Saphire-blue waves kissed the green-tinged stone of the cliff. An opening loomed in the rocks, a gaping jaw that led only into grim labyrinths.
Velloa felt the weight of the shadows and the moistness of the air. Her boat was naught more than a battered hull with a split mast and ragged sail. Across the North Sea she had sailed to reach this lonely isle. There would be no turning back.
Raising her hood over dark locks and sun-browned skin, Velloa stepped into the the cave. In shifting shadow she saw swift shapes, black as night, small as children. They were the dream-keepers, the name-knowers, the metal-shapers.
At labyrinth’s end, they kept her prize.
Velloa walked the narrow paths, tunnels branching and writhing like the roots of an old oak. Whispers echoed around her, promising her secrets if only she would follow them, but Velloa kept to the true path her grandmother taught her.
Keep to the dark
Follow the silence
Love not daylight
Trust not whispers
In darkness dwell the dwarren
And their ancient book
At last, she burst upon the inner chamber. Among looming statues stood an altar.
And upon it, a leather-bound book.
Word Count: 198