He had been sitting at an outdoor table, nursing a glass of wine in an uptown district of Adeluna, the largest city in the world. It had been attempting to rain and people were pulling up their collars, pushing down their hats, or getting their servants to hold parasols over their heads. It was chilly, but the cold had never bothered him. He was half ice-daemon after all.

But then he felt a terrible pressure pushing into his skull from all sides. Clutching his head in pain with both hands, Mendean heard the wineglass hit the flagstones, as well as the sound of people shouting and screaming. Something was happening, but for a while, it was all the god could do to block out the sense of wrenching displacement. The commotion died away quickly. It was hot. A fire? He opened his eyes and froze.

There had been no sensation of movement, beyond the wrenching feeling. He looked around and saw several others nearby, similarly bewildered. An overturned cart, the table and chairs, a section of the cafe wall, teetered briefly, before collapsing. Mendean jumped back and away from the crumbling brickwork, then stopped to brush fine dust off his jacket. Stepping back, he took a good look around.

It did not take very long to spot the familiar landmark of the castle and the lighthouse that served as airship dock, but they were not the same. Most of the buildings were absent, and those that remained were of a very different style from what he was used to. Single-story, red brickwork with white adobe. Mosaics on the walls and floors. Olive groves. This was not the Adeluna he was familiar with at all…and yet…

There were locals, emerging from their low-slung primitive homes. Many wore simple tunics and sandals. Most were bare-legged, although there were some in togas and others still in trousers, but they had a fierce unkempt look to them, complete with long drooping moustaches and animal hide jackets. Completing his self-dusting, the corner of Mendean's mouth turned up in a half-smile.

Kelonians.

The Kelonian empire had stretched all the way from the Vilmapolan coast, through the plains of Bohar and down into what was now the kingdom of Adeluna, a thousand years ago. One of the greatest empires in history, the Kelonians had developed technological innovations, developed new tactics and methods of waging war, built roads and great monuments and generally dominated most of southern Canelux, even managing to establish outposts much further north. There was hardly a single society in Canelux that had not been touched in some manner by the Kelonian civilisation.

He recalled that his family had once been Kelonian nobility. His father and uncle had studied at the college in what would one day become Egjora. His parents had first met in this time, although at the time his mother had been a Daemon bound into the service of a prince. It was strange to consider that for him, this had all occurred a single generation before. But that was before his father had become an immortal being, who by some strange contradiction, was now very-much dead.

People were getting up, and the locals were shouting for the guard to come. No doubt their loved-ones had suddenly found themselves stuck a thousand years from here, in the future, Mendean's present. And then a thought occurred to him: Was he still a god in this time?

He looked at the ground, focussing. After a few moments, the flagstones began to shift and warp. Silvery threads sprouting from between the cracks. Mendean smiled and allowed reality to resume hold of his environment. Yes, his connection was still there. A little confused, but present. Mendean was still a divine being.

More shouting in Kelonian (which he was fortunate enough to understand much better than Adelunan) and flames belched across the paved street. There was a flash of light and a number of armed figures fell to the ground, as though they had been several feet up in the air a moment before. Elves. At least a dozen of them. But their armour was unfamiliar to him. It was fashioned from pieces of what looked like glass, linked together by small loops of wire. A very old design. Older than the time he was in. Many of them were injured, at least one was dead. The gash across his chest was undoubtedly a mortal wound.

As he watched the scene unfold, the elves struggled to their feet, holding aloft bronze spears and short swords. They eyed the locals with a mixture of fear and suspicion. The situation immediately became worse as the fully-armoured Kelonian city guard arrived, brandishing their own spears, as well as the large shields he had seen only in history books. The situation was about to escalate. Of that he had no doubt.

And then Mendean did something he was not expecting to do. Waving his arms over his head, he ran, shouting in Kelonian. ”Wait! Wait! These are not invaders! Wait!”

Moments later, the young deity stood between the two groups of armed men. He turned and waved similarly at the elves. He did not know what dialect they spoke, so he tried several elven words for 'stop' in the hope they would get the gist. It seemed to work, for no one was attacking, so far. Then he turned back to be the well-armed Kelonian soldiers.

”My name is, uh, that is to say, my name is…Hector Elkeslon. These elves mean you no harm, as they were transported against their will to this place. Please, stay your hands for the moment.”

”WHAT? Hector Elkeslon? Let me see for myself!” A very tall man emerged from the group of soldiers. He was not dressed like the others. A man in his forties or fifties, with a thick grey beard. He wore a purple toga and carried a short sword. Even though he was not dressed as a soldier, it was clear by his bearing that he had been one in his youth. His expression was grim as he beheld the callow youth before him. Mendean recognised the man immediately, feeling a shock render his arms and legs useless. He could not decide whether it was joy or fear that gripped him so tightly around the throat.

”Hector Elkeslon died years ago. I know. I was there. You resemble him a little, so you could be one of his bastards. But why you would be named after him, I can only guess. Perhaps you are not telling me the truth, eh boy?” The immense figure held the sword out so that it pointed at Mendean's throat. He found he was unable to answer. The man continued. ”Tell me now, boy. I was Hector's younger brother. If you are claiming my family name for nefarious purposes, I will know, and I will end your life right here in the street!”

