Lorne trudged through the dense mist that swaddled him, a white shroud that muffled the world into a silent, ethereal realm. His breaths came out in ragged puffs, visible in the chill air that clung to his skin like dew on morning grass. Every step felt heavier, laden with a dread that seemed to seep from the very ground beneath him.
"Urien? Thorsten? Goddess?" he called out, the mist swallowing his voice as soon as the words left his mouth. "Anyone?!"
He had no way of knowing which direction he was headed, whether he was making progress through the mists or simply walking in circles. His arms reached out in front of him, searching for anything solid, his hands brushing past the misty trunks of trees. The thick canopy of leaves overhead blotted out the sunlight, leaving only a diffuse glow that painted the air in a faint, luminous haze.
Then...the whispers came.
They started as a breeze, a subtle rustle that could have been dismissed as the wind's murmur through the leaves.
But Lorne knew the difference. He had heard these whispers before, a chorus of voices that rose and fell like the tide against a shore of memories. They spoke in the language of steel clashing against steel, the desperate cries of men and women in battle—a language he understood all too well.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the familiar leather grip grounding him against the onslaught of recollections. The mist thickened, and shadows began to dance at the edge of his vision, elusive figures that flickered in and out of existence. The din of swords clashing and shields slamming morphed into voices he recognized, voices from a past he had tried to bury deep within the recesses of his mind.
The voices of his comrades, the Silverguard Company, echoed around him, calling to him from the fog.
"Form up! Brace yourselves!" Kaela's voice rang clear, sharp as a sword's edge. Her image flickered in the mist, a shadowy figure clad in leather armor wielding her daggers in a fighting stance. "Incoming!"
The mists swirled, parting for a moment, revealing the lumbering form of a massive troll charging directly at Lorne. The creature roared as its massive club whistled through the air in an overhead swing, descending towards Lorne's head with bone-crushing force.
"Shields up!" He shouted, instinct guiding him into motion. His shield slammed into the ground in front of him as he dropped to a knee, bracing for impact.
Pain flared in his mind and a gasp escaped his lips, but the blow passed through him like a wave of water, rolling over him with a shiver.
The image of the troll and its club faded as quickly as it had manifested, melting back into the mists. Lorne's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he struggled to master the visions assaulting him.
The mist enveloped him once more, and the whispering voices returned.
"Fucking hold the line! We can do this!" Deneve's voice snarled nearby, the sheer vitriol in her tone conveying her desperation. Her image wavered into view, the fiery locks of her hair flowing as if caught in a gale, her twin sabers gleaming. The roars of an ogre sounded somewhere in the distance as Deneve's specter pivoted to face the unseen foe. "What're you doing?! Protect Kaela's flank, she's exposed!"
Urien appeared next, a hulking figure materializing from the mist, his warhammer raised in a defensive stance. His deep-set brown eyes, usually a bastion of steadfast resolve, now reflected a haunting mix of confusion and fear. "They're everywhere, Lorne!" he bellowed, swinging his hammer wildly. "How much longer can we keep this up?!"
Lorne watched the events unfold as if he were witnessing them from the outside, an observer of a memory that had already passed.
The battle of Neithorst Keep had been one of the worst the Silverguard Company had endured—and it was his first time leading them as their commander. The fortress' defenders had been overrun by a horde of trolls and ogres that had ravaged the countryside.
As they prepared to retreat, they encountered the enemy's main force and engaged them in a pitched battle in the shadow of the keep's outer wall.
The Silverguards were no stranger to facing insurmountable odds, but that day was different.
That day, they had stood alone against a storm that threatened to overwhelm them.
"We're surrounded, Lorne! What are your orders?" the spectre of Kaela shouted at him, her face streaked with mud and blood.
Her question echoed around him, lingering in the misty air, drawing forth the others.
"The cavalry is routed, they won't be able to assist us. Orders, Commander?"
"We're getting slaughtered out here! Do something!"
"How the hell did we end up in this mess?!"
"Godsdamnit Lorne, talk to us!"
Lorne's hand trembled on his sword hilt, his chest tightening. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The plan had been to draw the enemy forces to a chokepoint where they would be vulnerable to a concentrated barrage from their artillery. But the Silverguard Company had underestimated the sheer numbers of the attackers, and the plan had failed.
