CHAPTER 23: FORGOTTEN SHADES
“Every Vampire Bloodline arises from an act of betrayal. The Progenitor of each breed of Vampire knowingly and intentionally broke the trust of a loved one in a profoundly horrible manner. An act so terrible the Gods themselves turn their back on the perpetrator. Unfortunately, such twisted acts do not disgust every being in the Beyond. Instead, attracting the attention and, more terribly, the boons of things of blood and night. Creating Vampires, creatures abandoned by the Light, and empowered by the Dark.” - Morticai the Unbroken, Knight of the Brilliant Dawn.
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Bad dreams and blood loss left Cole drained. He literally rolled out of bed and took nearly half an hour to get washed and dressed. Only making his way down into the Silly Goat proper by ten in the morning, which by local standards was an obscene time to sleep into, but not that odd for Cole. Spending his life hunting the Undead, with many late nights stalking through cursed graveyards, warped Cole’s sleep schedule into a mutant abnormality.
Downstairs in the tavern, Cole found little of note. Wilhelm acknowledged his presence with a plate of something warm and edible. While Barnabas, eternally at his barstool, simply grunted. Cole ate in silence for a little while before asking.
“Where’s Natalie?” he hadn’t seen her and saw no evidence of her presence.
Wilhelm nodded his head towards the door and answered. “She’s running some errands. She also told me to give you this when you crawled out of bed.” Wilhelm grabbed a piece of paper and handed it to Cole.
The paper held a collection of notes and crude maps Natalie found time to write up. These provided directions to the ruins Natalie described and contained all the details she’d heard about the ruins. Looking over the sheet, Cole felt a smile come to him. Yet again, she’d surprised and impressed him. It was a feeling Cole could get used to. A pang of guilt found the opportunity to hit Cole then. His dreams had reinforced many of his worries in this regard. Isabelle still clung to undeath somehow, and Cole could not and would not betray that love.
Wincing and shaking away those uncomfortable thoughts. Cole pocketed the paper and looked up to Wilhelm, and debated saying something about his intentions with Natalie. But no words came, and Cole switched focus.
“Thank you for the meal. I’m going to visit the Temple and leave soon. If I don’t see Natalie, thank her for me.”
Wilhelm’s brow raised as he asked, “She’s not going with you today? I expected her to follow after you, Rest-Bringer; Did you manage to convince her not to join you on your hunt?” Wilhelms's words had an almost pleading note to them. The sound of a worried parent hoping the danger might have passed.
Wincing internally, Cole answered honestly. “I agreed to let her accompany me only if I could confidently say I could keep her safe. She’s still insistent on joining me on my mission, but not on this particular excursion. What I think haunts that ruin is not something I’d risk exposing Natalie too.”
Wilhelm wilted slightly but pondered his words. Barnabas snorted in derision and asked. “You thought she’d be safe when you fought that jagging bone pile? What in the World’s name made you think that?”
Scratching the back of his head in mild embarrassment, Cole explained. “The Charnel was ultimately unintelligent. I could take precautions that a more aware form of Undead might ignore. Ghouls and Rattlers are ultimately driven by instincts and magical impulses, they can be subverted with forethought and arcane protections. What I think is haunting that ruin, a Wraith, is much more unpredictable.”
Wilhelm and Barnabas both shivered at that. Getting up to leave, Cole tried to find comforting words, but none came. Even with food and drink in him, Cole’s mind felt fuzzy. He’d yet to recover from his ordeal last night, and the mental impact of his experiences over the past few days hadn’t yet sunk in. While capable of incredible acts of endurance and survival, Cole was not immune to the sheer drain that pain and stress could put on a person. Trying to ignore this, Cole left the Silly Goat and set about his next task.
Trude had promised him a cloak, and Cole didn’t know if it would be completed by now, but he wanted to check before leaving for the ruin. Even in his slightly bewildered state, Cole could tell something had changed in Glockmire. While people still avoided him, the looks he got were marginally less hostile, and one or two passersby even waved to him. They were patrons of the inn who’d listened to him the night previously. Uncertain but not wanting to offend, Cole waved back and continued on his way. It didn’t take him long to arrive at his destination. He’d made this trek to the temple enough times to have the route memorized.
Cole took a moment at the Temple’s entrance to admire the images carved into the large door. The complicated pattern of sacred sigils, ancient runes, and pictograms of important events managed to be artistic while also serving as a powerful reminder of the Temple's nature. This was where faith and community forged a bastion against the darkness. Where miracles are commonplace, and the Pantheon’s touch is felt. Putting his hand upon the aged but sturdy door, Cole entered the Temple and sought out the Loom-Matron.
It was not Godsday nor a sacred time of the year, so the Temple’s sanctuary was uninhabited. Cole passed through the empty cloister towards the workshop he’d last seen Trude in. Even if she wasn’t present, it was a good place to start looking.
As he moved through the dimly lit halls of the Temple, Cole felt mildly surprised at his own actions. Normally he’d have simply waited in the sanctuary for someone to guide him to Trude. Instead, he’d been more proactive and even rather rude. By simply inviting himself into the Temple’s backrooms and hunting after one of its high-ranking Priests. While from a purely theological standpoint; as a Paladin and direct agent of Master Time, Cole out-ranked every Priest and Acolyte in the temple combined. Yet it still felt improper to not show due respect to the local religious institution. Still, Cole didn’t turn back, he had work to do, and perhaps some of Natalie’s bullheadedness was rubbing off on him.
