Phantom Papyrus Novels & Stories

Surrounding either table were shelves that held old, leather bound codices and scrolls made of animal skins, velum, and papyrus. “What’s all that?” James asked. “The records of the different empires of the world, as well as the personal writings of demigods and even some of the divine. In short, the real history of the world. A treasure trove of knowledge to be sure, but I have only had time to peruse a few. It could take decades to truly understand them all.” They walked past the shelving and entered an area that looked more like a museum, full of display cases and plaques.

Then she reached inside and pulled out a little plastic bag. Xavier's heart sank. It was much too small and flat to hold Equuleus - assuming the piece would be comparable in size to the two they'd found so far. Penny unsealed the bag and pulled out a folded slip of paper, much like the others they'd found so far in Yellowstone. "It's another poem," she said as she opened it. "Oh, and this time he's included some photographs."

- You see, after analyzing the appearance of this weapon, I came to the conclusion that this is not a creation of local craftsmen, most likely this thing is from the African continent. - Well, I don’t know how you came to this conclusion, but I think you know what you are talking about, bring me the chronicles. - Okay, I'll be right there. The man took short steps to the back of the bookcases, returning a few minutes later with a large, dusty pile of manuscripts, scrolls, and worn books. Together they began to carefully study the fragile pages. Julia's attention was attracted by an old papyrus manuscript, opening it, she began to read it, the words were difficult and the meaning often slippe

What will happen to her? The vision changed. He was somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. The shaman turned, looking everywhere around him. A sea of papyrus stretched in the distance. He walked, forcing his way through. In the middle of the sea, a large structure stood. The structure, if it could be called a structure, was at least twelve meters high. He moved closer. The structure was strange, like it was organic. The structure breaths, he thought. There is no way. What kind of structure is this? Is it organic? It has veins. It must be organic.

In it where greenish slimy substances, “This is what the water truly looks like” Edgar smiled at her proudly. “Woah!” Dylan smiled at her, “That was awesome Cleopatra” Edgar walked towards a small stack of books, looked through them and slipped one out. It was a large book with red leather cover. It was dusty indicating it had not been opened in a long time, “We have been looking in the wrong books Cleopatra”, the book landed with a thud sending dusts in the air, “This is a book on poison”

Penny says in a diplomatic way. “I don’t even know where to start looking for her.” I sigh as I feel Lua quite agitated pacing back and forth in our mind. I try not to focus on her right now but something in the lake caught my attention. A little shimmer seemed to be coming from a rock a few steps ahead of the lake's shore. What was that? It wasn't there before, was it? If one didn't pay much attention they would for sure miss it or misunderstand it with the moon’s shine upon the water. I stretched my arm to reach it while being cautious to not fall in the water. I grab it and bring it closer so I can take a look at it. It was a golden broken piece of something. It had something carved in it

“I already know what I’m listed as. I saw the folder.” “No,” the Scribe said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know what they call you. You don’t know what you cost.” I clenched my jaw until it ached. “Then talk. Stop with the riddles and tell me the price.” He reached beneath the table and pulled out a single page. It wasn't like the other ledgers. This parchment was translucent, shimmering with a faint, bioluminescent glow. The ink wasn't black; it was a deep, bruised purple.

His head was still bare, his white ceramic features smooth, free of eyes or a mouth save for a horizontal slit across his brow that glowed with the full blinding brilliance of the quartz cores sun. He held a three-sided steel pen in his right hand. Not the mapping-pen her father had used but the heavy engraving-chisel that the First Dynasty used to stamp the royal seals into the continental bedrock. "The third page is turning, sister," Leo's voice resonated through the bog-iron of her arm. He did not stop at the edge of the terrace. He walked through the white quartz outcrop where Damon sat, his porcelain feet passing through the solid stone as if it were mist.

The scent of citrus and pine linger on the tidier, mostly abandoned half, seemingly infused into the modest racks of books and curios above and beside the desk. I pick up a dusty paperweight made of glass. In it is the likeness of what might be a small hummingbird. It would probably look prettier if the room was more clearly lit. I turn on the torch function of my cell phone to admire the fine lines of its vermilion feathers. The pages beneath it seem to be the first draft of a paper (about Livius’s Odusia, a topic that twinges painfully in the depths of my memory). It’s typewritten and marked for revision. The handwriting is the same as the one from my letters.

I NEED to know who he is, and something tells me I won’t discover much if I approach him as Phantom Reaper. I don’t really even know who I actually am, to be honest. I never indulged in friendships or relationships with others. It’s just always been survival. The only person I had any kind of positive relationship was my mother. I don’t know my father but because of my hair color, I’m fairly certain my father was Christian Bartoa. I know he frequented the slave cells whenever he was bored, and the urge arises so it doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t intend to ever claim him nor carry his surname. The thought of actually SPEAKING to Damien makes me feel a weird sense of anxiety. I’m unsure if i