Where does an idea come from? Sometimes, ideas are born out of suggestions, some other, from a memory. There are actually times, tho, when an idea is born out of instinct, or a wish. Or maybe… a will? And Lazar, that morning, really really wanted to go out for a walk. He did not know where this desire came from (he usually spent his days reading fluff and old books written by himself, writing, trying to meet the dreadful deadline imposed by that menace of a gnome of his editor, or bickering with his wife Liliane for being always too absorbed in his stuff to go out, bless her heart), but a small part of him admitted that the reason was probably... the passage of time. Today, well. You have to know that today was his birthday, and the man wanted to see if he still had his usual gait, even after all this time.

  He took his wide brimmed blue hat with the pointy tip and his dark green scarf from the coat hanger near the front door, put the keys in his brown trousers, shouted goodbye to his wife from the doorstep ("Go to hell you old coot!" answered the woman) and got out of the house with a confident stride, unconcerned about his age, towards the nearest path through the woods. He was no spring chicken anymore, that's for sure, but the cruel mistress had spared his good looks (even if his joints did not get the same treatment) and his thick mane of grizzled hair that framed his clean shaven face, underlining a sharp jaw, high cheeks, underneath his two deep gray eyes, gave him a weird... royal, noble aura. The wrinkles on his face just gave that same aura some sort of wisdomy feeling.

  He loved living near the woods. He bought the house, oh, so many years ago but he was still certain that it was the best thing he bought. Yet. Bought at a bargain, by the way, since it seemed like the previous owner thought it was infested, for some obscure reason. Fifty years in it, never even a creak of the stairs. The birds singing to each other had woken him up more gently than usual that day. It seemed like it was going to be a good day. Right now, though, only the sound of his steps on the path flanking the river could be heard and this. This really made his blood run cold. Normally, the woods were full of sounds, calls, creaks, the sound of the wind between the leaves of weeping willows and majestic oaks. Not even the sound of the flowing river could be heard, at that moment. Lazar froze in place, and started looking around, with the river on his back. He checked his pockets to see if he had his small carving knife with him, but nothing really seemed out of place. He took a breath, managed to calm down, and decided that he was just being a bit too paranoid. He turned around.

  "Oh, there you are, finally!" said the enormous silver - maned lion who was looking at him straight in the eyes. The beast's paws seemed not to disturb the surrounding vegetation, its nails were unsheathed and white as snow and its mane fluttered without there being a breath of wind. All was still. The eyes of the lion shone with the light of far planes, horrible abysses, and oceans of dead souls. Or you could say they were just two big, ever changing orbs.

  "I've been waiting for you for a while, you know?" the lion continued, moving a bit closer to the man, lowering its head until it was at the same height of the man.

  Lazar was gobsmacked. The beast was taller than two men, one on top of the other, but its voice... Their, voice? Was more similar to that of a young woman than that of a giant. Well, a young woman with a passion for Ratchpeki for pipe, that's for sure. It reminded him a bit of the voice of his dear wife. He really should have stayed home today.

  The man tried looking for the courage to speak. Really, he really did look everywhere for it, I can assure you, but it had probably run away bringing some sweat droplets that now covered the old man’s brow. One got into his eye, but it did not faze him in the least.

  The enormous beast spoke once more, gently, as you would do with a child.

  "Are you, or are you not, Lazar, son of Laza, son of Laz, son of La, son of..."

  "Yes, yes, please, stop, yes! It's me! You don't have to recite my whole family tree, for the love of all the Numens!" blurted out the man, all of a sudden. Sure, he was before a predator, a two person tall one, with clays and probably fangs and all, but! One of the things he loathed the most, that made him almost scream every time it was brought up by someone, (even more than his Numenuptial) was the onomastic convention of his family which, going by the duke's registries, went back to 1315 after the Night. In particular, to his great - grandfather Nothing.

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  "Yes, yes, we’re sorry. So, it is indeed you. Good. Concerning the Numens, well, the current ones, uhm, what was I going to say?" continued placidly the silver lion, before inhaling "Oh, yes. Us, Erad, father and mother of changings, keeper of the regular size of the universal belt, commander of the legions of the legions of HHVHHBRJN, divine servant of the Eidos and bringer of news in every corner and curve, is here on the day of your hundred moon, your tenth birthday, day of your anointment, to tell you that in the coming moons you will have to complete a mission so utterly important I myself feel humbled by its content: as written in the Riveira's scrolls by the half blind prophet of the Midrai, ‘Lazar, son of Laza, son of Laz, son of La, son of L, grandson of Nothing, will be the hand which will end of the old Numens and the start of the new ones, so that the world will no-"

  "It's the thousand moon" interrupted Lazar, blank faced.

  The lion tried to start again, ignoring him. "As i was saying, so that the world will no-"

  "It's the thousand moon, you dim witted feline!” The old man shouted, hands tight, the veins on his neck bulging from the effort, "I'm one hundred years old today, not ten! You got it wrong of ninety years!"

  "A hundred, you say." Erad asked, meekly.

  "One Hundred years old."

  "One… Hundred?" they asked again, hoping for a different answer.

  "Yes."

  They both took a deep breath. Lazar to center himself before he punched the snout of that silver ball of bullshit, Erad to give themself think about how to get out of this weird situation.

  The lion didn’t have any good ideas.

  "Are you really, really sure about it? You mortals are very forgetful sometimes."

  "You could ask my wife, who’s been bearing with me for eight hundred moons and has lived with me for even more time."

  "And the... the flower of your youth? The unexpressed potential? The heroic energy of the little-"

  "The flower has fallen and dried, the potential has been used up, and the heroic energy has gone three hip joints and a heartbeat rune ago."

  "Well. Well well. This may, may, be a problem, an itsy bitsy problem, i don’t have time to… Oh well. There's that."

  The lion raised their paw and hit Lazar with it. He screamed, frozen in fear. The limb went through the man, like it was made of smoke, shining in a silver light. An ashy glow covered him, and Lazar started dry coughing.

  "What in the Night are you doing, you wretch!” squeaked the old man, who was not afraid anymore, just very, very disappointed. “There’s a reason I quit smoking ages ago! I want to keep my lungs clean until the flames of the pyre!"

  "Here, here, no worries, Lazar” began the lion, seemingly calm, before starting to speak as fast as they could “the covenant was made, if you breathe ten times in rapid succession and whisper my name, Erad, letter for letter, the sacred lance of und-ings will appear, you must kill the Numens in fifty moons or another Night will come, thanks and have a good life, bye!"

  The lion disappeared as they were never there in the first place. Lazar was still, staring at nothing, while the woods started making noises again. He took a deep breath. Then another nine in quick succession, while enunciating the beast's name. A small crack in reality appeared, and from there, came out a silver lance, delicately adorned with sigils and runes and weird letters. It hummed, filled to the brim with power, and hovering a foot from the ground.

  A sigh escaped Lazar's mouth. He took off his pointy hat, reached for a hidden pocket inside, and took out a small, black pipe. From another pocket, more hidden this time, he took out some ground Ratchpek leaves. He filled the pipe with them, snapped his finger, and lighted the leaves. He took a long, long breath of smoke. He grabbed the lance and looked at it intensely until it morphed into a seemingly innocuous walking stick.

  "Well, way to start my second century. I don't really think my dear wife will be pleased with my impending departure. Oh well", he said, and with a spring in his step he started going back home, alone.