“The Wastelands?” Lorian’s voice echoed softly through the dimly lit cathedral, each syllable bouncing off the ancient stone walls that seemed to exude a chill. The air was thick with the musty scent of old books and burning wax, the flickering candles casting restless shadows that danced like specters in the gloom. He sat on an antique blue sofa, its cushions plush but oddly resistant, as if hiding something beneath their surface. Around him, a translucent purple dome flickered intermittently, enclosing him and the priest in a bubble of unsettling tranquility.
“Yes,” the priest replied, his voice smooth and almost oily, like a snake slithering over dry leaves. He took a delicate sip of tea, the aroma of jasmine mingling with the scent of incense and damp stone. The rustling of his robes, a rich velvet that glided against his skin, broke the silence with an almost eerie whisper, adding to the room’s spectral ambiance. From the depths of his dark garments, he produced a small metallic ball, placing it on the table with a resonant clink that seemed to echo endlessly. “The Wastelands is a nascent world, gathering a mysterious substance known as world essence.”
Lorian leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto the priest's. Memories of his mother, frail and sick back on Earth, flooded his mind, the urgency of his mission pressing on his heart like a vise. The tension in the air was almost palpable, a sharp contrast to the soft glow of a nearby candle whose scent of lavender did little to ease his growing unease. “World essence?” he echoed, his breath catching as if the words themselves were a physical weight.
“Indeed,” the priest said, his knowing smile carrying a hint of mischief and something darker, more insidious. “Did you know that matter, or mass, is essentially compressed energy?” He paused, letting the thought sink in, his eyes glinting with a secret pleasure. “Yet there exists something even purer than energy in this universe. This is the world essence, the very source from which energy derives.”
Lorian tried to process this, but the more the priest spoke, the deeper his unease grew. He thought of his mother’s face, her eyes hollow from illness, and a pang of guilt stabbed at him. “Why is this important?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and dread.
The priest's expression grew somber, his eyes darkening as if clouded by some internal storm. “Every universe seeks to gather world essence. The universe you hail from has exhausted its own, making it lighter and more fragile than the Wastelands.” He placed the metallic ball into the cup, watching as it sank slowly into the tea, the liquid swirling around it in hypnotic patterns. “Imagine this teacup as the fifth dimension. The Wastelands is drifting away from your home universe every second. At the bottom lies Reverie, a world saturated with world essence. If we do not escape the Wastelands soon, Reverie will consume it.”
Lorian absorbed the weight of the priest's words, the room growing colder as the implications settled in like a layer of frost. His mind, already fogging from the strange properties of this world, struggled to grasp the full extent of the danger. He could almost hear his mother's frail voice urging him on. “How do we escape? How can we get out?” he asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
“Returning to your original universe is no longer an option,” the priest replied, his voice laced with an unsettling certainty, as if the matter was as fixed as the stars. “We are too far from it now. However, Reverie is a realm of magic. There may be a way to return through its arcane arts…”
Lorian furrowed his brow, suspicion mingling with a glimmer of hope, a fragile thread that he clung to despite the looming shadows. “And how do we reach Reverie?”
The priest's eyes gleamed with a secret, a sly smile playing on his lips like a cat toying with a trapped mouse. “Individuation,” he said softly, the word hanging in the air like a forbidden incantation.
“What does that mean?” Lorian leaned forward, his interest intensifying even as doubt gnawed at him like a relentless parasite.
“We must first find the person who brought you here, Perseus. Along with a girl named, Hope. They are the key,” the priest explained, his smile turning even more enigmatic, a serpent's smile. Lorian felt a chill run down his spine, the realization dawning that this priest knew far more about his plight than he let on.
“And how will he help me return?” Lorian raised an eyebrow, his skepticism growing like a dark cloud over a troubled sea.
“I will reveal everything in due time,” the priest said as he stood up, his movements fluid and almost predatory, like a panther stalking its prey. “For now, all I ask for is your trust.”
Lorian couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, a bitter sound in the quiet room, the laugh of a man with little left to lose. “Trust? Why should I trust you?”
