Mitch wandered through the narrow alleys of the Dwarven District, the night with Crae’s Agency still buzzing through him. Here, the usual grime of Shadowreach kept away. The floating candles moved cautiously together high above. No Grimmers dared to prowl the streets, as dwarves held their ground, and any fool who brought trouble found themselves swiftly dealt with.

The Dwarven District was one of the few corners left in the city where they held sway as a race. Stout stone buildings pressed together, standing together as a testament to their refusal to bend. Smoke, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of strong ale filled the air. Yet even with the high population of boisterous dwarves, the cold tendrils of Shadowreach’s atmosphere still managed to hang, pressing the dwarves into their warm, cramped bars.

Mitch’s brushing memories tugged him forward, drawing him to the bar he and Hathgar often favored: The Broken Pickaxe. It was their spot to drink together for years, Mitch’s memories told him. A place where dwarves laughed and drank as if the walls weren’t slowly crumbling around them.

He stepped inside, stooping through the low door. The familiar scent of sour ale and roasting meat immediately hit him. The room was dim, the low ceiling painted yellow with years of smoke, while rough-tables bore the marks of countless scuffles and games. Dwarves sat together, drinking and playing their favored game, Stakes. The clatter of the game’s tokens being shuffled mingled with the chatter.

In the back corner, Mitch spotted Hathgar, slouched over a small personal keg with a tankard in hand, alone at a table. He started to make his way over, careful not to knock over any dwarves. Roasted suckling pig was the fare, and Mitch’s stomach grumbled from the scent.

Walking through the small tavern, he spared a glance at the only other non-dwarf in the space. A half-orc sat alone, engrossed in filling out a worn notebook. The half-orc’s red ring caught Mitch’s eye for just a second before he passed by on his way to Hathgar. The man paid him no mind, fully engrossed in his task. The Souls within him recoiled from the man as he passed.

Hmm…

Reaching the table, Hathgar glanced up with a scowl that softened quickly. “Took ye’ long enough,” he muttered, gesturing for Mitch to sit.

Mitch settled onto the bench across from Hathgar, his grin a touch too wide. “You didn’t wait for me? Losing your manners. Had me clean the entire club after by myself. That slop they ate? Actually tasted pretty good,” he teased, leaning back as if it were back to simpler times.

Hathgar scoffed, but his eyes held a glint of the old friendly humor and alcohol. “Manners? Ye’ know me better ‘en that, lad. Figured ye’d catch up on yer own time.” The dwarf eyed the Shadowshroud clinging to Mitch’s frame, his face hardening. “Got that shadow thing hanging on ye now, eh? That’ll pull ye in faster than anything else.”

Mitch glanced down at the barely visible black tendrils curling around his shirt. It appeared to be a simple black t-shirt to the untrained eye, and unease filled Mitch as he wondered if other’s noticed.

How do I take this thing off? Can I take it off?

It seemed dormant, but he could feel its weight in his mind, waiting to be fed. “Can’t be a barback forever, Hathgar. Getting nowhere cleaning tables and running errands for Robin. Plus, this Shadowshroud, it’s not a big deal,” he replied, attempting confidence.

“Aye, that’s what they all say,” Hathgar muttered, shaking his head and bushy beard as he took a deep swig from his oversized wooden tankard. He looked Mitch over, his gaze sharp. “Ye should be right careful, Mitch. Powers like that? Abyssal born ones? Bah,” Hathgar pointed with his chunky short finger at the twisting black shirt. “Bad news. Dwarves don’t go right messing with soul magic no more. Not if they got any sense. We’ve been trying to rid ourselves of it for years now. Even banned it outright in Stonehollow.”

Mitch chuckled, trying to lighten his mood. “Soul magic? You make it sound like I’ve got a full demon strapped to me.”

Hathgar didn’t laugh. “Don’t need an army to do the damage a good soul weapon can, ye’ know that. Ye’ve heard the stories. It’s no weapon, but it sure is soul magic.” Another deep swig from the tankard, Hathgar poured himself another cup out of the keg on the table, and then one for Mitch. He took a deep drink, savoring the cold, sour ale.

