No sooner had the echo of the doctor's footsteps vanished into the far reaches of the silent hallway than Azrael sprang from the worn wooden bed. His movements imbued with a predator's grace and hastened by an inner urgency.

The pressing weight of unanswered questions bore him into action, necessitating an immediate analysis of the situation at hand.

Language, an unexpected non-issue, hung in the air. The doctor's words weren't Dharthul, his mother tongue, but Azrael understood them with perfect clarity.

Curiously, his own words were now an alien symphony to his ears, yet a symphony he commanded with inexplicable fluency. His thoughts transmuted into this foreign tongue as effortlessly as breath became wind, an unseen bridge of cognition supplying him with the needed vocabulary.

Brushing aside the whirlwind of questions inside his mind, Azrael strode toward the large window panels. His keen senses were lured by the muffled conversations of the villagers, wafting up to him as he lay in bed.

Setting aside the myriad of questions swirling in his thoughts, Azrael crossed the modestly sized room in a few long strides, drawn to the broad window like a moth to a lantern's glow. His keen senses were lured by the muffled conversations of the villagers, wafting up to him as he lay in bed.

With a swift and deliberate motion, he flung open the windows, his eyes hungrily scanning the village he had been transported into.

As Azrael peered out of the window, he was greeted by a vibrant and lively scene - a village humming with life, its heartbeat reverberating through the chatter and the smells of bustling commerce.

Cobbled paths, as if hand-stitched with meticulous precision, linked charming buildings, their facades glowing with the handiwork of craftsmen who took pride in their labor. The scent of bread kissed by the early morning sun and meats seasoned with strange spices danced in the air, accompanied by the cacophony of joyous laughter and mellifluous music echoing around every corner.

Each face Azrael saw beamed with a sense of belonging, a communal warmth foreign to him. Men, their attires ranging from humble tunics to heavy cloaks, engaged in amiable banter while women in ankle-length dresses or full skirts exchanged pleasantries, their uncovered hair dancing with the wind.

The marketplace was a lively and bustling scene of commotion, a dynamic ballet with vendors energetically peddling their wares and traders haggling over prices. Meanwhile, children played games in the streets, their laughter and carefree spirit contagious. In the center of the village stood a grand town hall, with its tall spires reaching towards the sky, seeming to touch the clouds above.

The warmth radiating from the villagers' smiles felt like an exotic language to Azrael, an unfamiliar occurrence from where he came from. The Abyssal Supercontinent was a merciless realm where survival was no less than a cruel jest, where every breath was bartered with the coin of constant vigilance. The humans, akin to tiny flickers of light in a tempestuous storm, eked out an existence on the edge of annihilation, each day a precarious dance with death.

Peace was a luxury, often no more than the final whisper of comfort granted to the dying.

Azrael turned away from the window, his reflection on the polished glass staring back at him. But the face that gazed back at him belonged to another - Osric. A mop of black hair framed a pair of curious, raven eyes, hiding within them the darkness of the abyss. His reflection bore a youth's lean, medium-built physique, clothed in a simple tunic and trousers, the fabric rough but durable.

The head wound was a reminder of the ordeal this body had suffered, a dull pulsating souvenir of violence.

Yet, severe pain was absent, an omission either credited to the doctor's skill or Osric's own resilience. Stripping off his tunic, Azrael marveled at the tapestry of his new physique, his gaze tracing every scar, every bruise.

Under the harsh scrutiny of his gaze, subtle narratives of violence began to unfold. Small, faded bruises speckled his knuckles, remnants of a brawl, perhaps. More concerning were the larger, angry bruises marring his abdomen, painful testimonials of blows sustained.

Azrael’s gaze then drifted upwards, towards his chest. He found himself holding his breath as he noticed a tiny mole nestled against his ribcage, barely visible above the steady drumming of his heart.

“The Blackened Vale,” he murmured to himself, his voice carrying both a revelation and an ominous foreboding, an echo that reverberated within the silent confines of the room.

In the widely circulated folktale [Dance of Life] passed down through countless generations. It told the poignant tale of a wolf and a lamb. The wolf and the lamb who set forth on a quest to uncover the profound mysteries of life. It was said the lamb perished before finding an answer, and the wolf vowed to guide her next form.

Ages turned to dust, and when the lamb, reborn and brimming with life, she found her path to the wolf’s den once again. Together, they embarked on a pilgrimage, their ambitions intertwined in a dance as they sought out Mother Time, the supposed oracle of life's mystery.

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"O wolf, will Mother Time unlock life's enigma?" queried the lamb, her wide eyes glimmering, full of anticipation and youthful naivety.

The wolf, his voice deep and rumbling, replied, “Mother Time, omnipresent yet elusive, doth govern the cadences of the cosmos, governing the chronology of occurrences and the gaps betwixt them. She doth take shape as the ceaseless stream that begets her progeny- the son, 'Past,' and the daughters, 'Present' and 'Future.' Even our mere being doth subsist within her benevolent embrace, as she doth lead us towards our destiny,”

Her curiosity piqued, the lamb inquired, her voice trembling like the delicate rustling of leaves in the breeze, "And where does this journey lead us, O wise wolf?"

“Mother Time doth incessantly move and elude us. Hence, we must journey to the Blackened Vale, where time doth not proceed. 'Tis there we shall chance upon her,” the wolf answered, his lupine eyes gleaming.

