John made his way deeper into the brazzar, weaving his way through the marketplace, the cacophony of voices, and the fragrant smells of incense and spices. He sidestepped the traders hawking their wares, their colorful stalls offering goods of every kind, both mundane and mystical. Among them, he caught sight of the Sheskans, their crimson robes and golden veils flowing like the drapes of royalty, but their true nature, hidden beneath the finery, sent a chill through him. Soul-eaters. Their stony skin, cold and implacable, was enough to unsettle anyone.
He remembered seeing one once, before the robes and jewelry. Beneath the ornate fabrics, she had been a statue—her skin carved of stone, cold and lifeless, every detail perfect in the way only a sculptor’s hands could achieve. But it wasn’t the perfection of her form that had stuck with him—it was her eyes. Those eyes, those cold blue flames that burned into him like nothing else. He had seen others since, but none like her. None that had the same look—the piercing stare that made him feel as though his very soul was laid bare.
As he passed the Sheskans, he felt that gaze again, through the veils, a familiar coldness cutting through the chaos of the market. It wasn’t the same one, of course—she had long since returned to the earth from which she had come—but the eyes were unmistakable. His pulse quickened, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t afford to. He had a meeting to attend, and he didn’t want to keep Corthoon waiting.
The pungent smell of shisha wafted up to his nose, thick with the scent of cloves and sweet tobacco, grounding him back in the moment as he pushed on. He moved deeper into the alleys, the sound of footsteps fading as he entered a quieter section
as John moved deeper into the maze of leaning buildings and crooked huts. These ramshackle houses varied in shape and size, constructed with mismatched materials from different realms and eras. As he approached the edge of this strange shantytown, he saw him , alone as he always was
A hunched old man, draped in a funerary shroud, stood motionless in the center of the path. His skin hung off his frame like withered parchment, and he clutched a gnarled rod twisted and knotted, as if it were as ancient as he was. Beneath the shade of the shroud, one dull, clouded eye fixed on John with a silent question.
When John drew near, the man’s lips parted, revealing teeth as broken as old headstones. His voice came out raspy, as though unused for years. “Are you seeking passage, Hunter?”
John’s answer was quick, his tone blunt. “Yes, Charon.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a coin—worn, tarnished, its age etched deeply into its surface. On one side was the face of Mephistopheles; on the other, the Horn of Gabriel. Charon took a slow, deliberate look at the coin, then nodded. Without a word, he turned and began walking down a dirt path, his shroud dragging against the earth.
John followed, his eyes flicking around to take in the strange place around him. The air grew heavier, and he heard Charon begin to mutter in a low, steady tone, incantations that carried through the silence like the faint hum of ancient rites. John whispered along with him, the syllables familiar enough from past encounters that he could keep pace, though he didn’t know the full meaning of each phrase.
At this, Charon halted, turning his head with a dark gleam in his eye, and let out a dry, rattling chuckle. “Heh… just as resourceful as Sisyphus,” he rasped. “But be wary, Hunter. Too much knowledge can be as great a burden as his rock.” John nodded, catching the ghostly reflection of that gray eye through the shadow of the shroud. There was an unspoken understanding between them as they continued on.
After a few more paces, John blinked—he felt a cold wetness around his feet. The shantytown, once so close, now lay far behind, miles away, as if they had walked leagues without noticing. In its place stretched a lake, shrouded in a cavernous darkness that swallowed the distant echoes of dripping water. No, he thought, realizing where they were. A river…
They waded through the shallows, the surface of the water glassy and dark as midnight. Out of the shadows drifted a long, crooked boat of ancient blackwood, its edges worn by time. Charon climbed aboard slowly, while John leapt from the water, landing in a crouch on the deck. When he looked up, Charon’s form had shifted.
Gone was the haggard old man. In his place was a towering figure, robed in a mass of black cloth that seemed to swirl and ripple with a life of its own. Dark, silken strands of beads draped from the figure, glinting in the low light—copper, silver, gold, platinum, each bead different from the next. Millions of them, maybe more, weaving and swaying in patterns that caught John’s eye, lacing the cloak with an intricate weight. In the deep folds of shadow, John could barely make out the glints of color from within.
Charon’s voice, now a low murmur, flowed out like water over stone. “Are you ready?”
John nodded, replying with quiet reverence, “Yes, Charon.”
And as they pushed off, the boat gliding into the darkness, tthe ong of the Disquiet the only constant tin line with the slow methodical pace of the journey.
as he neared his destination. The walls were carved from the very stone of the cavern, intricate and beautiful, but with a darkness to them, an unnatural stillness that made the place feel more like a mausoleum than anything else. Soon the ferry stopped and he knew it was his time to go. the coin was returned to him and without a word the ferryman was gone int the gloom , a single latern the only thing that told john of his passage. he turned and made his way through the rest of the cavern.
And then, there it was—the building he was looking for. Corthoon’s place. Two skeletal guards stood at attention, their forms hulking and unnatural, like something born of both flesh and death. They were made of bone, their bodies thick with the marks of age and battle, and though they were lifeless, their movements were fluid, natural—nothing like the jerky, stiff motions of animated corpses in the media. These were different. More dangerous.