The dwarf continued as Mitch consumed his cup in deep gulps. “Dwarves like me, we’re done with that nasty business.” Hathgar downed his glass, wiping his bushy red beard with the back of his hand. “I’m leaving Shadowreach. Too much Abyss and soul magic here for my liking. Almost more’n there was back when the Masked Lord tried topplin’ the Abyss. Ain’t bloody possible to beat the Abyss. How ye're supposed to kill hell itself?”

Mitch straightened, surprise flickering across his face.

Masked Lord? Toppling the Abyss? What happened to the Masked Lord?

“You’re leaving?” Mitch asked Hathgar sadly. His one friend in the city. Someone his body told him he could trust, was going. It still stung brutally. In the short while he had known the dwarf, he could see why his body considered him a true friend.

“Aye. Stonehollow’s calling me back. Have been for a while now,” Hathgar leaned in, his voice a low slurring rumble over the clatter of the tavern. “Locking it back down soon. Hasn’t been done since that damned Masked Lord lost a hundred years ago or so. Foul mess, that.”

Mitch’s heart hammered from Hathgar’s words. This was new information, and an opportunity to understand the world around him. Hathgar’s slurred words let him know his friend was already drunk. Mitch felt momentarily bad about tricking his friend, but pushed forward.

I’m sorry, Hathgar. I need to wear the mask for now.

“The Masked Lord hit Stonehollow? I didn’t know that,” Mitch asked, feigning knowledge and leaning forward to match Hathgar’s energy. Reaching, he scooped up his own wooden tankard next to their shared small keg, and poured himself another cup of ale. The amber liquor was crisp, sour, and satisfying in his empty stomach.

Hathgar looked incredulously back at Mitch, waving his hand emphatically. “Hit Stonehollow? No boy, I swear you city folk know nothing,” the dwarf took a deep gulp, finishing his own drink, refilling it before continuing.

“The Masked Lord came to our rescue. People get the damned story wrong all the time, that’s how far the Abyss has infected it all,” another deep swallow, Hathgar’s body growing more animated and his face flushed from his drunkenness.

“Side by side, he and my father and all my clan fought back the damned horde from the Abyss,” Hathar pounded his fist onto his chest, spilling ale onto the table. “Killed so many cursed Abyssal Spawn, it raised my family to a real force in Stonehollow,” a proud glint filled Hathgar’s eyes as he spoke about his father.

Mitch felt the worm of envy begin to crawl in him at the pride his friend displayed about his parent. The deep swallow of ale helped, but not by much.

“Led the dwarves to fight them back and helped seal Stonehollow tight, can ye’ believe that? Helped dwarves seal up the stone at the base of Stonehollow? Dwarves needing help with stone?” Hathgar laughed at the idea as he finished another cup. The dwarf snatched Mitch’s empty tankard, and filled it up first, handing it back before attending to his own.

This drunk, and he’s filling my cup before his. While I’m sitting here lying to his face about who I am.

Mitch felt terrible about what he was doing. He tried to do right by people. Yet here he was, pulling information out of someone who trusted him.

“Then why do you need to go back? If Stonehollow is secure…what’s going on?” Mitch pried, drinking his fill of the ale. Thankfully, the dwarves around them were engrossed in their own drinks and stories, and didn’t seem to be listening.

“Aye, well that’s the thing, ain’t it?” Hathgar swayed in his chair and pointed at Mitch. “Powerful as he was, the Masked Lord and his army lost. Killed by the Abyss in the end,” the dwarf sucked his teeth. “He destroyed a lot of ‘em, that’s for sure. But not all of ‘em. It’s still here, ain’t it? You see it everywhere. Look at your damned shirt.”

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Mitch’s mind whirled. The Masked Lord had tried to eradicate the Abyss. Hell itself, that broke through earth and cast its minions forth. It seemed an impossible task, but the memories that floated to him at Hathgar’s story seemed to confirm it. What Hathgar told him was true.

Why am I in debt to the Abyss then? What does this body have to do with it?

“If he lost, then why aren’t the Abyss and its monsters here? Above ground and everywhere?” Mitch asked, his knuckles white from the vice grip around the empty tankard. He hadn’t even remembered downing the cup.

Good ale.

The Abyss had called him, or had it? When it probed him to stomp the Grimmer’s head in, when he had been fighting Layra and wanted to kill her. He was tied to it, by his debt, and clearly by his power.

Twisted claws from below hooked into his very being.

Was that the Abyss? Or was that me? Am I turning into a monster just because I’m powerful now?

