Marius
"Now, I know what you’re thinking," he said as the carriage jostled against another pebble on the road. "How in the name of Holy Amarata did this handsome piece of sass n’ ass end up here, bound in unflattering lengths of rusted chain (and not the kinky kind)?"
The rest of the carriage members did not spare a look at the chittering man. To them, he was naught more than the flies that were busy attempting coitus under their eyelids.
"It’s not a story just anyone hears, you know," the man continued, unperturbed by the silence of his crowd. "Nor a story to regale one’s mother with. The details, I assure you, are quite raunchy in nature. They involve foreplay with Fire-Lizards, trysts with Tigrans, affairs with Archangels, and even the odd adult slumber-party with Succubi. Oh, and that was a bad one, let me tell you."
The rain punctuated the continuous drone of the man’s story that never did truly begin, whilst the men around him focused on counting the links between the chains that bound their hands and feet. Some asked their neighbor to scratch their back or beat an insect from their brow. Most, however, said nothing at all. They watched the ruins of the world roll by them.
They knew where it was that they were bound.
The rain battered the increasingly dead ground that stretched out before the prisoners’ cart, till suddenly the weather turned to snowfall. At various points the cart began to stop, and the men said goodbye to their condemned brethren with silent nods. Some were simply left out in the freezing tundra with no more than a piece of plywood and a spit in the face. Others had been thrown into ditches, naked, and left for the wolves.
But they were the small fry. The petty, small criminals of the world with small minds and ambitions. Now, only one cart was left: seven men in total. These dead souls hung their heads as the realization slowly came over them.
For them, death from the elements would have been a blessing.
If the chattering, well-groomed man at the top of the cart could read this atmosphere, he showed no signs of such awareness. His story continued, unending and cyclical:
"So, that’s what happens when you steal a Tigran priestess of Yevua’s panties: you end up realizing that down there, after all, they’re just like us: red and hairy. Now I’m not saying I’d ever go toe to toe with a priestess, but what I am saying is – it’s better than lying there in bed wondering about stuff you’ll never know. Like, there’s men out there like you and me that’ll have these thoughts but never act. They just talk, talk, and talk. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. Know what I mean, big guy?"
The man had begun prodding at one particularly large and disheveled prisoner next to him. None of the other lucky travelers dared look upon him in this moment, for as the giant behemoth of teeth, flaring nostrils, and scarred eyes turned to meet the speaker’s gaze, the air itself became charged with fury. And it was only then that the speaker noticed the odd black scars that ran down the big guy’s eyes like little rivers.
"What’s with the tats, big guy?"
The beast of a man said nothing, but fixed the speaker with the very eyes he was so curious about.
"Not much of a talker, eh?"
As the one dubbed ‘big guy’ contemplated bashing the skull of the little man who mocked him, an image more terrifying than even he slowly materialized out of the blanket of snow and sleet:
The Gate of the Everloft.
The flea-bitten inmates looked upon the Gate as one looks upon the ever-creeping certainty of death. They were headed right for it.
"'Built between the spires of two opposing mountains,'" the talking man sang. "'Locked with chains bound up by Holy Amarata’s Titans. Its surface encrusted with obsidian from another planet, shining with the stars of a billion worlds up there past our sky. Rising above the clouds to challenge the Gods that built it – the Gate of the Everloft stands resolute. Immutable. Sovereign of its charge. Men come and go on the surface of Averix, but the Gate abides.'"
They all looked upon the might of the uncaring Gate in awe, for they had all heard the story, but had never imagined the real thing would stand so tall – taller even than their parents could have conceived as they told them of the evils that lay within. It stood taller than the rumors their friends told as they played knight on the streets of their flea-ridden townships. It was taller than any puny achievements they had ever accomplished in their futile mortal lives.
As the priest in the front of the carriage intoned a silent prayer, the great chains loosened, pulled by forces unseen. Then, expelling decades of gathered sleet, the doors opened to them, and their carriage passed beneath the gaze of the great monument. It dwarfed their entire existence ten times over.
"I’m not a God-fearing guy, as surprising as that sounds," the chattering man continued. "But even I’ll admit that’s a fancy looking door."
"Do you ever shut the FUCK UP?"
Finally, having had his suspicions confirmed, one man in the assembled rank of penned-in battery hens decided to speak.
"Gracious," the chittering one giggled. "What? Afraid of what lies below?"
"I’d be a bloody fool if I weren’t!" the other man spat as he scanned the icy ridges that rose tall above them, encasing them on all sides, blanketing out the sky itself.