John stepped up, hand resting near his hip, ready but not expecting to need the revolver that was concealed there. This was an old routine. He had been here enough times to know the drill. But even still, the eerie feeling that followed him every time he entered this place made him more cautious than usual. He reached the guards, and they crossed their halberds in front of him, blocking his path.
“Speak your business, human,” one of them said, its voice an eerie whisper that seemed to come from nowhere.
The way it spat the word “human” was laced with contempt, like something distasteful on its tongue. John didn’t know if it was just because he was human, or if it was something deeper—a species-wide disdain for his kind. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He had bigger things to focus on.
“I’m here to see Corthoon. I’ve got information for him, something he wants to hear. He sent for me after I called.”
The guard leaned in, bringing its massive skull down to eye level. The lack of eyes should have made it less intimidating, but instead, it only seemed to make its scrutiny more unnerving. Its empty sockets, like two dark voids, scanned him with a disquieting intelligence.
“John M. Masters. Son of Samuel H. Masters, better known as Silver Moon.”
The mention of his father’s name made John’s stomach tighten. That title, Silver Moon—the one he had inherited by blood but never by choice—still had the power to make his skin crawl. It was a title earned by his father and his father before him, through blood and sacrifice, a legacy that had been passed down like a curse.
“Yeah. That’s me. And Sam... Sam was my dad,” John muttered, his voice flat, not wanting to dwell on it.
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The creature shook its skull slowly, the motion deliberate and unnerving. “Was your father. He resides amongst the dead now, does he not? That means you are Silver Moon.”
John felt the familiar tightness in his chest. That title, that name, it wasn’t his. His father had earned it with his actions, his blood, his sacrifices. John hadn’t asked for it. He had never wanted it. He wasn’t Silver Moon. He could never be.
“Just John,” he said, his voice sharp, irritated. “Not Silver Moon.”
The guard paused, its bony head cocking to one side as if considering his words. It wasn’t often that someone in John’s position refused the legacy that was thrust upon them. But John had always rejected it—he couldn’t bear to carry that weight. It wasn’t for him. It never had been.Finally, the guard stepped aside, its massive form allowing him entry into the building.
John stepped into the ancient sepulcher, the air thick with dampness and the musty scent of age. The place reeked not of blood but of rust—iron left uncared for, neglected and allowed to rattle against the stone. Bones of the dead—those of countless species—adorned the walls. Their skulls, set in place like permanent fixtures, enshrined the fallen in a way that made the entire space feel like a massive catacomb. The walls were lined with these skulls, all the way up to the ceiling, some weathered with age, others eerily fresh.
It felt like walking through the halls of death itself, and John’s steps echoed through the silence as he moved deeper into the tomb. The stanchions on the walls, holding old torches, flared to life with each step he took, casting flickering shadows that danced like ghosts. He kept his hand away from his gun, knowing better than to show threat here. This place was governed by its own set of rules, and violence wasn’t one he cared to provoke, especially not with what lay ahead.
He walked past caskets—stone and ornate, some small, others massive. Their filigreed surfaces displayed intricate designs, some depicting heroism, others barbarism. Each one marked with a name, a legacy left behind. The tombs, carved with such reverence, made him uncomfortable, and a creeping unease spread through him. It reminded him too much of the things he had buried in his own past. He quickened his pace, eager to reach the final room.
As he entered, he was struck by the sight of massive, plate glass windows that adorned the walls, each displaying scenes of great warriors, kings immortalized in time. But the glass had lost its luster, dulled by centuries of neglect. Two of these glass panes flanked a stone throne, one of gold and brass, heavy with age and majesty. The floors, littered with gold and treasures beyond measure, shimmered in the dim light, like a dragon's hoard. But the true focal point of the room was the figure seated upon the throne.
Corthoon.
The creature was monstrous, its body dried and desiccated, skin pulled tight over a frame that seemed too large, too distorted to be human. Its eyes, though, still burned with the soul fire that animated its body. A sickly, pulsating green light radiated from the sockets. As he opened his eyes, John could feel the weight of the creature’s gaze, its amusement practically palpable as it studied him. Then came the voice—slimy, deep, and full of the kind of authority that only someone like Corthoon could command. It resonated in the chamber, filling it with a presence that could not be ignored.
“John, how nice of you to come,” Corthoon’s voice was smooth but commanding, carrying the gravity of a king addressing a subject. “I don’t quite often get visitors now.”
John almost smirked but kept his expression neutral. He knew the rituals here. Respect had to be shown, at least for the sake of protocol. He bowed slightly, his voice steady as he spoke.
“Greetings, Great Corthoon, Master of the Hounds, 1st of the Slayers, Marquee of the Dis, Herald of the First War.”
He paused, ensuring he hadn’t missed any of the titles he knew Corthoon valued, making sure to acknowledge the creature’s full power and legacy. It was a small concession, but one that mattered in this place.
