Today You Found Me, Too (Part 1)
An immortal witch has kept a journal for two thousand years. Tonight, I’m reading it.
The greatest witch in the history of our universe keeps a journal.
She began it when she was eighteen.
Now, she’s well over two thousand years old.
Can you imagine the secrets that this journal holds?
I can.
I am an author of some renown here on Earth, and she has granted me access to her journal.
My task: to document the events of her life for you — the people of this planet.
And hers has been an extraordinary life, filled with magic and prophecy.
Amazingly, Earth has become central to her story.
She has commissioned me — Jon Dottingly — to explain the role this world has played in the cosmic order.
The witch’s name is Marissa Bonifay.
Her assignment for me?
Write a short story about how she came by the journal.
A simple task, right?
Nope.
The journal is magic—bound with the same dark sorcery that lifted Marissa to the pinnacle of the black craft.
It seems to have a mind of its own—a mischievous one.
“Alright, here goes nothing,” I muttered, sipping the alcoholic concoction Marissa had prepared for me: Demon Rum, as it’s called.
“Or everything,” I added, draining the glass and setting it on the end table.
I lay down on the divan in my writing study, just like I do when brainstorming a story.
But this wasn’t brainstorming.
This was a trip.
More specifically, my soul’s.
And it wasn’t your usual journey.
Indeed, the innermost part of my being would be traveling to Nar’Zhavel—the transdimensional archive of the chronicler demon known as Adolphus.
There, this ancient entity keeps record of humankind’s history on the Mortal Plane.
He has done so since the dawn of Creation.
His annals are flawless.
He can recreate scenes with atomic precision.
There is no finer place in the cosmos for an author like me to fact-check historical work.
But Adolphus is a demon.
And this would be the first time my soul made the journey alone.
You can imagine my trepidation.
Zaralsh.
Muttering the word of magic Marissa had taught me, a gleaming green glyph formed in my mind.
I began to drift off to sleep.
This wasn’t my own sorcery.
The enchantment resided entirely in the sigil — one Marissa had embedded in my mind.
It served as the gateway to Adolphus’s domain, allowing me to access it on my own.
Unconsciousness claimed me at once.
Yet my uneasiness lingered.
To be honest, Marissa had intended for me to use Nar’Zhavel to learn what I needed for the story about her journal.
But I hadn’t.
Instead, I relied on the knowledge and imagery from her younger days — material I’d drawn on when writing earlier stories about her life.
And I used Demon Rum.
The witch’s brew calmed me, deepened my sleep, and filled it with visions — accurate ones.
It also had a tendency to summon exactly what I needed to see, right when I needed to see it.
The past few nights proved that true.
I had traveled back to Marissa Bonifay’s homeland for three consecutive nights.
Each dream showed me the same thing: how she acquired her journal.
So I wrote the story based on what I saw.
Still, I didn’t know if it was accurate.
The only way to find out was to dare the demon’s domain alone —
the very thing I’d dreaded from the beginning.
At some point, the unconsciousness my body experienced on the Mortal Plane transformed into a kind of hyper-alertness of the soul.
My innermost self had crossed into _Nar’Zhavel_.
As always, it began in an endless white expanse — no limits, no boundaries, no horizon.
A pure void.
This sensory absence eased the transition for souls entering Adolphus’s domain from the land of the living.
But the blankness didn’t last.
Within moments, objects began to materialize around me — items familiar to me — flying into place to reconstruct the very room I had just left.
My desk.
My end tables.
Even the divan I had fallen asleep on.
Then the walls appeared.
And the ceiling.
In seconds, I stood inside a perfect replica of my writing study on the Mortal Plane.
Even the empty glass of _Demon Rum_ sat on the end table exactly where I’d left it.
Indeed, it was as if I’d never left home.
Almost.
There was one important distinction.
I wasn’t alone in the replica of my study.
“Hello, Jon Dottingly. How wonderful to meet you again!”
