22 of Voidor

Year of 1273 of the Sixteenth Cycle

The Lightless Dregs, Edgehaven

“Despite their often-touted (and often well deserved) nature of being bloodthirsty warmongers, Skorodae societies (at least, some of them) are very open to traders. The misconception comes from a lack of understanding; namely, that unlike many other of the races they do not have a central body. Each Skorodaen Warlord has their own territory, their own rules — and their own set of morals. As it so happens, so too do they have their own tactics and military gear, requiring different components and materials. Traders such seek to sell these commodities; Steel, foodstuffs, and… pets. Yes, you read that right, dear reader — the many Skorodae make it a habit to collect beasts small or large. It is no doubt, then, that they often consort with the Hrakka.”

— A Guide to Commerce Between Races; p. 208

To say that the dregs of the City on the Edge of the World is a pathetic sight is to severely underestimate. My feet had taken me down of their own volition, away from the pristine and calm of the Highroads and into the very depths of Edgehaven. I walk now through something I hesitate to describe as a street. Some approximation of houses are carved into the side of the stone foundations, like the dens of little beasts, covered mostly by thin cloth.

Pieces of white stone litter the ground, chunks fallen from the true city above. There is a light covering of either mud or shit with rivers of stale piss across the walkway, and men and women of all sorts stare at me as I traverse this foul land. Truly, it is like an entirely different world. This is not the way a human should live. A man puts his hands out towards me, cupped for coin. A gaunt women is behind him, holding a ragged child that suckles from a dry breast.

I catch his eye for the briefest of seconds and he lets out a coarse plea for anything. When I attempt to walk past, he falls in front of me, writhing in the foul that covers every inch of the dregs. He debases himself with such ease that my hands clench in anger.

“Sir, please sir, don’t get yer boots dirty. Step over me… all fer a coin!” He says, but his eyes look behind me. I turn to look, and he lunges forward, grabbing my legs and wrapping his arms around them, and someone grabs me from behind. They place dirty hands all over my gambeson, eking out pockets in moments only to find none.

I Conjure a bright sword, swinging it over my head to ward them off, then bringing it down onto the man’s arm, cutting through the thin layer of skin and through even thinner layers of muscle. The man cries out in pain and rolls through the grime. I turn around, seeing the two men fleeing for their lives.

I take off, my anger burning as bright as my sword. They start to split into two directions, so I aim a hasty Strike at one, letting a small fraction of Light cut into him from behind. Poorly aimed as it was, it cut through the covering on his buttocks and dug deep into the muscle there.

He falls over onto the ground and I charge for the other. The attempted thief jumps up, reaching the top of a small stone divider that had seemingly dropped from above at least a few years past. It cuts the street in half, and is as tall as two men, but he jumps it, his foot just barely landing on top.

I follow, jumping up myself, keeping with his pace. He leaps from the divider and aims for a side street. I curse this rotten place, jumping further up and Conjuring a deep spike that is sturdy enough to hold my weight, then drive it into the stone, Enhancing my muscles to ensure it digs deep enough so that I can swing off and keep my momentum going.

I fall down on him like an eagle hunting a rabbit, Conjuring a small dagger as I do. It sinks into his back with ease, my entire body plunging it in. I hear his shoulder-blade snap as it goes deeper, and he falls onto the floor, his body taking my full weight onto his neck.

There is a note of finality in the crunch of his neck bone. I let my dagger dissipate — the spike too. I watch his breathless moans as he dies. In the course of two hours, I have killed twice. Something catches my eye.

On another nearby chunk of stone, one that has seemingly been hollowed out into a makeshift tent for multiple people, a boy is standing there, dripping spots of blood onto the white stone. He looks at me with eyes full of absolute hatred. I look at him, and then look down, giving a small kick to his friend. “He’s still alive.” I shout. “Come and save him, if you can.”

The boy does not move. He can’t be much more than fifteen or so. I stand firm, my eyes locked on him, but my ears on a swivel, alert for another trick. None come. He simply stares at me as his friend, or perhaps brother, dies. I have no sympathy for him.

