Time heals all wounds— eroding the pains that leak into dreams. Only waiting for another crisis to take it’s place, another challenge to overcome. Maybe even one to learn from.
Some do, few fall completely, but most choose stand before the looming wall; the unknown, their path of scars; their memories of loss, regrets, and debilitations— stopping them from going further, compelling them to shelter upon the ground they already tread.
Because ‘like’ pain is easier to deal with.
“Once folly, twice prepared.” As the people of Deseir would say.
Fools.
Crippled, ignorant, glorious fools— for their are no guarantees.
A person forgets many things through their life, even more so, a culture. As all walks of life ingrain themselves in present torments, they leave generations plagued by the rhythms of history.
Their fear played for others to reach a pinnacle of desires. Their life, so focused and intent that wisdom is forgotten. Warnings left by maytrs succeed only as a passing attraction. Scribes quill only to copy mass demands. Saving Leaders to only think of one kind of kin.
Their is nothing to be done. Time moves on, but…
For the few who challenge these ailments, their in lyes the secrets of Thame, Avatars, and the path of Seekers.
Reaching for destinies beyond the walls covering the stars. Regardless of whatever may come their way… they shall challenge it in the end.
In a new Beginning.
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Henry’s head was blazing, blitzing through lingering thoughts, groaning at the migraine.
“...Wasted effort.” He heard the gruff voice come through the pulses.
“Has your Will decayed so far that you don’t even recall you agreed knowing the chances— Riker.” A voice replied, calm, but authoritative.
“Quiet will you both, he’s waking. Lights.” Another, more feminine voice commanded.
At once, it was as if someone pulled open the curtains of his dark bedroom. The light ticked him to scrunch up his face completely, his hands over his eyes.
He groaned louder, “Turn it off!”
The voices went silent, try as he might to open his eyes, he just couldn’t. The light was a continuous flash bang, with each attempt tears came and he massaged them with his hands gently.
There was a hum from feminine voice, the light changed. From the piercing white, to a soft dusk. It became easier to blink and gain focus. Though there was something strange in all of this… his apartment didn’t have a changing light bulb.
Henry’s eyes widened. His gaze set above, and all around on a platform he lay, center to some great machine. Countless gears orbited by some strange energy, fading in and out a path he couldn’t hope to track let alone understand.
“At least he’s coherent.” He heard a calm voice.
His attention turned a little ways off, standing in front of the bulb— a crystal that gave him a visceral headache…
“We may have hope yet.” The feminine figure said.
He stared. Three dark-faded specters cast their shadow.
And Henry screamed.
“Damn. We got a coward—“ The gruff one said, before something ticked in his head.
The world went blank.
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Gregor gasped, his vision returned to familiar darkness. The stale air made him gag until he remembered what happened.
The sudden movement turned on their light; a lantern ignited, fueled by its own internalized fuel in this barren Thame space.
Once he would have wondered how the contraption worked, now he at least knew who kept it running all these years.
He saw the ritual circle, half-faded, broken, eroding the stone by the sheer amount of power coursing through it. Then… he lingered on the pile of dust. The worn clothes of a shirt, and long pants cradled most of what remained.
Even after all this time, the flood of knowledge that he desperately tried to retain. It would never overwhelm his father’s last words, or his smile. It kept him grounded, when the world felt so real, he knew the truth and pressed on.
Gregor stumbled, trying to stand, failing, floundering helplessly as he was forced to crawl to the bedrolls they set out.
He drew closer towards the light and their belongings, before he noticed an envelope, he couldn’t recall resting on his bedding.
Curiosity. Frustration. Emptiness. Sorrow… emotions warred furthering his confusion. Only for him to fall onto his father’s roll, the smell lingered, though ever so faint it warded away the years.
A smile formed, with his remaining strength he lugged himself up. Taking hold of the remaining parchments and ink in their pack he furiously wrote everything he could remember.
Until the quill stopped, failing to go further. His eyes stared to drift as he put off the papers to the side. Letting sleep claim him even in the soft light.