They had found themselves on the verge of annihilation, and Lorne had been forced to improvise.
The words came unbidden to his lips, the answer to a question he wished he could take back.
"We'll split into three groups: one to engage the enemy's vanguard, and two to circle around the flank and provide support. Focus on thinning their ranks, and watch each other's backs! When you make contact, make sure to secure an exit route to the east. Don't wait for me."
The scene dissolved back into the mist as if swept away by the wind, and Lorne sank to his knees, the weight of the decision he'd made bearing down upon him.
A third of his company had perished in that ill-fated attack. It had taken their combined might to finally break the enemy lines and retreat to the relative safety of the keep's walls. But the price they'd paid had been a steep one.
A full retreat early on would have been the best option.
In the end, they'd had no choice but to abandon the fortifications and flee the area. It had been a bitter defeat, one that had cost them dearly in terms of morale and resources.
The voices of the specters still whispered to him, but their words were no longer intelligible, like the distant, mournful cries of the dead.
Lorne squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white around the grip of his sword, the steel blade heavy as the stone it was forged from.
"We trusted you... and you led us to ruin."
"Leave me alone!" he yelled, trying to drown out the noise. But it was futile. The mist pressed in closer, engulfing him.
"Perhaps if you were a better commander, more would have survived." A new voice pierced through the veil of whispers, cold and clinical.
"That's not true," Lorne answered, though he wasn't certain of his own response. "I did what I had to, and the company made it through."
"By sheer luck," the voice responded, mocking. "The lives of your fellow mercenaries were in your hands, and you let them slip through your fingers. And for what? To survive by the skin of your teeth? Did you really think you were cut out for leadership? That you were worthy to command the Silverguard Company?"
"No, that's not..." Lorne trailed off, his voice trailing into silence. The doubts he had carried in the aftermath of that battle had resurfaced, reopening old wounds he had tried to forget.
The mist shifted, the wispy tendrils twirling about him in an icy caress. They wrapped themselves around his limbs, holding him in place, pinning his arms to his side and restricting his movement.
Another sharp pain stabbed into his skull, and Lorne grunted. The world tilted and spun before him as he slumped to the ground, landing painfully on his back.
The mist around him turned crimson, the color of blood spilled under a setting sun. It crept into the corners of his vision, seeping through the cracks in his resolve until everything was tinged with a faint reddish hue.
Lorne stared at the sky, unable to move, helpless as the specter of his own failure loomed over him.
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Viviane looked around at the sea of mists swirling around her.
Her hand reached out, fingers brushing against the damp air, and she shuddered. Each droplet of moisture was like a tiny lens, refracting and scattering the light.
Something was unsettling about the way the mist moved. Almost as if it were alive.
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In the shifting light that shimmered off the ethereal clouds, she could have sworn she glimpsed the faces of people she'd known once upon a time—long-dead family and friends, calling to her from the depths of oblivion, only to vanish when she tried to focus on them. It was as if the mist sought to pry into her mind, to unravel her thoughts and memories.
She shook her head, a futile attempt to dispel the creeping unease.
As an artificer, Viviane was no stranger to illusions, but this was something else—something primal.
Perhaps these were manifestations of some primordial magic, ancient and mysterious, existing beyond her understanding. She felt like a child peering into the darkness of her bedroom, wondering if something might be hiding in the shadows, waiting for her to drop her guard.
And there was no shortage of things to fear in these woods.
The last Morkhai's attack was still fresh in her memory, and she kept a watchful eye, expecting another ambush to happen at any moment.
She could hear the faint calls of her companions, their voices distorted, as if coming from a great distance. The fog dampened the sounds, muffling them, making it impossible to tell where they were coming from.
Could their voices be an illusion too? Another trick to draw her in?
As much as she wanted to believe that the others were nearby, she couldn't be certain.
"Serelle?" she called out, her own voice swallowed by the mists. "Thorsten? Ingrid? Goddess Ebonheim? Are you there?"
The only response was a faint echo that faded as quickly as it came.
How long had they been separated? She hadn't a clue. There was no sun or moon visible through the murky shroud, nor did the shadows change in length.
She glanced at her compass. It was spinning erratically, the needle twitching and trembling, as if it were in the grip of some powerful force.
