Mark dashed through the temple’s entrance, black sand pelting his cheeks.
He turned and faced the wall, pulling his shirt’s collar over his mouth and nose. Squinting, he then made his way deeper inside, up until he was in front of the gap in the stone wall.
However, just as he prepared to push his way through, something slammed into his back, knocking the air out of his lungs. Mark opened his mouth and eyes to scream, but immediately fell to his knees amid a torrent of violent coughs. He doubled over, the obsidian dust scraping against his tear-soaked lids as his hand shot for his side. And as it did, his fingers slid over a pair of bulges inside his tunic.
Confused and winded, Mark felt around and soon found a stitched, leather fold. He hesitated before reaching inside the hidden pocket. But as he opened his eyes a crack, he nearly screamed with joy as he saw the pair of goggles nestled in his hand.
The thick, cloth band settled perfectly into place. With Mark finally able to see, he scanned the area. The storm raged even inside the temple, lifting and slinging the dried pieces of wood all over the place. Stepping inside the gap, Mark watched as another piece crashed into the wall in front of him. Whatever he was going to do, it would have to wait.
But before he could even think of his next step, an unearthly wail ripped through the air, drowning out even the storm’s shrieking gusts.
It had come from the temple’s entrance.
Still nestled inside the gap, Mark leaned his head out, just enough for him to see a part of the archway leading in. Wave upon wave of black dust poured in, carried by the frenzied winds.
That’s when he saw it.
At a height more than twice his own, a pair of sunken, blue eyes lit up within the swirling sands. Untouched by the surrounding winds, the cloaked figure stood right in front of the temple’s entrance and peered inside. The creature’s cobalt gaze met his, and Mark could feel the warmth leaving his body, replaced by a deathly chill.
He had stared death in the face, time and time again. Overwhelming though it was, the bronze titan’s fury had been more akin to a natural disaster. Wild, unfocused. But within this being, Mark sensed a malice unlike anything he had ever felt before… A primal desire to kill and maim. Targeted solely at him and him alone. And in the corner of his eyes, the crimson letters spell out the name of his demise.
Sartorus, the Ashen King (Level 14).
From within its motionless cloak, a long and spindly arm reached out, with black, deep cracks spidering across its ashen skin. However, the hand came to a halt as a shimmering, orange light barred its way inside. A moment later, the same ungodly wail pierced Mark’s ears again.
Petrified, he simply watched as the figure stepped back, disappearing into the storm just as suddenly as it had appeared.
Soon, the howling winds subsided, giving way to the sun’s glaring light. But only after several minutes did Mark dare to step outside the gap, holding the bronze dagger close to his chest as he approached the temple’s archway.
If he hadn’t just experienced it for himself, Mark would have never believed that a sandstorm had swept over the sea of tranquil dunes, mere moments ago. He shielded his eyes and he checked again, spotting what looked to be a shrinking plume of dust, right below the horizon.
‘What the fuck was that thing?’ he asked, knowing full well his question would go unanswered.
But as his stomach suddenly growled, Mark was sure of two things. For one, he had to find a way out of this place or, at the very least, he needed some supplies. And lastly, he had to avoid that thing at all costs. Setting his goggles around his neck, he patted himself down, hoping to maybe find something else that he had missed. “Nothing,” he sighed.
Glancing at the desert outside, Mark could already feel the scorching heat radiating building up within the obsidian sand. ‘Going out right now would just be suicide,’ he decided.
Instead, he walked up to the gap in the wall and stared at it, listening for the faint but steady dripping sound echoing within its depths. This was probably his best chance of finding water. However, he first had to find a light source.
Luckily enough, the slabs of wood littering the ruins still seemed usable. Mark gathered every bit that he could find, stacking the wood next to the gap. He then scoured the pile and grabbed a thick, dried stick, along with a wider plank as he then sat down. Using his dagger, he proceeded to whittle one side of the stick into a point as his mind began to wander.
A bitter smile flashed across his lips, thinking back to the evenings spent with Tony and Gwen. Whenever he used to have the afternoon shift, they always ended up binging random shows late into the night. Oh, how they argued about what to watch… But more often than not, he and Tony caved, agreeing to watch whatever wilderness survival special had caught Gwen’s fancy.
Mark wiped his eyes as a couple of tears rolled down his face, leaving two dark spots on the plank’s parched surface. Gwen was gone, and as far as Tony was concerned, so was Mark. He sighed and set the stick aside. It didn’t take long for him to then carve a groove going down the plank’s length. And with that, his makeshift fire plow was finished.
He took a deep breath, eager to chase away the haze that had settled over his mind. Keeping the base of the plow in place, Mark leaned the stick against his shoulder as he then began to rub the sharpened tip against the groove he had just carved.
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Back and forth, faster and faster he plowed, leaving behind a darkened trail of saw dust. And as a drop of sweat strayed down his chin and onto his plow, sizzling as it touched the blackened line, Mark leaned his head away and redoubled his efforts.
When he finally saw a thin wisp of smoke rise up into the air, Mark carefully grabbed the scraps he had prepared beforehand and placed them on the plank. His arms ached and screamed at him as he laid himself low, doing his best to blow on the smoldering embers.
Uncertainty began to creep its way into Mark’s gaze with every passing second. He kept blowing, despite his burning lungs. Until the smoke went out.
“No, no, no, no… NO!”
Mark’s tired eyes fell upon the stick’s charred tip as he sighed and got to work again. The plow soon smoked once more. He kept going up until the point where he could no longer keep his eyes open due to the rising smoke.
And this time, the moment Mark’s breath landed on the shredded kindling, a small flame came alive.