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The smell is what hit Faus first, sewage— shit. A familiar feeling of disgust welled up from his younger years, the fool he became, when growing old left him nothing but hope for the young ins that followed him for silly games.
He became a Seeker just so. A man past his prime took a stupid gamble. Faus remembered it clearly, starving through that first Rift. Only just passing by his uncut finger nail, Scarkir was there as his proof.
His first Avatar.
The one who gave him insights into Awakening his Thame. And lead him to shadows of leaders that were true to bring salvation to the people. Now, Scarkir was gone.
Their spirit form being torn apart played back in his mind.
Over and over again, there was no end… Until his stomach rumbled.
He paused. He was hungry?
It hit him— the passing world, and drifting light. To fragmented memories slowly falling into place, of a boy terrorized by each new piece that came. Be it day or night, he would hold his screams at bay, but after he felt a little more whole. More confident, more hopeful for the world each time, with knowledge… not of his own?
It's how the boy kept moving on, orphaned to the streets. Surviving as he once did within the forests, only in allies and broken houses.
But slowly, ever so, the knowledge became more. His self; personality would come with it, that’s when the boy would stop entirely. Shuddering if not collapsing in seizures.
Faus thought of the last memory, nearly falling into the disgusting stew as he ran from the more well off boys trying to hound him for his pouch. They had something— well enough homes and yet they tried to sick their teeth to the less fortunate.
Disgusting.
He lost them in the Slopes, coming to one of the broken houses that connected to the sewers. In that moment he collapsed, reeling his head, the pain was more intense than any before, enough to make him pass out.
Where once there was a gaping hole in his mind, now it was whole and his being felt relief in being so.
But he really couldn’t enjoy the moment, thinking of those drifting straws. Scarkir’s final gambit worked, and he was left without a word of thanks.
He wanted— he hoped… the happy tin-crow knew how much he cared in his final moments.
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“Ow!” Henry yelped at the pain.
Rising, rushing forward instinctively as his butt flared— he hit a wall. Falling on his tender butt, clutching his nose surely bleeding as tears welled up.
He heard an annoyed grumble from behind.
The room had changed. From a platform to a box, just barely bigger than his own bedroom. A morning light shone from the crystal on the ceiling as the three specters returned.
“Useless,” The figure of scared muscle said.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
His form appearing as though wagging through countless wars of blades with nothing but his fists. Though he somehow kept his face pristine, even a fine beard. But the scar between his eye and ear caught his attention.
The specter’s pitiful eyes glared, a shiver went through him.
“Stop it, Riker.” The soft voice commanded, saving Henry by breaking his focus.
A man of heavy armor and fine silks, mixed with designs of rivers. His helmet bore no slits for sight, but sculpted into a face of an eternal guard adorning the top of a tiger’s head.
The last figure agreed. Echoing a hum.
Hers was only a silhouette, mystified behind layers of white mist.
“Can’t even hold a gaze, and yet he’s got the nerve to gawk.” Riker— apparently, said.
“Then perhaps you should have been another to feed the Soul Clarion?” The feminine one spoke.
Riker’s muscles hard, the air around him almost went firm, before it faded washing away by a feeling of… regret?
“Greetings,” the armored man spoke. “We would normally give the courtesy of a natural rest but our time is short, and much needs to be done.”
He continued, his arms spread. “We are The Curators of Wys; and the last of our order— I am Ifeden.”
Gesturing to the war torn man, “This is Riker.”
Then to the woman shrouded in mist, “And finally Ize.”
There was a palpable tension, worried as it seemed with each passing second of silence.
“He- Henry.” He said.
There was release, a sigh from Ize as the mist drifted from her area a little more free.
“Do you know how old you are Henry?” Ifeden asked.
“Twenty-five— wait, no. Twenty-six?” He tried to think back to his last moments— it was at the gym, wasting time before the next set as he tried to search for a better song.
Only, he didn’t know why, he just knew it to be. He made it home, a year was gone.
“Your memory fickle?” Ize asked.