Frustrated, she placed it back into her pocket. It was useless in these conditions, and she'd have to rely on her wits to find her way out of the fog.
Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, Viviane scanned the surrounding area for a sign, a landmark, anything at all, but there was nothing.
"Reste calme," she advised herself, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Just keep going. Everything's going to be fine."
She repeated the phrase like a mantra as she picked a random direction and set off. Panic was the enemy of situations like this. Rationality her ally.
Although she'd never admit it aloud, the idea of being lost in this unfamiliar place terrified her. Her specialty was building objects and inventions. This sort of wilderness survival wasn't her strong suit, and she knew it.
So, Viviane relied on the one thing she trusted: her intellect.
She chose her footfalls carefully, deliberately planting her foot firmly on the ground, not letting her boot sink into the loamy forest floor. This helped her avoid slipping or falling into some unseen crevice or hole in the mist-covered ground.
"Oh, merde, why did I agree to go on this trip?"
Viviane trudged forward, one cautious step at a time. Her progress was slow, but she was making headway, and that gave her a small measure of comfort.
The spectrometer latched to her toolbelt continued to thrum and click, occasionally emitting a slight squeal. The magitech device was a constant companion to Viviane, and she found its quirks strangely soothing.
It beeped again, with a different pitch than before.
Curious, she unclipped the small instrument and examined its crystal display, squinting through the fog to decipher its readings. The screen revealed that the mist had an unusually high concentration of mana, and that the energy patterns shifted in a way that suggested movement.
Intrigued, she adjusted the dials and tapped a few buttons to get a clearer analysis.
A soft hum emanated from the machine as aether particles gathered within its chambers, giving off a pale green glow. After a moment, the light stabilized, and the screen displayed a more detailed reading.
Viviane's eyebrows furrowed as she studied the display. The spectrometer indicated that the mist was not just rich in mana, but it was also saturated with psychotropic elements—compounds that directly affected the mind and perception.
That explained why the mist made her hallucinate.
But this also meant that the mist was not just a simple phenomenon of nature. The energy patterns within the ethereal clouds were too complex, too ordered, almost like the mist was imbued with sentient magic.
"It's as if the mist is... alive," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the soft whirring of the spectrometer. The notion was absurd, yet the evidence before her eyes was hard to dismiss. The mist's mana signature pulsed rhythmically, akin to a heartbeat.
The device beeped again, the sound sharper this time, snapping her back to the present. She glanced around, half-expecting to see something emerge from the fog, but there was nothing—only the endless, oppressive mist.
A sigh escaped her lips as she returned the spectrometer to her belt.
If the mist was indeed sentient, or at least influenced by some sentient force, what did it want? Was it merely curious? Did it intend them harm? Perhaps the mist was just protecting its home, like an animal defending itself from intruders.
Whatever the case may be, the mist had succeeded in isolating her from the rest of the group, and she had no idea how to get out. The urge to scream in frustration bubbled up, but Viviane bit the inside of her cheek, pushing down her irritation.
Screaming wouldn't solve anything. She had to focus.
There was also the possibility that the mist was malicious. A creature that preyed on people's minds, trapping them in illusory hallucinations.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, sharp pain in her temple. She winced, bringing a hand to her head. The pain ebbed away as quickly as it had come, but it left her feeling disoriented.
The mist seemed to thicken in response to her discomfort, swirling faster, drawing closer. She found herself teetering, her equilibrium thrown off, as if she had just stepped off a ship into solid ground.
Viviane felt this kind of symptom before, and the realization sent a jolt of alarm through her—Mana drain.
The mist was feeding on her mana, leeching the energy from her body. No doubt, the others were suffering the same effects.
"I've got to get out of here," she said through gritted teeth, picking up the pace. Her steps became more determined, carrying her deeper into the mist.
The mist seemed to respond to her increased urgency, thickening, blocking her path, as if trying to keep her where it wanted her. She stumbled, her foot catching on an exposed root.
She cursed, nearly falling as she caught herself.
The mist receded momentarily, granting her a glimpse of a distant clearing. She blinked in disbelief, thinking it was another figment of her imagination. But then the mist pulled back further, revealing more of the open area.