"I hear those who die in the first layer have the best chance of comin’ back," another said. "That the ‘Loft takes pity cause you never made it far. You come back as a ghost, like. It’s something, right? It’s something."
"Oh sure," the prattling man retorted. "And then what happens? You float up to hug Amarata’s big bouncing titties? If you’re going to spin a bullshit story, at least make it a good one. Ain’t that right, Big Guy?"
The carriage rolled to a stop and the back bar was thrown aside by a steel encased soldier bearing the flame-drenched broadsword of Amarata on his breastplate. Full plate, with a sword that could cut through all the assembled piles of flesh and rags before him like carving through butter. He smiled a toothy smile as he barked ‘Last stop!’ at them.
Before the Big Guy left, he rose to his full height and looked down at the prattling storyteller with barely contained rage.
"I’m gonna cut you open from head to dick and piss in your dead skull."
He marched off with the rest of the prisoners, leaving the storyteller to amble after them after liberally cracking his back.
"Eloquent," he chuckled.
He joined his fellow brothers in chains off the cart, and felt the brash gauntlet of the guard strike him across his back, keeping him moving as the identified runt of the herd. Truly, how these braindead servants of the Goddess thought with their swords and their dicks must bring great favor from their precious Lady, he thought. And thinking such thoughts, smiling to himself as he often did, he observed that a line was being formed on the precipice of something that swelled in the center of the snowy glacier – a living, gyrating circle of shadow.
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From within its gaping maw onyx tendrils swayed in the air with an unreal life of their own. Shadowed faces contorted in screams lined those twitching, reaching tendrils, snaking their way towards the prisoners but not venturing beyond the invisible barrier that surrounded the circle.
It was, as the stories said, a great pit set in the earth, emanating a strange warmth incongruous with the setting – he reasoned probably 200 meters wide. How deep? That was anyone’s guess. Ten Layers didn’t exactly tell him much. For his mind, such non-specific statements were a child’s answer to an unknowable question.
He was fascinated by it, truthfully. The great unknowable abyss that the people dubbed The Everloft. His eyes would have lingered on it longer if his ears weren’t being poisoned by the prattling of the priest who had begun their final sermon.
"As we commend your souls to The Everloft, we send you with the blessings of our Lady and her Saints. As spoken in the text of The Star-Filled Path, blessed are those who repent in the name of Amarata, and offer themselves body and soul to Her glory. Even in death, one’s spirit shall soar above the spires of the Abyss."
He smirked. Even the guard looked like he was about to piss himself, holding in laughter.
"But should your feet waver on the path," the priest continued. "And your eyes cannot look upon the freedom promised to you, then may you burn in the depths of Averix’s great blackened throat. Step forward, Malcolm of Ridgewater Bay!"
A frail lad who’s shuddering eyes betrayed his fear did as he was commanded. He was given his last rites, anointed with some bullshit balm, and then finally pushed over the edge. A tendril gripped and took him down as though on command, and his scream of terror sang through the air for perhaps three seconds before he vanished. He had been claimed, just as they all would be.
Only one of them tried running and was promptly cut down. His shackles did nothing to help him. He wailed something about being forsaken, about simply wishing to die here and now rather than suffer the perils of the hell he was being cast into.
His blood glistened along the length of the guard’s sword as the latter sheathed his blade. It contrasted sharply with the pure white of the snow. The prisoner’s upturned eyes still shook in their sockets.
Presently it looked like the Big Guy with the funny crying-eye tats was stepping forward. Apparently, his real name was Jory.
"Do you have any final words, son?"
He did nothing but look at the man who had told stories for three-fourths of the journey here and smiled.
"See you down there."
He didn’t even need to be thrown inside - he jumped all on his own. And as his shackles broke in the strength of the purple, alien tendril that dragged him down, there was a snarling grin smeared across his face.
"Step forward, Marius of Corbeck!"
Marius sighed. He’d preferred being known as ‘the handsome one’ or ‘the talker’.
Still, he did as he was bid, and heard the whole damn sermon again. When asked if he had any final words, he simply yawned, and asked if he could do a flip on the way down.
The priest and guardsman looked at each other with unhidden glee.
"How the mighty have fallen," the priest said, stepping forward now that he was the only charge left. "How does it feel to be a disappointment to your family, your comrades, and yourself?"
"Meh," Marius replied nonchalantly. "Honestly? Kinda feels like a mixture of diarrhea and indigestion."
What happened next shocked the guard who was already getting ready to leave: the priest reeled back, gulped, and spat in Marius’ dirt-caked face.