Corthoon chuckled, the sound low and amused. He waved a bony hand in a dismissive gesture, as though the titles were unnecessary, but appreciated nonetheless. “You flatter me, though not necessarily. But I appreciate the gesture, Praetorian.”
The sound of his bracelets clanking against the stone throne echoed in the quiet as Corthoon shifted slightly, settling more comfortably in his seat. The king-like figure radiated power, despite his almost skeletal appearance. John stood there, watching the creature with calculated patience.
Corthoon’s desiccated lips curled into a thin smile. "No blade, John? I’m hurt. Do I seem so harmless?" His laugh was dry, brittle, like old leaves scattering in the wind. It broke into a rasping cough that echoed through the sepulcher.
John reached out a hand, a flicker of dry humor passing through his expression. “What use would it be? No blade I could wield would harm the First of the Slayers. You and I both know that.”
The creature arched an eyebrow, regarding him thoughtfully before extending a bony hand in an open gesture. “But your father's blade could! Why not bring the Enoch Blade here…?”
It was a question, and yet not. The suggestion hung between them, like the dust motes in the air.
John shook his head. “I don’t possess it. That blade was my father’s, not mine. It doesn’t seem right, taking a weapon from a warrior, no matter how long he’s been gone.”
For a moment, something almost human crossed Corthoon’s gaze, an understanding glinting faintly in the soul-fire of his eyes. He nodded, slowly, as though he approved. “If it lays with your father, then let him be honored by its possession until the stars grow cold. But let us speak no more of that.”
The creature’s hand lifted, trembling, dust shaking off the knobby fingers as they wavered in the still air. With a flick, the dust scattered and hung there, suspended like motes in amber. Then it burst into a constellation of sparks, vibrant and alive, shaping themselves into a ring of violet flame. Within the ring, murky liquid began to pool, ripples spreading outward before stilling to a dark, glassy surface.
As John leaned closer, he began to see images shifting within the depths. Fragments of scenes flickered to life—violent, ritualistic deaths, each distinct but carrying a common thread, like pieces of some grim puzzle. Six deaths, brutal and methodical, unraveling in various ways. He took in the details, committing what he could to memory. He would need to recall them later, to make sense of what he was seeing.
The rasping voice sounded again, closer than before, sending a shiver down John’s spine. “The dead speak of violent ends, John. They speak of acts done in shadow, of something long set in motion, seeds planted eons ago. They do not seek salvation but retribution—vengeance against those who ended their journeys too soon.”
The creature’s voice was thick with a kind of bitterness that resonated, as if the past were a wound that had never quite healed. "These dead are bound for the Nether Worlds—the depths of the Nine. Some go beyond, to places even I cannot reach. But those who pass through Dis… they have shared a symbol with me."
Corthoon’s voice took on a darker, reverent tone. "The Elder Sign. A symbol older than the magics of man, older than this world itself. It has lived through eras when I still wore flesh, a sign that binds and wards, but one that is woven with power even I dare not cross lightly."
The ring of flame burned brighter, casting its violet light across the ancient hall. John felt the weight of the knowledge settle on him, like an omen he couldn’t ignore.
“Tell me of it, Corthoon! Tell me more—I need to know.” John’s voice came out harsher than he’d intended, and as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d overstepped.
Corthoon’s eyes flared, and his tone turned cold as iron. “Watch your tone, boy! Do not presume to command me. I will tell you nothing more. Peering too deeply into these matters is to invite madness, a price you may not understand. Do you think I would let you throw away your mind so foolishly, Praetorian?”
John took a breath, steadying himself, nodding. He recognized the boundary he’d crossed but didn’t entirely relent. He knew the risks, but something far larger than him was in motion, and he needed to grasp even a fragment of it. “I understand, Corthoon, but you and I both know things are far from right. I need to know if this… whatever this is, has anything to do with the Council’s so-called ‘power struggle.’”
Corthoon let out a dry chuckle, an oddly full sound for a creature without breath or lungs. “How many times have you been told to stay clear of those sorcerers, John? How many times have you sworn off their schemes only to end up tangled in them again?” He shook his head, eyes glinting with wry amusement. “I’ve warned you. One day you’ll pay for this constant meddling. As for whether it’s all connected… knowing them, their tampering and power-grasping, it’s more likely than not. But I’ll leave you to dig up the rest.”
A sigh escaped John’s lips as he realized this was all he’d get, that their conversation was winding to an end. But one last thought lingered, and he couldn’t resist. “One last thing, Corthoon—did a Childersnatch make its way down here? It should have had a few fresh wounds if it did.”
Corthoon’s laughter rang out again, a dry and ancient sound that echoed through the chamber. “So that was your handiwork? I must say, you do the Slayers of old proud, John. Even the great Heracles wasn’t so brutal. I’ll admit, I’m curious to see how your tale unfolds… Perhaps the whispers of your deeds will entertain me through eternity here.”
“But that’s a matter for later,” Corthoon added, a gleam in his eyes as he shifted forward in the throne, “because now, there is the matter of payment.”