An excerpt from the creation story of Abahlon,

in its original script, the Lost Language:

Elnihufa lo alfe, Nunihali olfale ulinafa

Elfine, Ellohi ho Ellela

Ilfale fe

Fe illuhafa alfunafalu alfe lo ulhalo

Out of the all, Twelve were born.

Wisdom, Knowledge and Power,

Given to them.

Their lives stretching out all of time.

Chapter 1

Yokigs parents died when he was four. His father had gotten killed fighting in a holy war, defending Abahlon from its enemies, and his mother was unable to deal with the loss of her husband and died of mysterious causes soon after. After much deliberation between his surviving relatives, he was sent to live with his grandfather, being as his grandfather, a baker by trade, had the free time and the finances to take care of a growing and curious boy.

But that was twelve years ago. His grandfather had gotten old in age. His grandfather's bones were weak and the old man was sick. And while the old man once could get out of bed, now he couldn't.

Ever since his grandfather became bedridden, Yokig took care of him. Yokig didn't mind it; his grandfather, while he was able, took really good care of him. He was loving and caring. He was Supportive of Yokig, through and through. And now it was Yokigs time to return the favor.

While the boy prepared a soup for his ailing caretaker, his mind remembered the good old days. He remembered how the house had always smelled like freshly baked bread and how the smell permeated and filled every room. He remembered always waking up to a breakfast of fresh bread and cheeses his grandfather would often get from trading the neighbors. Sometimes his grandfather would cook a loaf of bread especially for him.

And he remembered that on Fridays his grandfather would make his way into the city, his cart full of warm loaves wrapped in cloth. He would sometimes join his grandfather in this ritual. At first it was out of curiosity and an unquenchable thirst for adventure; but, in time, it was because his grandfather would buy him a fresh apple from the city's market as a treat on their way back home.

And it was always that same house his father delivered the bread to. Inconspicuous from the stone and wood houses that surrounded it, Its windows sealed by a single shutter.

His grandfather would always order him to stay outside; and being the good boy he was, he happily obeyed. He was grateful to his grandfather for taking him in. So he sat on the dirt porch and watched as his grandfather slipped into the house, the door shutting behind him.

His grandfather was never in the house for very long, but to pass the time Yokig would observe the people passing by, and would create little origin stories for them. Where they had been, where they were born, the adventures they must have had. A lady dressed in a red dress was a countess who explored the many lands of Abahlon. A man in black with a scruffy unkempt beard was a writer whose stories were well known; who could effortlessly entertain any crowd.

Usually this was enough to occupy him until his grandfather tapped him on the shoulder and they pushed the empty bread card to the market to visit the apple vendor before returning to the safety of the bakery on the outskirts of town.

His grandfather had lived in a small town just outside of Grenlov. Grenlov was one of the five big cities on the continent of Egreth, one of the twelve continents of Abahlon. The capital city of Egreth was Negathor, and that was a five day walk away.

Yokig had never been to Negathor, but his grandfather had. His grandfather filled his head with tales of its great beauty. Its emerald gates, its long stone halls, its narrow marble streets. The people, his grandfather once said, all dressed in the most extravagant of clothing as if every day was a special occasion. He had heard that its temples were built of gold, adorned by magnificent paintings depicting the history of Abahlon. He said there once had been twelve statues depicting the first beings the creator created, they were the original creations meant to teach and guide the rest of the creation. The way it was described filled his heart with joy and a deep longing to go see it one day. In fact, he wanted to go see the entire kingdom, all twelve continents. But alas, he couldn't, his grandfather was sick and needed him. His dream of seeing its magnificent emerald gates and gorgeous paintings would have to wait.

A tiny ring of a bell shook him out of his daydream. From the sound of it he knew his grandfather had just woken up and needed his attention.

"Just a minute!" He shouted loud enough for his grandfather to hear from the other room. He checked the soup and tasted it to see that it was almost done, intuitively he knew it needed a little more salt; but they had none to add.