“I… can’t remember the last year, there is a gap in my memory.”
Riker seemed surprised.
“And how do you know you're missing those memories?” Ize intrigued, her form coming closer almost directly looking in his eyes.
“I don’t know. It’s why I had to keep thinking.”
“Thinking? Of what?” Riker asked.
“Anything, I didn’t want to lose them.” His eyes lost, the time in the milky void slowly losing its hold like a dream. “My mind, that place. It took them. It was hard to think of new things to give and protect me. I didn’t want to be nothing again.”
He suppressed a croak in the end. Sitting there, without the grinding wear upon himself. He felt safe, from at least one form of torment.
Ize pulled back, counseling with the others. Unbothered if he overheard.
“He fought the current? The River of Souls… Is that possible?” Riker asked.
“Besides Thame to ward against the current, there are some tricks that can be employed,” Ize replied. “Keeping a minder, centering yourself is but the prerequisite in the texts founded.”
Ifeden nodded, “Yes… I see, just as we sundered a piece of ourselves the River erodes Souls for a new incarnation.” He could almost hear a chuckle at the end, echoing in a metal vault. “Wilk would have savored questioning Henry for his time in the River.”
Riker scoffed, “It’s not like there haven’t been others.”
“True. But all are tethered to this world, and none have been pure souls. Unless there was a mention, Ize?”
“None.” She replied. “Though it's quite understandable, no? Delving the River to plunder its secrets is abhorrently dangerous. But perhaps if they could do what we had done, then its secrets could be well more documented.”
“As if there would be another attempt.” Riker stated, but added. “They don’t have the chances, patience, or sacrifice for the gamble.”
Ifeden and Ize nodded.
Their sights turned to Henry, finding himself at the center of attention again.
“Why… am I here?” Henry asked.
“Because we failed.” Ifeden said simply. “Or rather, we have been given a legacy that would outlive us all. A testament to our creed to live, in some way, to prepare for what’s coming.”
“For what?”
“We don’t know.”
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Gregor awoke in a slurry of noises. His head drooped from the sheer weight time, drowsy, like he could sleep for eternity and not be fully rested.
But that wouldn’t do, he pulled himself against the wall. Igniting the lantern… seems as though the mechanism has faded its use. And there wasn’t much oil left to be found judging by a gentle nudge.
He grumbled, maybe he could luge this thing around, but oil was expensive. And burned far too fast for any non-Seeker to make any use out of it.
Gregor got some bits of his mind together. His finger ghosted over the writings of lifetimes, trying to gouge his thoughts deeper upon what had transpired. In those possibilities, but it all felt like a dream. Disappearing just so.
What he was left with was six pages of paper to remind himself, and the darkness brimming a spark of fire that he could never forget.
Gregor shivered but continued to review his texts.
A Path to the Obelisk Realm. Three Key events, on the East side of the Deseir continent. A person to ally. One to be weary. Three debts to pay. A teacher to help. And five Trails to delve.
This was it, his path to follow.
The joy only met a breath, as there was no victory. Only a sigh, putting aside the treasure of a lifetime. He took his time in the soft light, a moment to collect himself, before he opened the letter.
His lips quivered, but he held his tears. Reading the memoir; the collection of bright moments he had with his family. When they were still whole, and even when they weren’t together with him anymore.
It carried on, pages filled with tiny text. Until the las carried a softer stroke.
{
I hope you haven’t lost yourself Gregor, my son. That there is still a piece of the boy I knew— that our memories could be something to ward the travesties found within the choices you faced.
I’m sorry.
If your mother or I could take your burden we would gladly carry the world, but we couldn't guarantee to save you. Nor if our lives would continue long enough to see the END. It is, as our ancestor foretold, the twenty-fourth generation shall see the world fall.
Our wish Gregor, is for you to live. Live a wonderful life. Carry the heart of a good man. Learn from your faults, so you can see the stars closer than any of us thought possible.
We will always love you.