"With courage in our hearts, let us journey forth, O wise wolf," the lamb urged, her spirit ignited with resolve.

The wolf nodded solemnly, “Aye. Let us commence our departure. Yet, prudence must prevail, for we shall encounter myriad impediments en route, especially Reality. As seeking to obtain knowledge from time doth entail confronting reality, and Reality doth prove to be harsh and unkind.”

And so, the lamb and the wolf commenced their voyage.

***

During the early phase of Azrael's stint in the scavenger encampments near the Abyssal expanse of Harbert Fortress, he often found himself venturing into the untamed wilderness, a lone wanderer in pursuit of resources. As a rule, he adhered religiously to the well-trodden trails, the pathways inked into existence by countless footfalls of those who came before him. Yet, one day, a strange, inscrutable force tugged at his heartstrings, a pull as mysterious as the moon's sway over the sea, drawing him towards the inky depths of the neighboring forest. He felt a compelling urge, a siren's call from the unknown, beckoning him beyond the safeguarded fringes and into the forest's cryptic depths. Miraculously, he found no peril on his path.

The forest revealed itself as an ancient manuscript of secrets, brimming with mysteries that surpassed his most audacious imagination. On that destined day, his path intersected with one of the world's most intriguing landmarks - The Blackened Vale.

The [Dance of Life] whispered of arcane marvels scattered across the expansive continents. These places, radiant with arcane power and shrouded in allure, were considered the keys to understanding the origins of life and the workings of the universe itself. There were stories of the Frozen Crystal Caverns, where formidable beings were entrapped in glacial stillness, the Temple of Dreams, an ethereal sanctuary offering the promise of perpetual slumber, and the Gourmet Plate, a tantalizing tapestry of culinary pleasures that beguiled all who dared to enter its domain.

Yet, among the many spectacles in the Dance of Life, the Blackened Vale resonated with a magnetic charm that was unparalleled. It was said that the Vale was a temporal bridge, a realm where the confines of past, present, and future were mere mirages. It was a place where the river of time stood dormant, in tranquil repose.

Hushed tales of Vale's existence had percolated through the ages, painting a picture of a place where time was no prisoner to the shackles of reality. It was touted to shelter the cumulative legacy of all life, a treasure chest brimming with wisdom and wealth spanning countless epochs.

Those who had the fortune to encounter the Vale found their lives irrevocably altered, their destinies entwined with the secrets and mysteries it concealed.

However, the path to the dominion was dictated by destiny, eluding deliberate pursuit, its position a slippery secret, wavering as fickle as the ever-shifting sands of time. Those few who chanced upon its borders were merely shepherded by luck’s unseen hand. A treasure that would only be found, not sought.

Azrael had been swept up by the idea that his life would transform upon unearthing the Blackened Vale. He envisioned himself endowed with powers sourced from the forgotten epochs, invulnerable, a bastion of unassailable might. "At long last," he had dreamt, "he wouldn't have to lower his gaze in submission any longer."

The Blackened Vale was indeed a true embodiment of its moniker, a barren expanse echoing with the whispers of scorched remnants and a pulsating, otherworldly power.

The sky overhead was a maelstrom of inky clouds, their nebulous forms writhing and undulating like the serpentine tendrils of a primordial leviathan.

Nonetheless, despite the ominous undertones, he marched ahead with a resolute purpose, a harbinger of his belief that he was one of those select few destined to rise above the common masses.

Compelled by an irresistible force and his egoistic urges, Azrael ventured deeper into the ensnaring labyrinth of gnarled trees until he found himself standing in a secluded glade. At its heart, a colossal lone, charred tree defiantly staked its claim, its immense, twisted trunk and sprawling branches casting ghostly shadows on the ground beneath.

His attention riveted to the tree. Azrael barely had time to react as a spectral figure, seemingly woven from the ambient darkness, charged toward him with nightmarish speed.

The impact unleashed a wave of raw energy that cascaded through his body, a searing blaze scorching the left side of his torso.

The agony consumed him, eroding his consciousness, compelling him to crumple to the ground, surrendering to the encroaching darkness of unconsciousness.

He could still remember the pain vividly. It was unlike something he had ever felt.

When he came to, he was back at the scavenger encampment, bearing only a minute black mark on his left chest - a tangible souvenir of the surreal encounter. Nothing more.

With a resolve forged from curiosity and a tinge of frustration, he had exhausted every conceivable method to unravel the enigma behind the tiny black mark. He would let his one opportunity be wasted. From shamanic rituals to pilgrim poises and everything in between, all had met with silence and offered no answers.

Far from a superficial blemish, the dark hue seemed to seep deep into his flesh, piercing his bones, and nestled right above his heart.

As the days unfurled, the riddle of the mark retreated to the back of his mind. Yet now, in the midst of his current predicament, a sliver of understanding began to illuminate the mystery.

The unexpected sound of the front door creaking open jolted Azrael out of his introspection. The rhythmic footfalls echoed through the corridor, pausing ominously right outside his door.

His muscles tightened, coiled like a spring, the atmosphere electrified with anticipation.

A firm knock on his bedroom door was followed by an effusive voice.

"Hey there! Your bestie is here! Open up! Why don't you answer!? How have you been holding up?"