The priest glanced towards the door, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous glint, a predator spotting its next meal. “Do you have any other choice?” He paused, as if savoring the moment, the air thick with tension. “I will tell you a secret of mine. I am not from the Wastelands, and I am also not a priest. What I am is your best bet in escaping this world before it shatters with Reverie…”
Lorian’s gaze hardened, a mix of fear and determination in his eyes, the thought of his mother’s suffering a constant spur to action. He recalled a childhood memory: his mother, single and weary, waiting at the door with worry etched on her face when he and his friend Julius returned late from playing. She had hugged him tightly, her voice shaking as she scolded him for making her worry. The memory burned in his mind, a reminder of the promise he made to never leave her side for too long. “Then what’s your purpose here? Why help me?”
The priest pulled out a purple stone from his robe, the facets catching the dim light and refracting it into a thousand haunting shades. The stone pulsed with an otherworldly energy that sent a shiver down Lorian’s spine. “Crystallized world essence, also known as Lithos. The source of my power. I am here to collect it,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of greed that made Lorian’s skin crawl. “As for helping you, I need your powers as the locket wielder to help escape.”
Lorian’s frustration boiled over as he stood abruptly, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness through his fogged mind. “We’re not done here! Where are you going?”
“We’ll continue later,” the priest replied, opening the door with a knowing look that sent a chill through Lorian’s bones. “Someone’s waiting outside…” He turned to address the shadow in the doorway. The purple haze within the room began to disintegrate, the barrier collapsing like a bubble bursting. “You can stop eavesdropping now, Magnus. My sound barrier is quite effective.”
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An elderly man stepped forward, his long, curly white hair cascading from beneath a pointy magician’s hat that seemed almost comically oversized. His deep blue robes, rich and heavy, swayed as he moved, their fabric whispering secrets of ages past. His deep blue eyes sparkled with an intensity that belied his years, and he stroked his magnificent beard with a bemused smile. “Apologies, Priest. But in the pursuit of knowledge, eavesdropping is a minor transgression.” He adjusted his hat as he chuckled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You’ll have to teach me how to set those up!”
“I assume you’re here for him?” the priest asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice, gesturing towards Lorian with a dismissive wave.
“Indeed, as a man of science keen. Such an intriguing soul by Magnus must be seen,” Magnus said, his gaze shifting to Lorian with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, his smile a mask hiding deeper intentions. “A man who commands the locket’s glow, holds secrets we must surely know. For the village’s good, of course, we delve. Into the mysteries he might shelve.”
The priest patted Magnus on the shoulder as he passed, a gesture that seemed both friendly and threatening, like a cat patting a mouse. “Take him. I will see you at evening prayer.”
“Certainly,” Magnus replied, his smile fading to a stern expression as he approached Lorian. “Now, let us proceed without delay, for there is much we need to say.” The scent of Magnus's robes, a mix of herbs and aged leather, enveloped Lorian, adding to the strangeness of the encounter.
Magnus led the way, his deep blue robes swaying with each step. Lorian followed, his mind racing with questions. They emerged from the cathedral into the cool night air, the village bathed in the soft glow of moonlight.
"I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced," Magnus began, his voice measured and thoughtful. "I am Magnus, the village's wisest man. And you are, if I may understand?"
“Lorian,” he replied, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the old man’s presence. “What is this place?”
Magnus smiled gently. "This is Lumenwood village, a sanctuary in the Wastelands," he said, glancing at the walls with pride. "A village that has stood strong for a hundred and ten years... But there's more to it than meets the eye. We have much to discuss."
As they walked through the village, the sounds of nocturnal life filled the air. The village was coming to life under the moon light, but to Lorian, it seemed devoid of vitality. Children played, their laughter echoing hollowly. Adults were busy with their chores, their movements mechanical and lifeless. The blacksmith’s hammer rang out rhythmically—“clang, clang, clang”—as he struck the iron with precise, practiced blows.
‘It’s like everyone here lacks a soul,’ Lorian thought, his expression tightening. ‘Like NPCs in a game, just going through the motions.’
After a few minutes of walking in silence, they approached a modest building with a sign that read “Infirmary.” Inside, the air was filled with the scent of herbs and the soft murmur of patients resting.
Magnus led Lorian to a room where a familiar man lay on a bed, his face pale but alert. “This is Chief Holmes, as you might already have known,” Magnus said softly. “He has led our village for many years, but recently, his influence has waned. Many now place their trust in the priest's domain.”