It was Rashala—the fauness who served as Marissa’s assistant here in Nar’Zhavel.
As always, she carried her customary datapad.
It looked like she’d be helping me verify the accuracy of my account—the story of how the witch came by her journal.
“Hi, Rashala. It’s wonderful to see you again, too.”
She smiled.
Despite being of demonkind, she was as cute as could be.
Sparkling blue eyes.
Curly, shoulder-length brown hair.
And a dimpled smile so infectious it was impossible not to return.
Rashala gave a polite curtsy.
“So, what brings you to Nar’Zhavel this fine day, Jon?”
“I just finished a short story,” I told her, “and I need to see if what I wrote matches what actually happened.
I guess I kinda put the cart before the horse, as the old expression goes.”
I glanced around, reminded of the fear that had kept me from coming here alone until now.
Maybe those fears were misplaced.
Rashala brushed aside my words with a playful wave.
“Well, you got here eventually—plot twist included, I’m sure.”
I laughed.
“Yes, indeed.”
“What’s the subject of your story, Jon? What events will we be revisiting today?”
“It’s about a journal—Marissa’s journal, to be exact.
She’s been keeping it for ages, and she wanted me to write a little piece on how she came across it.”
“Oh yes, of course. That makes perfect sense.”
She turned her attention to her datapad, which resembled a modern iPad in every way—
until she activated it.
With a single touch, the device sprang to life.
Colorful symbols lifted from its smooth, jet-black surface, hovering in the air above it.
These runes and letters weren’t mere holograms.
They weren’t the result of some clever manipulation of light.
There was real substance to them.
They had mass.
They were tangible.
And Rashala set to work immediately, maneuvering them across the device’s interface with practiced ease.
“I used Demon Rum to learn the facts of the story,” I said absently, watching the fauness work the symbols.
Her hand moved with precision and grace—like a skilled musician with her instrument of choice.
“The story takes place in the priory near Dowling, where she spent so much time growing up,” I added.
“It’s a place I’ve imagined in other stories featuring Marissa.
I think that helped me out with this one.”
“Oh, I’m sure it did,” said Rashala, still arranging symbols.
One of them—a prominent glyph shaped like an old-fashioned writing quill—caught my eye.
I assumed it represented me.
“But we’ll have a scenario up and running shortly,” she said with her usual charm.
“You’ll be able to explore it until you’ve cast away all doubt.”
She finished placing the last symbol, then promptly shut down the device.
The vivid images collapsed onto its surface and vanished in a splash of color—as if made of water.
Yet when the glow faded, not a single drop of moisture remained.
“Now, Jon. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
My eyes were still wide from watching the fauness manipulate the device with such skill.
I shook my head.
“Excellent!”
Rashala made a little clickety-clack with her cloven hooves on the tiled floor of my facsimile writing room.
“Now, follow me, if you please. We’ll begin as soon as possible. My clade is waiting.”
She led me to the room’s lone exterior exit.
Back on the Mortal Plane, this sliding glass door opened to a covered patio.
Here in Nar’Zhavel, it led into a long hallway stretching left and right—
the kind you’d find in a modern corporate building on Earth.
White.
Sterile.
Floors polished to gleaming perfection.
And Rashala’s clade was waiting for me.
A group of twenty or so fauns and faunesses stood just outside the door, arranged in a semi-circle.
They wore business attire that matched the formal tone Nar’Zhavel always adopted in my presence:
navy-blue suits and blouses—horns and cloven hooves included.
They were facing me.
And they looked nervous.
“Jon Dottingly, I would like to introduce you to my clade,” Rashala said as we came to stand before the gathering.
“We will be the ones seeing to your every need during your visit to Adolphus’s domain.
And it will be our greatest honor to do so.”
Her words served as their cue.
The members of the clade bowed and curtsied in unison.
Clearly, my arrival was a big deal to them.