“Just because ye’ cut out an infection, doesn’t mean it’s gone, does it? Not if ye’ don’t get the root.” Hathgar mused, nodding at Mitch. “Aye, it was many a good year when the Abyss wasn’t reaching. Now? Look around, man.” The dwarf paused, staring into his drink. “Things have only gotten worse since he lost. Abyss stretching too far, again. Bad days are comin’, I reckon.”

Mitch absorbed the weight of Hathgar’s words. Anger rose within him from the situation he had been forced into. For his friend leaving him. Anger that felt a part of him, but much deeper and more brutal than he was accustomed to. This was his body’s doing. He pushed it into his Devoid box, feeling the building wrath subside. “So…you’re heading back out of fear? For a hole to hide in? Back to your family?”

Hathgar snorted. “Hide? No. To live. Stonehollow’s different than those other dwarven holdouts. She ain’t underground. Carved out of a damned iron filled mountain. It’s one of the last damn places where we live without worryin’ what’s going to creep in from the dark,” his eyes glinted as he thought of his home. “Gorgeous place, warm too. Even though it’s all stone and steel, we always made sure to keep it warm,” the dwarf looked up at Mitch and smiled pridefully.

“Wish ye would visit, lad. Couldn’t wear that blasted thing, but, I think ye’d like it just fine. Beautiful plump ladies, cold ale, steel, and meat. That’s what I want. That’s what I need.”

Mitch was taken aback. Hathgar had completely missed Mitch’s anger, focussed only on the comfort of a safe home and simple pleasures. Envy rose again, and Mitch forced as much of the dark emotion into Devoid as he could.

He doesn’t mean anything bad by it. He just can’t live surrounded by hell. Still invited me to his home.

As far as his half memories of their friendship went, Hathgar hadn’t invited him to Stonehollow once. He poured himself another beer from the keg, the liquor’s warmth spreading throughout him. Regardless of his emotions, Mitch knew he needed to be better than a petulant child. If that’s what his friend wanted, then he should be all the more happy for him.

“Thought dwarves don’t let in outsiders?” Mitch asked, trying to keep his voice curious and not bitter.

“Aye, no outsiders,” Hathgar said, a grin breaking his red face under his wild, fiery beard. “Me n’ you though? You ain’t no outsider, Mitch. We both know at this point we’re brothers.” The dwarf's heavy hand clapped Mitch’s scar covered shoulder.

Instantly Hathgar’s face changed, friendliness switching to disgust as he yanked his hand back from the Shadowshroud that he wore.

Mitch was forced to watch as his friend spit on his hand and wipe it on the floor to cleanse himself. It made him feel filthy. If his friend didn’t want to touch Abyssal objects, what would others think?

Did I make the wrong choice?

“Don’t think nothing of it. Just don’t like to touch nothing Abyssal born. Bad luck, me ‘ma says,” Hathgar sucked his teeth, before he leaned back, measuring Mitch with a stare. “I got something for ye’. If yer going to be working with Crae’s, ye’ should have it. Supposed to sell or get rid of the bloody thing, anyways. Whole no soul magic thing, and all that.”

Hathgar leaned down, swaying but keeping his balance, and pulled a battered case from under the table. The wood was scuffed and ancient, but the expertly crafted hinges gleamed. Hathgar hefted it onto their table, and pushed it towards him. Mitch felt the power humming within. His Shadowshroud, and the Souls within him pulled towards the case.

“One of the last ones, that.” Hathgar said as Mitch opened the case. The hinges didn’t creak at all. Obviously dwarven crafted, Mitch’s memories told him.

He opened the case, staring at the dark metal sword within. A brutal weapon, two handed, heavy and serrated. It pulsed faintly in the light. The Souls within him stirred, reaching for it on their own.

“One of the last Soul Weapons my clan had,” Hathgar’s eyes softened. “Take it. A gift, if ye’d call it that. Can’t have a friend without proper dwarven steel. I also can’t keep the damned thing.” The sword called out to Mitch, its intricate black metal humming faintly.

“But knew what yer holdin’. That sword’s seen more death than I care to think on. And it ain’t just metal–it’s built for a soul. One of the last from the Masked Lord’s rebellion. When he fell, well, this here was one of the few things we recovered from his army.”

