The massive trunk of the tree Mazorah slammed into was rather unforgiving. Mazorah could neither confirm nor deny completely losing consciousness for a few seconds as he lost all feeling in his body. After smashing into the side of a tree and basically killing himself, he fell down about 15 feet and smacked into the ground with a wet cracking noise. Somehow, he was barely conscious and was able to hear a man’s voice shout in alarm, “Holy mother of, what the flying…” footsteps sounded, nearing Mazorah’s soon-to-be-corpse. “Are you alright?” Mazorah didn’t (and couldn’t) answer, embracing the sweet darkness that would allow him to avoid the fact that he’d basically just shot himself into a tree.
“Hold on, I need you to answer my questions,” the man’s voice came from very close by now, “This might hurt, but it should fix you well enough.” A cracking sound resounded in Mazorah’s ears along with a few pops. Suddenly able to move again, he coughed out the blood in his mouth that was about to drown him. After a minute of this, the man’s voice came again, “what unholy abomination did this to you?” The man asked with such horror that Mazorah had to laugh. “I did, unfortunately.” Mazorah looked up to see the man’s confused face. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair streaking through his brown beard. He was completely bald and wore a black cloak, obscuring whatever else might be underneath it. The man watched him warily, as if expecting Mazorah would suddenly heal from his fractures and attack.
“So you’re saying,” the man began, “that you flew yourself into a tree from the direction of The Chasm. To what purpose? Are you escaping from something?” Mazorah instantly thought of the creepy fleshy walls and ground in the canyon, chasm, whatever you wanted to call it. “In a sense,” he replied, “but it isn’t really chasing me.” He didn’t really want to admit that his near-suicide was due to him being creeped out by some walls. The man stared at Mazorah for a few more moments, then glanced towards where he’d flown from. He’d called it The Chasm? “Did it also take your clothes and weapons from you?” The question caught Mazorah off-guard. He looked down and realized that he was, indeed, quite naked. “That, I… don’t remember,” he said weakly. It was the truth, but it felt fabricated even as he said it. He had no doubt the man would disbelieve him and leave him here to die. Instead, the man reached into his cloak and pulled out some clothes. “I’ve never seen someone encounter madness from The Chasm and come back from it. Perhaps crushing yourself into a tree fixed a piece of you that was broken.”
Mazorah wasn’t quite sure how he should feel. On one hand, the man had told him that he believed Mazorah had been crazy, naked, and flying into a tree was a great choice. On the other hand, Mazorah didn’t remember anything, woke up in the middle of a rock inside The Chasm (which, by the way, sounded a fair bit scarier than the creepy not-really-scary canyon Mazorah was familiar with), was naked and alone… And the stranger healed and gave clothes to him. On second thought, yes, Mazorah was inclined to side with the nice man and try to forget this ever happened. “To be honest,” he said, grabbing the clothes and putting them on, “I don’t really remember much of anything. Where are we?” Just as the man opened his mouth to answer, Mazorah interrupted him, “actually, first of all, may I know your name? I am Mazorah.” The man blinked then shrugged, “I am Claude. We’re in the forest directly adjacent to the Crimson Chasmlands, known as Fool’s Woods.” Mazorah nodded, but none of the locations rang a bell. “Crimson, because it’s all red over there?” Claude squinted his eyes a bit, seeming a little more comfortable with Mazorah than before. Maybe he found Mazorah’s story more believable due to his obvious ignorance? “Yes, the land around The Chasm, which is affected by the blight you saw on your way here, is called the Chasmlands. The area around The Chasm is broken down roughly by the color it dyed the land and the fog around it.”
“So there are other colors?” It felt like a stupid question, but Mazorah had only been in darkness until a few minutes ago. The only glimpse he’d had in the light had been of the side he was on now. No, wait, he did recall seeing some blue on one of the walls on his ascent. “Wait, is the other side blue?” Claude looked directly into his eyes, suddenly wary, “Indeed. Are your memories returning?” “No,” Mazorah shook his head, “I just glimpsed the blue coloring on the other wall.” Claude glared at Mazorah for a couple of seconds before raising his eyebrows, “You’re serious, aren’t you? How close were you?”
