The First Age

In the early morning hours, a man in a long brown coat hurriedly walked the labyrinth of Moscow streets. He kept his hood pulled up around his ears and his hands plunged deep in the pockets. The coat was buttoned all the way to his ankles, where very plain black sneakers peeked out. He was as nondescript as possible. Once, someone passing the opposite direction on the sidewalk caught a glimpse of his face and gasped at the empty white eyes that looked back. Illarion made no effort to appease the stranger, for even the barest opening of his lips was more of a snarl than a smile.

Their Great One and the Eye of the Khylsty departed some time before, abandoning their people to serve some great mission that was above the awareness of a meager acolyte. Illarion was left in charge of the Khylstys, but Matvei quickly out-maneuvered him. He did not bother to thwart Matvei’s ambitions. Instead, Illarion took to the streets. He felt caged and imprisoned. Far more so than he did Below. If he was to escape the bondage of their masters, he would need to learn the lay of the land.

And so he walked. Day after day. He learned, watched, and walked.