Mitch gripped the hilt, feeling its cold weight. The sword felt empty. A hollow vessel waiting to be filled. As if on cue, the Souls within him stirred, sensing the vacancy and jostling for a chance to latch themselves into the metal. Mitch could feel them stretching, clamoring to occupy the large blade.

But Mitch held them back, flaring his Abyssal Vault and tightening his grip. Something in him recoiled at the thought of letting just a regular Soul into the weapon, even though it felt like the sword was meant for this. For now, he kept it as it was. A silent, heavy presence by his side.

“Thank you, Hathgar.” Mitch gave him a small smile, but his mind was already elsewhere. Mitch knew he shouldn’t be thinking of power right now, but he couldn’t help himself.

Like everyone always does, Mitch found himself thinking about his own standing. No one escaped it–the constant calculation of how to turn every tool, every drop of power, to their own advantage.

Are there Souls that are more powerful than others?...

“Be careful with it,” Hathgar warned. “And remember, soul magic’s a path ye can’t take back. Once ye start, there’s no going back. If yer goin’ to the Abyss with Crae’s Agency, be ready. Yer a good lad. Don’t let this city make ye’ forget that.”

I had to do Soul Magic. I didn’t have any choice.

Ice ran through Mitch’s veins as he nodded. “I won’t,” he replied, more to himself than to his friend. “It’s…a lot, you know? Being here, doing this. I can’t turn back now. There’s something calling me forward, even if I don’t fully understand it.”

Again, he tightened his grip on the soul sword, as if he could draw strength from an empty vessel. “I don’t know what this place is turning me into, but I’ll make sure I stay true. I’ll do what needs doing, Hathgar, but I won’t forget who I am. Or what you’ve done for me.”

They sat in silence. The weight of Hathgar’s words and story was heavy between them. Mitch forced a grin, raising his drink. “Enough of the heavy talk,” he said, clinking his cup against Hathgar’s. “One more drink, like the old days.” The words felt hollow to Mitch as he said them. Memories that weren’t his making him crave their old camaraderie.

Hathgar chuckled, the sound rough and deep. “Aye, yer right. One more round, then I’m off.”

Mitch listened to Hathgar’s stories of famous dwarves, busty ladies, and battles won. Their conversation eased back into the familiar banter of old times.

I need memories of my own.

But he could sense Hathgar’s restlessness, a subtle impatience as he cast a glance around the bar. With the keg almost dry, Hathgar leaned back and sighed. “Aye, lad, it’s time. Stonehollow calls, and I can’t keep her waiting any longer.”

Mitch nodded, gripping the soul sword at his side. “Take care of yourself, Hathgar.”

Hathgar went to clap him on the shoulder, but stopped himself to avoid touching the Shadowshroud. Instead, he gave Mitch a wry grin. “This one’s on you, lad.” With that, he stood, gave Mitch a final nod, and tramped out of the door.

Mitch watched Hathgar go, an empty feeling settling in his chest, regardless of the souls that mingled within him. Even though Mitch was new to this world, his body, bound to distant memories, recognized Hathgar as a shining light in the darkness of Shadowreach. He hadn’t known Hathgar long, but he already knew he’d miss him. There was a simple truth in the dwarf’s presence, something solid in a world that felt anything but.

The notification from his debt slapped him right back to his reality.

Credits

Debts: -1,000,666* -> -1,001,332*

Assets: 127 Credits, 0 Souls*, 0 Flesh*Interest: -666/day

Cashflow: 100/day (Barback Salary)

Guess it’s tomorrow. Really? I only had like twelve hours of the first day.

After transferring credits to the grouchy dwarf behind the bar, Mitch glanced back toward the spot where the half-orc had been sitting, hunched over his notebook. But the man was gone. Just an empty seat, the red ring no longer glinting in the dim light. Mitch frowned. Something about the man had rubbed him the wrong way, and now the Souls within him bristled, their hackles raised, as if sensing a predator.

Weird. Hmm…

He turned and stepped into the chill of the Dwarven District. The weight of the empty blade at his side felt right, comfortable even. There was something about its hollow presence that clicked with him, like it was meant to be that way for now.

He glanced over his shoulder once more, the unease lingering.

Hope Hathgar makes it home alright.

In the quiet night, Mitch kept his own company, the souls and the silent sword beside him.