Jenlu’s face had lit up in excitement as she reached her first major settlement. After a brief but informative conversation with a local she found out it was the impressive city of Adeluna. Not that it made any difference to her which city she currently resided in, her mood had taken a dip as of late. She had literally exploded out of a crack in time two days ago. Not to worry, there was something about this seemingly simple place that was pulling at her core, so much to discover! 

During her impossible escape from her self-destructing airship she had managed to rescue one book, a book on Revaliir. Unfortunately for her, the book was wrong in almost every way. It was supposed to be a guide book written by a Novella that came here before, but Jenlu seriously doubted whether the Novella had actually set foot on this world. 

A few more days past while she rested in a local tavern. She sat inside by the fire, it had started to rain outside. Without the slightest warning Jenlu felt herself being squished by a fantastic pressure. She felt like she was being squeezed through a tube, her eyes were fussed closed and her body ached in pain until all of a sudden it stopped and she was left with nothing but a minor headache. 

Jenlu was still at her table, her eyes opened to find that the glass she had been holding was a pile of scorched sand. That was an awfully bad sign! She’d not moved an inch in space, but as she took in there world around her, it was obvious she wasn’t in the same place. A few of the people she had been sitting with in the tavern had also found their way here, they stood up, shuffled around tried to use there primitive brains to understand what had just happened. 

A different type of city guard suddenly appeared around what was once the tavern. Jenlu was just about to pull her wand out from inside her coat when a young man started to talk to the guards. They seemed to understand each other, Jenlu did not. Instead she chose to wander slowly over towards the boy, he was young but he seemed to be doing a good job of taking charge. A polite smile rested on her face as she came into view. 

“What are they saying boy?” Jenlu stood with her back to the boy, and the city’s guards. Her attention was on the elves, initially they’d not attacked, but now some of the men were eying up weak points in the line of guardsmen. They were angry, a few of them were injured; and not just from travelling through time. Jenlu saw it in the leader’s eye before he called out for his men to attack. 

Right now, Mendean and Jenlu stood in between the battle lines, the troops started moving towards each other. “Quick duck!” Jenlu instructed the boy, as she closed the distance between them she threw out the side of her coat and ducked herself covering them both entirely in a heap on the floor. The red fabric instantly turned the colour of the surrounding rock and became harder than diamond. A clever little trick for staying safe on battlefields. 

It was easy to spot a Novella. Mendean…the other Mendean, had known a few. Meddlers from another world. A species scattered across creation like a smear. One of them had even been a god in that other world. But this was not the time to indulge in cross-cultural exchanges. Novella were wild, magical and impulsive by nature. The mere presence of one could invoke calamity at a moment's notice.


He did not understand the words spoken by this particular Novella. She was speaking the tongue of Adeluna. But he recognised one word she used. The possessed man in Wyllmochvar had used the same word in a pejorative manner, during that psychic game they had played. Mendean did not like being called boy. He snarled a curse in response, in his own tongue.


The high-ranking Kelonian, whom Mendean had recognised as his late father, narrowed his eyes at the young deity, taken aback by the obscenity spoken in a foreign tongue. The Kelonians had never encountered the Wyllmochvarians, or anyone from Parvpora in this time. But Mendean's tone would have been unmistakable.


<Surrender to me now and I may be mercif…> The moment broke. Elf and Kelonian advanced upon one-another. The Novella swirled her cloak over Mendean's head. His father made to attack with the bronze short-sword. A spear was thrown. Someone gave the command to attack…


“Ne.” Mendean closed his eyes, then opened them.


The scene had altered significantly. Elves, Kelonians, everyone except the deity had fallen silent. No clashing of weapons, no sounds of sandalled feet slapping against flagstones, only yelps of surprise and the muffled sounds of struggling from all around him. Oily black tendrils protruded from between flagstones and open patches of ground, rising up and splitting into many more tendrils, glistening in the sunlight. Some had pushed the cape away from Mendean, before he could be covered. He did not desire protection. This was his father. His dead father, alive and well, a thousand years prior to Mendean's own hatching. He was not going to waste this opportunity.


All around him, soldiers from different times struggled to break free as they were lifted aloft and held at least a foot above the ground. He could hear citizens of the outpost, crying out in alarm and vacating the area. They would return soon, possibly with wizards and priests, as well as soldiers. Mendean's time here was limited.


The old senator struggled to break free. He had dropped the leaf-like bronze sword and was muttering to himself. Damn it thought Mendean, as he realised his father was casting a spell. A powerful one too. No more time. “Nemam vremena za to!” Growled the chaos lord. He stepped forwards, palm held up high, while the tendrils lifted his father up and over, so he was looking down upon the son he would not know for a millennium. Reaching up, he planted outstretched fingers over the old man's face and entered his mind. Neither of them moved for several seconds, and then it was over. Mendean fell back, his father fell face-down beside him, tentacles became limp, allowing those who were trapped to cut themselves free.


Neither the young man, nor the senator were moving.