The Great Exodus was a monumental event that rippled across the map and occurred mere Falls before my birth. Its magnitude was such that, even as I pen these words, the echoes of its impact are still reverberating, and the wounds of the Menschen are still trying to heal.
I know it drives a shift in the tone of my narrative in this chapter, a deviation I embrace only because it is essential for understanding the world that shaped me.
In recounting these events, my sources have been those whose paths crossed mine—some coloured by personal biases, others less so. In every tale, I've endeavoured to sift through the layers, separating fact from fiction, the embellished from the understated.
This task is always challenging, especially when these stories are interwoven with my own life's story. Such was the case with King Xendrix Kaspian. His tenure may have seemed fleeting, yet it was anything but insignificant in the grand narrative.
After all, no villain's role is ever truly minor.
Little has been documented about the evolution of Xendrix's alchemy, but there were certainly more than a handful of eyewitnesses to his inaugural use of it. It is widely accepted that the moment he resurrected a fragment of the Spider Spirit with a single drop of crimson blood marked the first instance of necromancy on the entire continent.
To any mage, regardless of race, it is basic knowledge that life force—Nehsem—should not be harnessed for casting spells, much like one would not consume spoiled meat to nourish the body.
Hence, it did not surprise me in the least to learn that this solitary act could have awakened a calamity that now threatens every corner of our world.
I secured the authoritative records of these occurrences from the esteemed halls of the Capitol Palace, provided by a confidant whose trustworthiness is beyond question. For their safety, I shall keep their identity shrouded in secrecy within the annals of my writing, as the mere thought of any harm befalling them due to my actions is unbearable. Delving into these documents, I unearthed the origin of the dire threat we face today: the Lamias. Known in Humans as the Nightmares.
In the aftermath of the resurrection of the forty-four spiders, a collective oversight occurred. It appeared no one considered the necessity of their capture, perhaps assuming they would instinctively return to their origin, the Spider Spirit. This assumption, unfortunately, proved to be a catastrophic error in judgment.
Meanwhile, as my parents made their way to the verdant lands of Faewood, a vast armada of vessels—from modest boats to big ships and sturdy cogs—commenced the task of transporting throngs of people to the bustling port of the Fisherman district of Ormgrund.
Such journeys are rarely undertaken alone; the hidden corners of these seafaring vessels often harbour uninvited guests. Typically, these stowaways are harmless creatures like mice or small reptiles. However, in this particularly ominous instance, the unseen passengers were none other than the newly resurrected spiders.
Unbeknownst to the travellers and crew, these spiders, imbued with an eerie otherworldliness, lurked in the shadows of the vessels. Their presence, silent and unseen, spelt the beginning of a series of events that would soon unfold into a tale of unforeseen consequences and chilling horror.
According to the accounts, there was but a single survivor: Abio, known as Abio, the Nameless. At the tender age of five Falls, Abio witnessed a massacre that stripped him of everything familiar.
I dedicated countless hours to studying the reports, their pages worn from my meticulous examination. In my quest for clarity, I extended an invitation to Abio to visit my office in Regulus, seeking a direct narrative from someone who lived through the ordeal. When he arrived, his eyes carried the weight of his memories, a silent testament to the horrors he had endured.
Abio recounted his voyage on the Mary-All, a ship whose name dripped with a cruel irony that was not lost on him. This irony stemmed from his father's decision to leave behind Abio's mother and sister, their absence in their lineage of blue blood, marking them as unworthy in his father's eyes. The Mary-All, thus, was not just a ship; it was a symbol of selective privilege, a vessel that catered to a certain pedigree, a floating microcosm of societal elitism.
As Abio spoke, his voice fluctuated between bitterness and resignation, painting a vivid picture of a journey that was as much about navigating the turbulent waters of familial and societal divisions as it was about crossing the physical ocean.
The voyage from Aspana to Ormgrund was charted to span the duration of a full moon cycle, a journey meant to culminate in the bustling Fisherman's district. However, what was intended to be a serene passage through the Red Sea swiftly devolved into a nightmare, the Mary-All transforming into a floating slaughter within just a few days.
Abio's recounting of that dreadful night was vivid, etched into his memory with haunting clarity. He and his father had stood together at the ship's edge, overlooking the vast expanse of the Red Sea. His father, with a navigator's precision, traced their anticipated course: departing Aspana, skirting the shores of Ostesh, passing by the rugged island of Cragua, then through the mist-shrouded waters near Sogrestein and Keblurg before their final approach to Ormgrund.
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Though the passage of time had clouded some details in Abio's recollections, the records I possessed filled in the gaps. The convoy consisted of four other ships, each with a name as evocative as their journey: Odyssea, a vessel renowned for its resilience; Red Journey, painted in hues mirroring the sea they traversed; Wander Boy, the smallest yet swiftest among them; and Salty Seek, a ship with a penchant for navigating through the most treacherous of waters.