Just as Mazorah was about to answer, a horn sounded from deeper in the forest. Claude grimaced. “That for you?” Mazorah meant it as a joke, but Claude nodded, looking towards where the horn had come from. “I skipped my last few measurements. Gave some lame excuses. When an order mage showed up in town I assumed the worst and panicked. He probably was just planning on passing through, but… Well. Sounds like I‘ll be joining him soon.” With that, Claude started walking towards the red -er, Crimson- Chasmlands. Well, that was a bit too much exposition at once. Mazorah tried piecing the words together, but what were measurements and why did skipping them matter? Obviously mages were a thing here, which probably meant there were other people who could use the glowing essence inside things to do things. Maybe order mages were official mages who enforced some set of rules? Claude killed one?
“Wait,” Mazorah said, standing up, “can I come with you?” “No,” Claude said as he continued walking away. Mazorah was stunned for a moment, and rushed after Claude, “I’ll be helpful,” he said. “No,” Claude said again, “just wait here, tell them what happened. Follow me and become a fugitive.” That gave Mazorah pause. Yes, he decided, he was in over his head. He would wait here, report where the evil murderer had gone, and ask for safe passage to the nearest settlement. “In that case, good luck,” he said to Claude’s retreating figure, “And thanks for the clothes! And healing!” He wasn’t sure if Claude heard the last bit, but he figured the sentiment was what really counted. Mazorah went back to the spot where his puddle of blood was, kicked some dirt over it, and sat down.
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About ten minutes passed, and then Mazorah felt a cold sharp object touch the side of his throat. “Movement is death,” said a woman in a voice as cold as the object at his throat. “Very scary. Great delivery. I’ll stay very still,” Mazorah said, trying not to swallow. Nope, he couldn’t stop it, he swallowed. After a few moments of silence, Mazorah asked, “don’t you want to know where he went? The red, er, Crimson Chasmlands. I saw him walk right in there.” He wanted to point, then remembered the whole ‘no moving’ thing. So he stayed still. After another few seconds of silence, a man in a white cloak with a pack on his back walked around a tree in front of Mazorah. “Ah,” said the man with a smile, “this is definitely not him, inquisitor. Did you get anything from him?” “No,” the cold voice came from beside Mazorah’s ear, “The reading was cloudy. Perhaps the target wiped his mind?” The man nodded, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The Chasmlands produce all sorts of anomalies. Continue your pursuit.” The cold sharp object left Mazorah’s neck. The man turned his smile to Mazorah, “You are free to go, or you may return with us to Vaylen.”
To go to ‘Vaylen’ (wherever that was) with the creepy inquisitor and the smiling man or to stay in the giant forest in the middle of who knows where? Just as Mazorah was agonizing over the very difficult decision, his stomach growled. The man took off his pack and put it on the ground, fishing inside for something. “Biscuit?” The smiling man offered up the most delicious-looking lumpy cracker Mazorah had ever seen. Before he’d decided if he was going to accept food from the man, he’d shoved the thing in his mouth. It was hard and probably wouldn’t be considered appetizing by anyone other than Mazorah. As he munched on the thing, a little liquid leaked out the side of his eye. The man laughed, “tearing up with just that? Wait ‘til you try some of the berries I brought.” The man held out a few gleaming red and purple berries, which Mazorah grabbed and shoved into his mouth.