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He should have left this place as soon as he could walk — and he certainly should not have attacked a noble. His friend takes a last gasp for air before his eyes fade and he dies writhing in shit. The boy simply stares as I leave the corpse behind and return to my mission.

Something gnaws at me in the back on my mind. His eyes… were mine like that? When I found my Father had died?

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I am not sure how I have arrived here. I had simply walked, and my feet had found the way despite the unfamiliar sights of the city. They, not me, had walked unerringly through the Highroads, then had descended down to the dregs. I had not fought the other challenges. I did not have the strength. How is it that Father had managed, all these years? I cannot fathom it, but it is apparent to me that I will never succeed him. Especially now.

Old secrets. Old power.

That is what the Daraas boy had said. The large stone structure looms before me. It is a unnatural box, with only one entry. I felt a feeling, some time ago. Something telling me, like a friendly pat on the shoulder, to keep away. There is nobody around.

Not a beggar, not a thief. No hooded figures — and no assassins or soldiers of House Daraas. I had expected them to come. Expected them to try and stop me. Are they that cowardly… or is it something else?

Despite the constant white of the stone foundations around me, the Tomb lies like a void of colour. It is a strange black, like the pitch on the walls of Ravenwatch, but even darker. It seems to warp the light around it, and my eyes seem to blur when I look at it only for me to blink and see it clearly. It is as though every sense tries to ignore it.

I take a sweet moment to myself, my whispers carrying a simple sentence — one that has carried with it the feeling I felt on the day I said it. “Strength is Forged Anew.”

Not our House words, but this had always had more meaning to me. It is the words spoken to the Koltor and the Tressa at the Summit of Cennaros — where they agreed to connect their ailing nations into one unstoppable alliance with the Sorcerer-King.

I approach the door, an obvious but also obscure entrance — the only evidence of its existence is seams in the stone making two rectangles. Now that I am closer, I see that there are veins of a silvery-white… stuff growing in the stone, like tree branches or the vines of a Tressa vineyard. They crack and shape in small patterns along the black. There is a small dark shape on the side of the stone, only really visible because of the vines of white than surround it.

The shape is cold… metal. I Conjure a small sphere, filling it with some excess light in order to see, only to find that the black stone seems to suck it away. My sphere disintegrates like the first time I had ever tried to create it. Something calls to me, a desperate impulse to place my hand flat on the dark shape. I feel it sink into the stone as though it were moss, and I release the briefest flash of light.

It channels through the vines of silver-white stone, surrounding the metal and raging through the stone until it disappears round the corner of the tomb. Light floods from the crack in the door, but it seems to only reach a finger from the door, like some invisible force devours it should it go any further. The large stone doors open inwards, and they let out a million screams of stone.

I shove my hands over my ears as I feel my eardrum flap with the sound but it barely seems to deafen. Then, in a burst of relief, it stops and the way opens. I take tentative steps inside, my eyes wide and my ears pricked. The smell is musty, like rotten water and dead flies with a helping of dust. The feeling of unease turns to a feeling of dread that grips my heart in its cold icy hands. The door begins to close, near silently, the wind flowing back through.

If I don’t leave I’ll be trapped.

I have to leave.

I have to.

“Strength is Forged Anew, Kyallan.” Says a voice. It’s not mine. It’s my Father’s. I snap my head around, the fear dissipates for the briefest of seconds. The door seals behind me. I Conjure a sphere again, and much to my relief, the effect does not repeat. I bathe the corridor in a small wave of light. I’m in a hallway, with one way forward.

It feels as though something breathes down my neck, something evil that makes me want to run and hide in fear.

A presence that sits on my back.

I’m being watched.

I can feel it.

It puts me on edge like cat, my hackles raised as I take cautious steps forward. A sound makes me jump, only for me to realise there was nothing at all. Then something brushes over my skin and I bat at it, only to find that my blow connects with nothing. As I walk, a thousand shadows crawl away from me as my light banishes them, as though they were alive and waiting for their prey.

I feel like a deer being hunted by a bear. Every instinct screams that something is coming. That something is wrong.

Then I hear it. A roar that shakes the stone, and the sound of massive, heavy feet smashing into stone as something truly terrifying charges towards me.