Together, they embarked on a voyage that was destined to be remembered not for its scenic maritime views but for the unspeakable horrors that unfolded upon the waves.
Abio vividly remembers the moment, perched on the ship's railing, his small back pressed against the solid frame of his father. The man was of formidable build; his broad shoulders were a nest of strength, comfort and security. In Abio's young eyes, there wasn't a day when he didn't feel completely sheltered in his father's presence.
That feeling of safety was shattered when he noticed a tiny black spider, no bigger than his pinky finger, innocently making its way across the deck. The sight of it initially drew a childlike giggle from Abio, amused by the spider's delicate dance. Then, in an unsuspecting leap, the creature landed on his father's shoulder, scuttling across to the vulnerable skin of his neck, and abruptly, its fangs pierced in.
In that split second, their world turned from a scene of familial peace to one of unimaginable terror.
Abio's account of the ensuing chaos was harrowing. He teetered dangerously close to the edge, nearly toppling into the churning waters below. However, even marked by both pain and parental instinct, his father, amidst his own agony, managed to grab hold of Abio's shirt, pulling him back from the precipice even as he himself collapsed onto the deck.
The echoes of his father's screams, a symphony of pain and horror, and the ghastly sound of flesh being torn by desperate fingers haunted Abio's memories. His father was now writhing in anguish, his hands ferociously clawing at his own face as if trying to tear away the nightmare that had just begun.
And when he turned to look at his son, three pairs of black, soulless eyes met Abio'.
As the nightmare unfolded, bystanders, initially propelled by instinct to help, converged around the pair. However, the scene quickly degenerated into chaos. The man Abio had always looked up to, his father, now transformed into something unrecognizable, turned on a would-be helper with a ferocity that was chilling to witness.
In a blur of motion, he hurled the bystander to the deck, his teeth gnashing violently into the man's flesh. Blood sprayed in a macabre arc, painting a grotesque picture against the ship's timbers.
Each subsequent scream that pierced the night air was a haunting echo of the first, a chorus of terror that resonated through the ship. With every scream, the contagion spread, its victims morphing into assailants at an alarming rate.
Abio watched in frozen horror as the numbers grew exponentially – what started with one rapidly became four, then eight, a multiplying horde of once-men now gripped in a monstrous frenzy.
The ship had swiftly turned into a floating tomb, its deck a stage for a gruesome spectacle with the floor stained in blue, beyond the comprehension of the young Abio and, indeed, beyond the darkest fears of all who witnessed it.
In a desperate bid for escape, some passengers, overcome with terror, hurled themselves into the churning sea below. Yet, the sea offered no refuge; the same horrific fate that had befallen the ship now hunted them in the watery depths. Amidst this disarray, an unexpected salvation emerged for Abio—the merfolk.
As I commit Abio's account to paper, I feel the weight of its profound impact. Perhaps it was the harrowing sight of despair, screams and howling or the spectacle of numerous bodies desperately plunging into the sea diluted with blood, but amidst this relentless carnage, an extraordinary intervention occurred. Beings from the mysterious depths of the Red Sea surged onto the ship with a purpose.
These merfolk, brandishing spears that towered above their own statuesque forms, presented a vivid juxtaposition to the ghastly tableau around them. Their hair, in vibrant hues of blues, greens, and pinks, shone like ethereal flames against the grim backdrop of the massacre.
Abio, even in his youthful innocence, was captivated by their otherworldly beauty. Their bodies, sparsely covered, glowed ethereally under the moon's silver gaze, scales shimmering like countless tiny jewels. The merfolk were not just saviours that day; they were a mesmerizing spectacle of grace and power amidst the horror.
The merfolk moved with a grace and ferocity that seemed almost choreographed. Their spears, wielded with a precision that was both beautiful and terrifying, sliced through the air in swift, fluid arcs. Each rotation brought a quick end to the transformed passengers, their heads cleanly severed from their necks. Amidst this grim ballet, Abio witnessed a detail that seared itself into his memory: the black blood that oozed from the fallen creatures, a stark, nightmarish contrast to the typical blue.
It was a sight so surreal and horrifying that it transcended the young boy's understanding of reality.
To Abio, the merfolk's intervention seemed to stretch on indefinitely, each second an agonizing eternity. Yet, in reality, they eradicated the threat with astonishing speed, their movements a blur of efficiency and lethal grace.
Abio couldn't fathom why he was spared amidst this carnage, why he, a lone child amidst the mayhem, was left untouched by both the transformed passengers and the merfolk saviours.
When the Mary-All finally reached its destination, a shadow of the vessel that had set sail from Aspana, Abio was discovered in an unlikely haven—a barrel. He was found curled within, his body wracked by hunger and dehydration, a lone sentinel of a journey that had spiralled into the depths of horror.
He was the sole witness to a voyage that had transformed from a hopeful journey into a nightmare of unprecedented proportions. Abio was the first witness to ever survive a Nightmare ambush. And not many could brag of the same.
——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer