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The board stood still. Everything around it moved.

The board moved. Everything around it stood still.

The air was on fire. The ground was deluged with water. The atmosphere was electric. The sounds were ominous.

The men were bare husks, kept alive and animated by some power unforeseen. It was the power of the board. It, on the other hand, seemed more alive. They moved the pieces fast. And sometimes slow. The game was now on a pace where it could not be controlled, it did not have to be at a frantic pace. The board stood in a crater. Around it was death. Around it was destruction and magic and the chaos of a world going insane. Around it was the end. The end was swirling closer, black and grey and colored clouds of mist. Swirling in, swirling around, like dust trailing in the wake of a fast car in a desert. Only this was not a desolate area of land. This was one of the epicenters. The pole for those who were drawn. But only a handful remained. And most were at other ends of the globe, trying to put the pieces together. The traveler, the dancer, the curious one, the three friends, the watcher, all were separate and together. All had a role to play and a dance to dance. Intricate. Chaotic. One by one by one.

The wind was howling, wild with rage. The players played on. Determination on their faces, brows covered with beads of sweat. Eyes dark, aged, crinkles around them. Hair, which once had been dark and luscious. Now it was brittle and white. Hands lined with signs of age. Brittle. Weak. Shadows of the men they once were. Soundless. Wordless. Their language was that of the moves on the board. Their dance, intricate. Beautiful. Haunting. Harrowing. The smell of burning on one's tongue. The feel of trembling under one’s feet. The ground shook-eth.

The squares were lined with dust and the elements. Black, white, black, white. Glowing with an eerie purple. One that was neither animal nor plant nor the haiwaan nor the jinn nor any of the creatures of the book. From any of them. It was an element that had not been mentioned. That none but those who were declared to have been mad could understand. The loudest sounds come from the most. The braying of the most does not mean it is right. Normal is not a matter of consequence, nor of majority. Normal is nomenclature given to those who consider themselves superior, given by those who consider themselves superior. Normal does not mean right. There is a subsect of the species that has been blessed with vision. Over the centuries, when word could not travel as fast, they had the foresight but could not persecuted and could not be forgotten even if they were. The artists, the poets, the wordsmiths. The scientists, the tinkerers, the inventors. Mad. Different from the norm. Now the madness is suppressed with chemicals in capsules. The foresight is forgotten. The knowledge about the purple light is killed. Soon, they will all be killed. Their mistake