Marius smiled back at him, making no move to wipe the spittle drooling down his nose. Just smile, he said to himself. Always smile.
He felt the guard’s hands grip his and push him forward. And finally, Marius of Corbeck looked right into the black throat full of all the nightmares he’d ever had.
He heard the priest give a snort of indignation.
"Cast him in."
Then a feeling of total weightlessness came over him – replaced almost instantly by the touch of one translucent tentacle that gripped him with its spectral strength and dragged him down into the dark.
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- Layer 1-
His eyes opened, and so much more.
Something in his breast beat with far more intensity than his heart. Then he started to listen closer, slowly raising himself up and slipping on the dark sand of the ground. No, it wasn’t his heart at all. It was something that had once been inside him, chained and vacant, yet always there in secret. Waiting for its moment. Now, he felt the cold, dead fingers of the Everloft reach down and claw it out of his chest. It was beating all around him. He could see the sands shifting under his feet as each grain danced to the tune.
Then, something clicked in his mind. A chamber of his brain burst open with a searing, burning light. And he opened his eyes to see a burning column of letters blaze into life before him:
Base Attributes Rating /50 Resilience 6 Reflexes 10 Strength 5 Channeling NULL Speed 15 Charisma 14
He looked at the stark black font of each letter and number and committed them to memory instantly. These were markers that meant something. Looking at the data, framed by the swirling purple miasma in the unnatural sky of this desert plane, he knew they were vital to him, and wracked his mind to understand.
Speed was a given – he had always been quick on his feet. Avoiding his mother and father’s beatings and the threat of the local baker in the marketplace had seen to that. He nodded in approval at the above average rating.
Strength? Ok. It had never been his forte.
Resilience, on the other hand? No no – this was a problem.
‘Everloft!’ he yelled, throwing his arms wide. ‘This hardly seems fair. I come to you dressed in rags, good humored, backflipping down your throat with grace, having been dragged through the proverbial shit of the surface world, and you tell me I’m not resilient enough for you?’
He felt something else etch into his mind, the spectral claw raking scars into the wet flesh of his brain:
Profession: Thief
LVL 1
EXP: 0/100
Sub Class: NULL
Base Skill adjustments
Stealth I/V Tumblersmithy I/V Short Blades I/VII Archery I/VII Persuasion I/VII Appraisal I/VII
More shit to deal with, Marius thought. For one thing, he never did like the term ‘Thief’. He greatly preferred ‘Lovable Rogue’ or ‘Opportunist’. This Everloft was as brash as it was huge.
He looked down to inspect the rags that hung loose to his thin frame and gave a disapproving sniff.
"Well," he said to no one. "If I’m going to die in this place, I’d rather leave a beautiful corpse behind. What’ve we got by way of attire round here?"
Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but desert dunes and shifting sands. An ethereal wind blew through the dead air.
Yet though he could perceive nothing, he knew there was more out there. He knew by instinct that there was something nearby.
He chose a direction and started walking. And as he traversed the sands, he saw something glow in the distance – stark white and illuminated against the dark sky.
The unnatural glow sent shivers down his spine. Yet, his eyes saw further than they ever would have in life.
Discovered new location: Cave Dwelling
Denizens: ???
He felt a sense that he had just performed some kind of art – like magic – without even knowing it. All he’d done was think ‘find something to wear’ and like that he’d homed in on something out there, magnifying the structure in his vision.
As he stalked towards the mound rising out of the sands in the distance, he reasoned that this may have something to do with that ‘Appraisal’ skill. It seemed logical enough that this favored ability would help him acquire that which he sought.
Yet as he neared the open maw of the mound, he found that he was only half right.
Because he heard a tremor in the sands beneath his feet, and on instinct leapt out of the way of the spindle-like leg that shot up out of the ground. He fell into a roll, staggered, and looked with bulging eyes on the thing that rose out of its hiding spot.
His eyes took it all in as the world narrowed down into just him, the creature, and the distance between them.
A crocodilian mouth full of gnashing teeth filled his vision. It was grafted on to the body of an arachnid the size of a small dog. Its feet scurried against the sand with the practiced speed of a hunter born to this environment. He moved to the side, and it moved with him, its six amber eyes that lined its snout all focused on him and the beating human heart it knew was in his chest.
He strained his eyes as he had done before – trying to see beyond just the creature’s appearance.
Appraisal: Failed.
"Thanks!" he cried out. "Real helpful!"
The creature answered him with a wail of anger before lunging for his throat.