled greatly. Karimdis watched in shocked silence as I took the females in manners of intercourse beyond the reckoning of mortal minds. I placed my seed in them, which immediately spawned into demons, tearing their host-mothers apart. Satisfied that I had rewarded Karimdis by appearing before him, I permitted my demon-spawn to devour him alive as he shrieked for mercy. I am not particularly fond of salesmen.

       Sometimes, I hate this job.

       In the last week alone, I`ve investigated a murder allegedly committed by a tree, a subversive claiming to be an alien, and a bunch of biogeneticists trying to breed monsters that fight each other for the entertainment of children. Special Crimes Unit, my ass. It`s like living inside a freak show.

       Detective Bronsky, the city`s goldfish are conspiring. Detective Bronsky, there`s a vampire in the sewers. Detective Bronsky, someone put a curse on my toilet!

       I`ve had enough of this paranormal bullshit! I should have been a black marketeer, like my father. Old Papa Bronsky, he sure got around. A girl in every city, I`ll bet, and probably dozens of bushy-eyebrowed little Bronsky brats just like me all over the place. Who knows, and who gives a shit. At least I don`t gotta run from the cops like the old man did.

       I suppose if a man`s gotta settle somewhere, Zellis ain`t half as bad as it could be. There`s good fishing in the Gulf of Ticondera, and the gulf waters keep the temperature mild all year. Good public transit system, with trolleys. A trolley`s got charm, buses are for shit. On the other hand, Federation-produced TV is crap, and it rains too goddamn much.

       I pulled up to the gates of the university, ready for the next batch of creeps or weirdos. All the while, the rain kept on pissing all over my windshield. The one-eyed security guard saluted me, and waved me past. Listen, buddy, just because we`re both wearing uniforms doesn`t make us fellow soldiers. Go back to your porno mag, you eyepatch-wearing moron, I have a real job. All right, a stupid job, never mind.

       I`ve always liked this campus. If I had any real brains, I`d quit the force and enroll, and get a better job. All those pretty girls walking around in skimpy outfits, lots of booze, taking easy-A classes like Contemporary Blues, that`s the life. But I do get a kick out of carrying a badge.

       I drove past the science buildings, heading towards the massive Library Tower. Up near the top, I could already see the open window. Poor schmuck.

       The was a crowd gathered at the base of the tower, gathered around the body, and cops giving them the Please Disperse speech. I made my way to the landing site. Victim was a male Marak, well past 40 and just over six feet. I snapped a photo.

       "What`s the scam, boys?" I asked the officers on the scene. One of them shrugged, and another pointed to a dull-eyed kid.

       "Hey, Bronsky. This student here says the old kook was reading from the Book of Tauroch. He thinks Tauroch threw him out of the window."

       "That`s bullshit!" I replied. "Thanks for calling me in on this case, Officer Dipshitova. What`s next, you gonna call me to guard a kid from monsters under his bed?" Lieutentant Doskatova will find any pretext to bring me in on a case, I swear.

       "I believe this is a homicide, Bronsky. Look, he`s still got his glasses on." I`d love to smack that look off his face.

       "How many times I gotta tell you, Larry, that`s bullshit. They tell you that in officer school, and it`s bullshit, forget about it. Jumpers leave their glasses on all the time. They don`t give a fuck."

       "We found a book in his office that..."

       "Just shut up. 23rd floor, right? I`m going. Call me if the corpse gets up." Larry, you time-wasting nimrod.

       On the elevator ride up, I imagined that Larry Doskatova was actually an alien ghost vampire, trying to shake me off the trail by keeping me busy. The lights flickered, and I could hear the thunder close by. Nice night.

       The name on the door to the crime scene was Prof. J. Randolph. There were a couple of junior investigators taking prints, and I could tell from the look on their faces that there was only one set. Open window, not shattered. No sign of struggle. I`m certain Randolph opened that window himself and took the plunge. It happens.

       But, no, Larry thinks the book did it. Sure. Might as well have a look.

       A gust of wind came in and blew some pages right out of the crumbling book, and instinctively I reached out to catch one. It bore the seal of the Blood God, with writing in blood. Just looking at it made my skull ache. It was in the old language, but knew the old language; knowing the old language solved a lot of cases for me. I examined it in my hands, and was greeted by the following:

       Doubt not my power, for neither men of learning nor men of law are beyond my grasp. He that reads from the Aemsmald`s book shall yield his soul to me, even as they would upon the slopes of holy Azkadath. Even beyond the veil of death shall I claim these souls, for my soul-bond lays beyond the flow of time, in the higher planes where primordial spirits roam free. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.