Skrimshander

The ore of orpha

Along the ridge and high upon the brow, where tarns announce their skyward dance and ashek hunt unseen, I have spent my days watching the sea. My eyes follow the waves that crash silently below, and with their guidance I carve the history of the world.

She comes to me once a moon, holding the stout bone in her hand. She offers it in silence, placing it by the fire so I can inspect its pale edge. I touch it, turn it against the flames, stroke the flat of its side. Then I nod, and she stands, taking what is hers as she glides back through the forest alone.

The bone is from the orpha, the leviathan. Some say it does not exist. Some say it is all that exists. I do not say either. Each moon she offers it as proof, lowered beside the embers that glow as steady and unchanged as the day they were forged. With my hands I accept her meed. Long has it been so.

“Carve away the parts that are untrue.” Her mouth does not cleave as she speaks, though a frosted air remains at her lips. “Carve until only the story remains.”

I nod, gifting her the story of all the days that have passed.

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