“Where are you from, friend?” The question the man posed was innocent enough, and since it wasn’t like Mazorah had anything to hide he answered honestly, “I don’t remember,” he said between bites. Feeling like maybe the berries had earned the man more of an explanation, he continued, “I came from the Chasm and accidentally ran into a tree. That Clark guy healed me and ran off.” The man nodded sagely, as though he had expected the answer. Mazorah could instantly tell that the man didn’t believe a word of what he’d said. “Claude, yes. Well, mister…” The man prodded, “Mazorah,” Mazorah supplied. The man nodded, “Mazorah. Would you permit me to run a measurement on you?” Mazorah wasn’t too surprised, since Claude had mentioned something about avoiding measurements and being chased due to it. “Will it hurt?” For the first time, the other man seemed to be studying him. It was as if he’d finally accepted the possibility Mazorah was telling the truth. “You said you came from the Crimson Chasmlands? My name is Dawl. And it will only hurt a tiny bit, since I’ll need to prick your arm.”
Mazorah nodded, “Go for it. What are you measuring for?” He was starting to suspect it had to do with mages or essence or something of that sort. “The amount of Ether in your blood,” the man answered, helpfully confirming Mazorah’s guess. Apparently it was Ether, not essence. Chasm, not canyon. Claude, not Clark. Mazorah ate another bite of the biscuit to quiet his thoughts. Dawl pulled out a small syringe with a needle at the end, then quickly grabbed Mazorah’s arm and stabbed it into the inside of his elbow. “Ow,” Mazorah complained around his bite of wonderful cracker stuff. Dawl pulled back, the little syringe full of blood. “Mazor… Mind if I call you Maze? Maze, I appreciate you being so forthcoming. Most people are afraid of the order.” Mazorah glanced at the place where he’d almost had his life ended by the inquisitor from before, “I can’t imagine why.”
Dawl chuckled, eying the syringe. It appeared the entire syringe was changing colors, probably to indicate what level of Ether was in Mazorah’s blood? That seemed nifty. Things were very prismatic around here; they just had to have everything colored. “You didn’t encounter us on our best day. Anybody would be a little on-edge after their friend was murdered, wouldn’t you say, Maze?” Mazorah finished the last bite of biscuit, “was he actually your friend?” Dawl pursed his lips, “well, no. Distant colleague. Perhaps I was a little dramatic to get my point across.” Mazorah nodded, “So, should I be running away with Claude?” Dawl snorted, “hardly. You barely have about as much Ether as the average person. They’ll run a few more tests back in Vaylen to ensure there’s no trace of the blight. You’ll need to quarantine for a few hours.”
A horn blew twice from somewhere inside the Crimson Chasmlands. Dawl sighed loudly and stretched, “time to head back.” Mazorah stood up expectantly, but Dawl made no further movements. After a few seconds had passed, there was a rustling sound behind Mazorah and to the right. He looked over, seeing nothing. Suddenly from his other side came a calm woman’s voice, “he went too far into the fog, no use trying to track him.” Mazorah jumped and drew in a sharp breath. This was the inquisitor from before. Dawl gave Mazorah a smirk, the kind where you weren’t sure if he was pitying you or making fun of you. Dawl nodded to the inquisitor as if to say ‘lead the way’, and Mazorah turned to follow. The scary inquisitor lady had blonde hair in a long braid and wore tight dark green and brown mottled clothes that almost made her blend in with the background. Dawl looked back at him, “would you carry my pack, friend?”
Mazorah blinked. Had he just been reduced to grunt labor? The inquisitor paused and glanced back at him, and he moved quickly to pick up the pack. “Grab the cloak out of there for Eadit,” Dawl said, motioning to the inquisitor. Mazorah grabbed a white cloak out of the Once he’d thrown the straps over his shoulders, he walked up to the inquisitor, Eadit, and held out the cloak for her. She grabbed it and put it on in one graceful motion. Maybe she wasn’t so bad. Eadit looked down at his feet, “where are his shoes,” she asked with the slightest tinge of disgust. Dawl shrugged. Without another word, the inquisitor turned away and started walking through the forest. Mazorah glanced at the feet of his companions and noticed that they were indeed wearing shoes on their feet. He had the premonition that his feet were about to be very sore. “Note to self, get shoes,” Mazorah said to himself quietly.