Relief crashed down on him as the fire grew stronger with each and every twig. He heaved himself up, unable to remember the last time he had ever been so tired. One makeshift torch later, he stepped in front of the wall and squeezed his way inside the gap. Inching sideways, he tightened his grip on the torch, holding it down so as to not hit anything. Eventually, the gap widened enough for him to walk inside.
Within the cavern, the torch’s flickering light fell upon two desiccated corpses, huddled next to one another in front of a spent campfire. But instead of just two sets of gear, Mark saw three. Stranger still, he noticed that their tunics had the exact same embroidery as his: two trunks spiraling together to form the crown of a single, dense tree.
Recalling the dried aberration, Mark kept his distance. He glanced around the cavern, spotting little else except for the single most marvelous thing he had seen all day… a gentle stream of water, flowing down a craggy wall.
Mark stumbled forward, almost dropping the torch as he pressed his other hand against the porous stone. As he sat there, relishing every drop that graced his tongue, he suddenly heard a long, drawn-out hiss.
He spun around, his hand instantly going for his dagger, as he saw a stone-scaled lizard inching towards him. Larger than a dog, with a tail twice as long as the rest of its body, the creature slowly swayed its eerily small head from side to side. Underneath the flickering light, the creature’s interlocking rows of spiky, stone scales seemed to shimmer with every move.
Mark stepped back, glancing at the text floating just at the edge of his view.
Aether-touched Lashback (Level 3).
The Lashback hissed, training its white eyes on him. It then stopped to whip its tail across its back, pointing the two spikes at the end of it towards him. Mark shuddered, the two curved needles reminding him of a scorpion’s stinger.
However, no sooner had he taken a step back, that the lizard lashed its tail at Mark’s feet, missing him by hair’s breadth. Heart racing, he pointed his torch towards the Lashback and swung, trying to scare it off. But this only made it lunge forward as it snapped its tail at Mark’s hand, drawing blood.
Dropping the torch, he groaned as his hand began to spasm.
“Shit…” he hissed through clenched teeth. The Lashback had barely scratched him, but whatever toxin laced its stinger had already managed to cripple his left arm. His eyes darted towards the narrow gap, in search of a way out. But that wasn’t an option. Unless he planned on practically giftwrapping himself for the spiked monstrosity.
Pressing his trembling hand to his chest, Mark stepped back. The remnants of the old campfire crumpled underneath his feet as he stopped in front of the two corpses. In turn, the Lashback slinked forward, positioning itself at the very center of the cavern. It whipped its tail from side to side, before striking the ground in front of Mark.
As if mocking him, the overgrown lizard narrowed its beady, little eyes, letting out a stuttered hiss. Far beyond the creeping numbness in his hand, Mark’s senses seemed to dull as he stared at the Lashback, transfixed.
His pulse had begun to soar.
In life, Mark had always bowed his head. He was always mindful. Always careful. Always struggling not to anger or offend anyone. Not even those that looked down at him with contempt. And especially not those that could make his life a living hell.
But right now, what was the point of that? For this to be his fate in death, and even beyond. Why did he end up here in this godforsaken desert? Just for a fucking lizard to do him in? A damn lizard of all things?!
In the culmination of a lifetime of anger, regrets, and the agony of a thousand deaths, Mark ROARED!
He felt his blood begin to boil as his veins lit up like molten metal. Charging the startled Lashback, he dodged its tail and reached out to grab it, but the stone-scaled lizard had managed to avoid his grasp. And although the Lashback hissed and whipped its tail against its back, it still retreated several steps. Fear flashed within its pale eyes.
Mark, on the other hand, couldn’t recall ever being this… calm. So in control. He clenched his left fist, sensation returning to his arm as Aernor’s blood surged within him. He finally understood the allure, the desire to just surrender yourself to the all-consuming rage.
But he refused to bow his head again, even to this power.
Still cautious, the Lashback hesitated before deciding to whip its tail at Mark’s chest. He stepped aside, letting the spiked appendage zip past him as he failed to grab it once again. The lizard was a bit faster. But compared to the rampaging titan, it might as well be standing still.
Seeing this, the Lashback's beady eyes searched frantically for a way out, landing on the gap to the side of the cavern. Its frame coiled as it prepared to run. However, it stopped dead in its tracks and pulled its head back the moment Mark’s dagger flew before its face, striking the cavern’s wall. But Mark had never planned on hitting it from a distance.
He had instead rushed in at the same time.
In position, with his leg cocked back, he kicked the Lashback’s head in, power thrumming through his body as the sound of cracking bones filled the cavern, followed by a single thud.
Sporadic convulsions still gripped the beast as Mark stabbed his bronze blade into its skull. Along with the relentless rage, the lines of molten metal faded from his skin. He then picked up the half-burnt torch, turning to take another look around the cavern.
Apart from the gap leading into the temple, he spotted one more tunnel, far too small for him to squeeze through, but just right for the Lashback. Not too keen on an early rematch, Mark steadied himself against the wall as he rolled a nearby boulder into the tunnel’s entrance.
“Right,” he sighed.
Checking his left hand, he saw that the scratch had already vanished, leaving behind a reddish scar as if the wound had cauterized itself. Did Aernor’s blessing also grant him some sort of regeneration? Or had his physiology changed somehow?
But before he could dwell too long on that, Mark noticed the swirling rows of crimson letters in the corner of his vision. And one of them was not like the others.
Mark Chambers
Level 1 (Human)
Select Level-up Reward:
* (+1) to AGL.
* (+1) to CON.
* (+1) to MAG.
* (+1) to STR.
* (+0.5) to ALL.