Chief Holmes looked up; his eyes sharp despite his frail appearance. “Thank you for helping me during the fight…”
Lorian simply nodded in response.
“This is Lorian,” Magnus explained. “As you know, he holds the power to control the locket, which strengthens our people's pocket. The priest seeks to use him for his own ends, to take him away and leave us without friends.”
Holmes nodded slowly, his gaze turning to Lorian. “We need your help, Lorian. The priest is not what he seems. He wants to kill all the inhabitants of the village. With you gone, our strength will fade, and we will be defenseless.”
Lorian felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. “Why would he do that?”
"Power, Lorian. The priest craves it," Magnus spoke with solemn wit. "By taking you on a wild goose chase to find Perseus, he removes our strength, which is serious. We believe he plans to eliminate us to further his own ends, to break our bonds and leave us without amends."
Lorian’s mind raced as he surveyed the hopeful expressions in the room. Warnings about the priest echoed in his thoughts, clashing with the earnest faces before him. His eyes landed on the old man, Magnus, whose pleading gaze felt like a weight on his conscience.
"You can control the weather of the Wastelands as well as the locket. This village is connected to you in ways you can't yet fathom." The voice came from a shadowy corner, causing Lorian to startle. He hadn't noticed the woman there until she spoke. "I know you have doubts about the priest. We can uncover the truth together and find a way to get you home. Help us, and we'll help you."
Lorian stood frozen, torn between trust and suspicion. The priest promised a sure way home, but something felt off. The villagers, though, stirred a sense of belonging in him. Could he risk the uncertainty for the sake of his instincts?
"Ruselle is right," Chief Holmes's deep voice resonated from behind. "You've felt a connection to this village, haven't you? We brought you here because we felt it too, as if you are one of us."
Lorian’s gaze snapped to the Chief, his mind reeling. He absently rubbed his finger beneath his nose, wiping away a trickle of blood—a reminder of his own vulnerability.
"Ruselle is among the strongest people in this village, on par with me and Perseus. However, her powers are more suited for gathering intelligence than fighting. While we fought the enemies outside the walls, she was dealing with the threat inside. Gathering intel on the priest and about what he knows of this world of ours,” the Chief turned towards the old man as he spoke, "while Magnus the wise has spent his entire life understanding the nature of this world. Together, we can find a way to help you escape, Lorian. Please, trust us."
The room fell silent, the weight of their plea hanging in the air. Lorian felt the pressure of their expectations.
“The people trust the priest more than Chief Holmes now,” Magnus continued. “He's swayed them with his words, his promises grand. The Order fears what he might do with this command.”
Lorian looked at the faces of the villagers they passed outside the window, their expressions devoid of life. “What do you want me to do?”
"We need you to stay," Magnus said, his tone firm, not swayed. "Help us protect the village, your presence is our advantage. Your power over the locket is vital, it's our shield, our pivotal. If you leave with the priest, our defenses will be deceased. "
Lorian nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of his choice. “And if I stay, what happens then?”
“We will fight to protect our home, and we will try our best to help you return to yours” Chief Holmes said, his voice firm despite his weakened state. “With you here, we have a chance. Without you, we are lost.”
Lorian stood at a crossroads, his mind torn between the promises of the priest and the desperate plea of the villagers. He thought of his mother, frail and sick, waiting for him to return. The urgency of his mission pressed on his heart, but so did the responsibility to these people who needed him.
“I need to think,” Lorian said finally, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision.
Magnus nodded, his hand on Lorian’s shoulder, steady and bold. "Take your time, Lorian, but time is a treasure we can't hold. The priest won't wait, his schemes unfold. Here,” He reached inside his robes and pulled out a weathered book.
“What is this?” Lorian asked.
Chief Holmes stepped forward. “This is the Encyclopedia of Behemoths. For a hundred and ten years, our village has battled these creatures. This book holds the knowledge our ancestors compiled about them. Consider it a gift for saving our village.”
“No matter your choice of path, the knowledge in this book will help you face any Behemoth’s wrath,” Magnus added.
“Thank you,” Lorian said, nodding as he walked out the door.
As he stepped out of the infirmary, the night air felt colder, the weight of his choice pressing down on him. The decision loomed like a shadow, and as Lorian looked up at the stars, he knew that whatever choice he made would shape not only his fate but the fate of everyone in the village.