He grabbed a tray from a loose shelf above the sink and placed it on the table. He cut a couple of slices of bread from a week old loaf and placed them next to a bowl on the tray. The bakery hadn't been run since his grandfather became bedridden, Yokig had to give all of his time and energy to his grandfather's care. Quickly he made his way into his grandfather's bedroom. The room was tiny with no windows. The small space held his grandfather's bed, a small shelf filled with old leather bound books his grandfather received as gifts from his customers and friends, and a small nightstand made of old decaying wood that looked like it was about to fall apart at any second- It was a miracle that it still stood. It was very simple. Yokig could only guess that his grandfather liked simple things.

His grandfather looked more pale than usual, the color of his skin fading as he slipped further and further into his sickness. His hands, once meaty and full of life, now were reduced to skin and bone. If you took off his nightshirt you would see his emaciated stomach exposing his fragil ribs. His face had sunken into his skull making him resemble a living ghost.

His grandfather's black cat lay at the foot of the bed. His grandfather had brought it home from the house in the city a couple of years ago, on his way back from his weekly ritual. He had said the owner of the house found it outside tearing up his flowerbed and meowing as loudly as it could. The owner took pity on it and brought it inside, and gave the kitten to Yokigs grandfather as a gift. Since then, the kitten and his grandfather bonded so well. The kitten would follow Yokigs grandfather from room to room. It wouldn't leave his side except to jump out of the kitchen window to go catch its food and do its business in the front yard. After that it would paw at the door until Yokig or his grandfather opened the wooden entrance to let it in, where it would promptly return to his grandfather's side.

But something strange happened the week his grandfather could no longer get out of bed, the boy noticed. The black cat wouldn't leave his grandfather's bed, and furthermore, it would refuse to eat. Yokig would offer the cat meat, and even leave a small bowl of food out for it in the corner of the room. But when he would come back, the bowl would be untouched, the meat uneaten and the cat still by his grandfather's side. Yokig had never seen this strange behavior before, and had attributed it to the cat's love for his grandfather.

"Breakfast is almost ready grandpa." Yokig informed his sick caretaker. "Is there anything I can get for you?" he offered.

The pale old man was too weak to respond. He struggled to turn his head to face Yokig. Slowly he lifted his hand off the bed, Yokig could see the muscles in his arm straining from the effort. The old man pointed toward an empty cup on his nightstand.

Yokig quickly picked up the clay cup. "Ok, i'll get you some water," he said, trying to hide the pain he felt every time he saw his grandfather in this condition.

The old man's hand plopped back down onto the bed. Yokig had understood what he wanted . The black cat lifted its head up and looked at the boy as if to thank him before resting its head back onto its paw.

Yokig returned to the kitchen with the glass in hand. The kitchen was small but homely. It consisted of a window, a small water basin, a water barrel, a brick oven, a fireplace, wooden kitchen utensils and a table that almost stretched from one end of the kitchen to the other.

He walked around the table to check on the soup that dangled in a small claudren above the bright orange flames in the fireplace. He scooped out another spoonful with the long wooden spoon and took a small sip.

It will do. He thought.

Carefully he removed the claudren from the heat and set it on the top of the table to cool.

The townspeople would come over occasionally to check on his grandfathers health. Sometimes they would come bearing gifts of meat and necessities as part of their well wishes. Yokig liked when they came with these types of gifts, his grandfather had been the town's baker ever since he set up shop in this small town 80 years ago. The people depended on him for bread when the bakery was open and now he depended on them. A week prior, the Lumbermans brought over a cut of meat from their butchery. Yokig had wrapped it up and put it in the cellar under the house. He remembered that he wanted to give a small cut of it to his grandfather and hopefully to the little balck cat on the bed. The cat was losing weight and the boy was starting to see its ribs.

Yokig made his way outside to the back of the cottage. He stopped in front of two large wooden doors attached to the side of the stone house. He opened the doors to reveal a dirt staircase leading down into the darkness below. He had always loved going into the cellar. Ever since he was a little boy he would pretend that at the end of the staircase, beyond the pitch black darkness, was a new world full of endless possibilities just waiting for him to discover and explore it.