— Your Father, Oliver
}
Gregor was lucky. It’s what he had known amidst the possibilities. Traveling far in the shadow of his own world made him see the disparity of not having any parents, or perhaps, sometimes worse, parents who would use their children for their own elevation.
His parents gave the best life the could whilst hiding from the depraved Seekers and Cults. Leaving a path for him to face the world on his own, against whatever may come his way.
He leaned back against the cold stone, staring at the low ceiling.
“Looks like I have set out for the Wirstel’s Mines before they find the Obelisk.” He said tiredly.
Maybe, if I hurry, I could make it to Mudrey. And catch Faus before he has to escape the region in a couple months.
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Mudrey didn’t feel like the most depraved place in the world anymore, but it was certainly terrible, especially the last few weeks before his memory returned. Things were getting unusually more tense.
Walking through the alleys at night spiked his nerves, bits of stone from a house fell. Skipping across the cobblestone is like the sound of rushing footsteps.
He looked at the noise; cat came from another alley. Its brown-black fur stood on end, eyes rising into slits as it stared directly at him. Waiting for him to move, only he didn’t, not until it hissed and then retreated into another dark alley.
Faus hummed, “Those cats are everywhere.”
He continued on, traveling his path through the lower corner. Or the “Slum Slopes” as the common people called it.
The place was falling apart. Cracks upon stone, rot upon wood. Whatever colors remained of this place was only on the clothing people stitched together from the discard cart the Lord mandated to be given— though none were out. Leaving the cats to brighten the streets, while they kept the vermin population at bay.
It was disheartening. These felines were much more aggressive than the ones cared for on the old farms.
But as they learned themselves to be potential prey, and the people spitting them as another form of infestation. It was no wonder to see their instincts flare. For in harsh times; when food ran low, or prices seemed twisted by heartless merchants, some would take their chance in hunting them.
Regardless if you caught one, you better be prepared to have some stomach pain at least. If not a slow wear on your life.
The cat's harbored many diseases from their own prey, and though it seemed that they’ve built up some form of resistance. One couldn’t say the same for the people here.
The bodies were moved within a day, so a plague didn’t really catch on.
For that Faus was relieved, if disgusted by the bare minimum to keep these people living. Though he could say there isn’t much of it here. Surviving the next week, and praying in the time of winter passing.
His sad thoughts trudged the walk, before he knew it, arrived at his house. Or rather, a ruin of one.
The place had no roof, collapsed on itself with barely any walls that supported themselves. There was just a pile; a giant mess of broken wood and stone in the center of it all.
Faus went to cover; there was space near the corner of the building that was blocked from all sight. It had a bit of an echo, alerting him if anyone was close by, but the night was quiet.
No one would find this place, without some luck.
He pulled and pushed pieces of wood, untangling the mess before a block of stone. Leveraging a piece, he slid the cut rock just out of the way. Revealing a rope tied to the hidden end, trailing deeper into a hole big enough to crawl.
So Faus went quickly, popping into a shelter tall enough for him to stand.
It was dark, but he knew where the flint and metal were. And the torches to light. He went all around the room, before making sure he pulled the rope to close the tunnel’s entrance.
The room had sparse items, a few disposable clothes set on a crooked shelf. Along with warped pieces of metal that were fitted to be a knife.
He took it in with new eyes, pride swelled in his chest as Faus went to the nearby pit. A platform hung by a pulley system. He took a torch and went down, passing the counter weight.
Lighting up the room revealed all his worth over the years. His bed, mangled bookshelf, desk, even a chest.
Faus set everything aside, finding his store of jerky and canteens, he took his meal. Deep in thought. Fitting together information of his new life with fresh eyes.
He would need to stop by the library to review some things, but as it was, part of him had unknowingly calmed through the years. It settled with him, the life before and now; an old man becoming seventeen… eighteen, again? Only this time he had no one, not even a farm to call home, only the ruin he made to be comfort.
His mind stewed, with all the knowledge he had. And with nothing left to lose.
Well, there are worse ways to live than if I became a Seeker again.