I saw uncertainty in their eyes — the kind of nervousness that surfaces when meeting a celebrity or someone they’ve been warned about.
Perhaps they had served others in the past.
Individuals who hadn’t been particularly kind.
Perhaps even cruel.
And I? I couldn’t handle them bowing to me.
“Don’t do that.”
I stepped forward, motioning for the clade to end their servile display.
“You don’t bow before a guy with two mortgages,” I added.
“I’m just a living, breathing sad country song, you know.”
I wasn’t sure the fauns and faunesses caught all the nuances, but my tone was enough.
They rose, visibly relieved — and I caught a smattering of smiles.
When I gave a good-natured pat on the back to the nearest faun —
a slender youngster whose horns barely protruded from his forehead —
even more grins appeared.
“Jon, I’m sure you remember Azini.”
Rashala stood beside one of the tallest members of the clade — a svelte fauness with blonde hair tied up in a no-nonsense style.
Her pinstriped button-down shirt and beige skirt would’ve looked at home in any corporate boardroom in America.
And I did remember her.
We’d met during a previous trip to Nar’Zhavel.
Back then, she’d been dressed as a barista, serving me a piping hot choco chai in a coffee shop that felt like it sat on the edge of reality.
But that had been a different visit, with an entirely different purpose.
Today, Azini clearly held a prominent role within her clade.
“Hello, Azini. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”
In response to my greeting, the fauness instinctively began to curtsy —
but, remembering my distaste for the gesture, she caught herself.
“Thank you, Jon Dottingly,” she said, her tone calm and sophisticated —
a perfect match for her no-nonsense attire.
She settled on a polite nod instead.
“It’s an honor to serve you.”
“Azini, we have much to do,” said Rashala, activating her datapad.
Azini held a similar device, and Rashala’s words prompted her to power it on as well.
A colorful array of symbols bloomed on both displays.
“Jon has written a story, per Marissa Bonifay’s orders.”
Rashala manipulated a pair of symbols on her datapad.
One was the quill — which I’d deduced represented me.
The other was a black crow.
“It’s a historical account meant for the people of Earth.”
More symbols appeared on both faunesses’ devices.
“It must be accurate in every sense.
We will provide him with everything he needs to ensure that.”
Azini took a moment to study her datapad.
“The Baelthorne Journal?”
“Exactly. Let’s get a scenario up and running.”
Rashala shut down her device and flashed me her signature smile.
“We will accompany him on his mission — you and I.”
Azini nodded, then turned her attention to the assembled members of the clade.
“Sierra, triple two, seven,” she announced.
“Move out. Look alive. I want this scenario up and fully functional ASAP.
We’re stepping through in five minutes — not a second more.
Move, move, move!”
And the clade obeyed.
Azini hadn’t even finished speaking before the hallway became a hive of activity.
Fauns and faunesses moved in all directions, datapads in hand, scattering to fulfill her orders and construct the scenario I would use to verify the accuracy of my newly written short story.
“Sierra, triple two, seven!” Rashala shouted, echoing Azini’s directive.
Her voice carried an edge — sharp and uncharacteristic of her usual charm.
“We must do our best work today!
I’ll have the horns of anyone who fails the clade in this!”
The work to get the scenario operational commenced.
Throughout the hallway, workstations emerged from the walls — sleek consoles rising up from the floor, activated by clade members at hidden command terminals spaced along the corridor.
Once each console was in place, a faun took position, donned a headset, and began their assigned task.
One of the stations would serve a special function: transforming a section of the hallway into a portal.
Through it, Rashala, Azini, and I would step into a perfect recreation of the priory on the Isle of Indamar —the place where Marissa Bonifay first discovered the book that would become her lifelong journal.
But at first, the portal was nothing more than a roiling mass of fetid, hissing steam.
“Come, Jon. We’ll oversee this operation. Let’s make sure these fiends are fulfilling their duties.”
Part 2 Next Week!
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