Today he saw the mouth of a cave extending out in front of him into the void. He imagined hearing a low, almost inaudible, rumbling voice whistling a macobre tune as he started to slowly creep down the stairs, taking heed to walk as lightly as he could to avoid making a sound.

The ground shook a little under the audible heavy footsteps coming from the end of the staircase. As Yokig got to the bottom, he put his ear to the cellar door below.

Fear suddenly overtook him. His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle. What would be behind the door he wondered. Would it be friend or foe?

The stomping and the whistling continued as if what was behind the door was still unaware of Yokigs presence. Yokig took a deep breath and with a loud creek he opened the cellar door. The stomping and the whistling suddenly stopped, the vial screech alerting the cellars occupant.

In the spacious cavern stood a brutish giant, his angry eyes glued to the doorway where Yokig stood. Yokig noticed that it was very hairy, its arms were the size of large tree trunks. Its fist were the size of large boulders. Its face, ugly and misshapen; Its skull deformed and brutish. The giant had to bend over a bit to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the cave.

"Who goes there!?" The giant grumbled, his voice as loud as a thunderstorm, shaking the cavern walls.

"It is I, Yokig. I've come to retrieve some meat!" Yokig answered, his voice quivering from the fear.

"Yokig?!" the giant bellowed. "I do not know a Yokig!" The giant grabbed his grotesque club from off the wall. "I do not know a Yokig!" The giant shouted charging at full speed toward Yokig with his weapon in his hand ready to bash the boys head into the dirt floor. Yokig caught a glance of the meat hanging on a steel hook from the ceiling behind the raging giant. As the giant went in for a fatal blow, Yokig slid under the giant's legs and made a dash for the hanging slab of meat.

The club hit the ground where Yokig once stood, denting the floor under its weight. The giant, angry at his failure, quickly turned around . But it was too late, Yokig had already grabbed what he came down into the cellar for.

"Theif! Theif! Theif!" The giant yelled as loudly as it could. He swung at Yokig a second time, but his slow strike was easy for Yokig to dodge. Yokig ducked under the giant's arm and, before the giant could try to swing his grizzly instrument of death a third time, Yokig was out the door, running as fast as he could up the dirt steps toward the safety of the outdoors.

Yokig made his way back into the house and threw the meat onto the table. The soup had cooled down enough to be served, so he scooped some of it into the empty bowl on the serving tray. He then sliced a few thin pieces of meat, being careful not to cut the pieces too thick, so that they could conserve as much meat as they could. He did not know when they would next be gifted with another slab of it.

He proceeded to slice one of the slices into small cubes, placing the cubes into a small dish for the cat. He knew the cat wouldn't eat it, but he continued trying in hopes that it would eat even a little bit of the offering. Maybe today was the day. He placed the dish on the tray next to the other contents and, before he took breakfast into his grandfather's room, he scooped some water out of the water barrel and into his grandfather's drinking apparatus.

There! Perfect! He congratulated himself, as he carried the tray into the room.

The first thing he noticed as he entered was that the cat had moved. Odd, he thought. It had been weeks since the cat moved from that bed.

The black cat now stood patiently at the door. Its green eyes gazed directly into Yokigs. The cat then turned its head toward the bed.

The tray dropped from Yokigs hands, The clay bowl shattering upon impact with the ground below, spilling its contents all over the stone floor. The bell that had been on his grandfather's nightstand had fallen off its surface. His grandfather's hand dangled loosely off the side of the mattress near it.

His eyes shifted to his grandfather's motionless body on the bed. Yokig rushed to his grandfather's side, grabbing his grandfather by the shoulders and shaking him wildly. "Grandpa! Grandpa wake up!" he cried, as if his desperate plees would convince his grandfather's soul to come back. It was no use, his grandfather was dead.

In the midst of this tragedy The black cat gobbled up the spilled food, walked out the bedroom door, and escaped through the open window in the kitchen.