Encouraged, she quickened her steps, hastening towards the inviting sight. The mist responded, withdrawing more, its tendrils parting before her as if opening the way for her.
With the fog pulling back, the path ahead was easier to navigate, and she soon found herself approaching the edge of the clearing.
"Hey! Everyone! I'm here!" She shouted, waving her arms.
There was no response.
She stepped into the center of the clearing, but found no signs of the others. It was just a normal grassy area. She called out again, but the only answer that came back was the silence.
An eerie sensation washed over her, like a chill that seeped through her skin. The mist began to swirl once more, slowly encroaching upon the clearing.
As Viviane stumbled through the mist, ghastly apparations emerged from the fog. The ghostly silhouettes flickered and shimmered as they materialized, their forms indistinct yet vaguely familiar.
The first figure she spotted was her brother, Dominic. He was always the one to take her by the hand and lead her through the back alleys of their city, showing her the hidden secrets that lurked in the shadows. She could still remember the sound of his laugh, so full of joy and mischief.
But as she approached, she could see that his eyes were empty and hollow, like two voids set in his skull. A sickening chill ran through her, and she recoiled as he reached a hand out to her.
"Vivi...help me..." His voice was a broken whisper, and his body began to fade as the mist enveloped him again.
She blinked, tears stinging her eyes as she realized what she had seen. A lie. A cruel illusion.
"It's not real. None of this is real," she mumbled to herself, as she trudged on, ignoring the other figures that appeared before her.
Another piercing headache hit her, more intense than the last, causing her to stagger. The fog tightened its grip on her mind, her vision blurring as she fought to maintain consciousness.
She fell to her knees, gasping for air.
"They're gone..." came the familiar voice of her mother, a sweet, melodic tone filled with worry and concern.
The tall, regal figure of her mother emerged, clad in her courtly attire. Despite having passed on, Viviane could still remember how she used to carry herself with such poise and grace. A pillar of strength in her life.
"You'll never see them again," her mother said, her expression contorted with grief and pain. "Not in this world, not in the next."
Viviane couldn't move, let alone form a coherent sentence, her senses reeling from the loss of mana. "Maman, je suis désolé. Je n'étais pas... je ne voulais pas dire..." She spoke in her native tongue, her words jumbled and slurred.
She knew this was all an illusion. She knew...but this particular vision hurt so much more.
"It's too late now," her mother continued, shaking her head. "There's no hope for you. Accept your fate, daughter. Embrace the dark. There is no light left for you."
The pain intensified, and Viviane curled in on herself, clutching her head. The ghostly apparitions floated closer, their bodies bleeding away into the mist.
She clenched her jaw, trying to block out their words. But despite her efforts, the voices continued to echo in her head, repeating the same phrases over and over again, until they blended into a wordless chorus.
"It's not...real," Viviane murmured weakly, grasping for the tattered remains of her lucidity. "It's not real. You're not real. Get out of my head."
As her mother dissipated back into the mist, she staggered to her feet, swaying precariously, her balance off-kilter. The fog closed in around her, its tendrils caressing her skin, whispering sibilant promises into her ears.
In desperation, she fumbled for a device on her toolbelt, a small sphere with runic symbols etched onto its surface. She activated the mechanism, and the sphere began to pulse with a faint, orange glow.
With a final surge of strength, she lobbed the device away from herself, and the bomb sailed through the air, tumbling end over end, landing with a dull thud in the dirt.
Viviane dove for cover, her face buried in the loam, shielding her eyes and ears.
The mana bomb erupted in a brilliant burst, sending arcs of bright orange light coursing through the air, disrupting the surrounding energies and scattering the mist in a radial blast wave.
The fog retreated, dissolving into the air as if chased by the lingering light of the explosion.
The pressure lifted, and Viviane took a deep, shuddering breath.
She pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt and leaves from her clothing, and grabbed a vial from her belt, popping the cork and gulping down its contents, restoring some of her depleted mana.
The mist coiled around the edges of the clearing, probing the boundaries of the damage caused by her device, seeking a way in.
Viviane checked her toolbelt, counting the remaining mana bombs. Two left.
With how large of an area the mist covered, the mana bombs wouldn't last long, but they were better than nothing.
She just had to stave off the hallucinations until she found the others.
Hopefully Ebonheim would know what to do.