Cole found Trude where he expected.. the door to the workshop was open, and Cole could hear the woman's voice echoing through the hallways.
“You are making progress. The fabric here needs to be tighter, but your efforts are acceptable so far.”
A second higher-pitched and nervous voice answered. “Yes, matron. Thank you for your advice!”
It seemed Trude was with a student. Cole knocked on the door, hoping he wasn’t interrupting a crucial lesson.
“Enter,” came Trude’s firm voice, and Cole obliged. He found the Priestess sitting next to a small quilt being worked on by a skinny girl. A teenage acolyte or apprentice tradeswoman, perhaps? Priests of Uncle Maker were tasked with teaching crafts to all who desired to learn. The student looked away from her quilt to see Cole, and she nearly fell out of her seat in fright. Cole winced slightly, but Trude simply clucked her tongue in annoyance. Getting up from where she’d sat, the Loom-Matron grabbed a large bundle of cloth from a nearby table and handed it to Cole.
“My gift to you, Rest-Bringer. I hope it helps.” Cole let the fabric unfold into a large cloak and cowl. The billowing black garment was similar to his old burned-up one, but the fabric seemed softer and sturdier. Cole started to thank Trude for the gift but was cut off when she rammed a pair of scissors through the cloak. The sharp blades stopped just a handspan from Cole’s chest. Dropping the cloak, Cole lept back, reaching for his weapon. Cursing himself, he realized he’d left the thing back at the Silly Goat. Not thinking he’d need a bloody halberd to run an errand.
To his surprise, Trude didn’t continue her “attack,” instead she kneeled on the ground and straightened out the cloak where Cole dropped it. Once the cloak was set, Trude grabbed a strip of cloth and pressed it onto the spot she’d torn. To Coles's amazement, the new piece of fabric seemed to “melt” into the cloak. Individual threads attached to their sheared counterparts. The fabric itself seemed to loosen and reform with the cut patched over. The new material merged with the old, repairing the cloak with barely any sign that it had been patched.
Trude stood up and brandished the cloak at Cole, and spoke. “I rarely use this enchantment but found it suitable for you Rest-Bringer. You can feed this cloak scraps of cloth, and it will repair itself. Try to get the same color of material to repair it if you don’t want the thing ending up looking silly.”
She handed the cloak to Cole, and he put it on, letting its dark folds wrap his shoulders and body. To Cole’s surprise it fit perfectly,Trude's measurements were apparently more than enough to fit the garment. Nodding in appreciation, Cole spoke, “This is incredible, Loom-Matron. Thank you for such a gift!”
Trude grimaced as she responded. “Thread-Mages like myself call the enchantment ‘Leech Cloth,’ and it's not without disadvantages. The magic woven into it needs to be fed with extensive use, and the accursed thing is fickle, preferring blood over any more palatable type of magical fuel. Normally that’s a deal-breaker for the type who likes enchanted clothes, but I thought you’d find it… acceptable.”
A mixture of worry, disgust, and confusion warred for dominance inside Cole. Trude was giving him a vampiric cloak to aid him in hunting the Undead. Did she know about his skill with Blood Magic? Or was this some attempt at morbid humor?
Cole didn’t know what to make of this turn of events and defaulted to polite stiffness. “Thank you, Loom-Matron. This will serve my purposes.”
Trude nodded and either didn’t perceive or acknowledge Cole’s moment of concern. Instead, continuing to explain her creation. “As long as a quarter of the original material is intact, it should be able to repair itself. The Cloak will use any fabric it can, so if you are sloppy in feeding it, the cloak will become a patchwork monstrosity.”
Cole took a moment to further examine and feel the Cloak while Trude watched him. After finding no faults or issues, Trude spoke again. “ Now, with that settled, I feel I’ve done my part. Go follow your purpose and try not to die.”
Having been excused from her presence in a typically terse manner, Cole turned to leave. The stern Priestess admonished him as he reached the door. “Oh and Rest-Bringer, remember what I said about Natalie.”
Smiling softly, Cole chuckled. “I will keep your words in mind, Priestess, but you need not worry today. She isn’t accompanying me on this part of my quest.”
Cole left the workshop and the Temple that contained it, not pausing to visit the altars, he’d have time for that later. The ultimate way to serve his God was not through prayer but through actions. He had a duty, and he would see it fulfilled. Despite its grim nature, the cloak fit Cole well, and he found its presence comforting. He’d traveled far and wide with little more than a good cloak to protect him from the elements. So having that small bit of luxury was something Cole was truly thankful to have back.
Arriving at the Silly Goat, Cole gathered his pack and equipment from his room. Wilhelm was alone in the tavern absently polishing a glass. He barely acknowledged Cole’s arrival but called out to the scarred man before he could leave the inn again.
“Cole, do you have a moment?”
Slightly surprised, Cole moved over to speak with the Innkeeper. So far, Wilhelm had avoided him ever since Natalie became involved with his duties. Something Cole didn’t blame the middle-aged man for. Despite everything Cole had done to mitigate the risks, Natalie was still involved in something soul-threateningly dangerous.
Setting down the now spotless old glass, Wilhelm mustered his courage and spoke. “I haven’t been a good host nor a good man the last day or two. From what I can see, Cole, you are someone who's lived a hard life and still tries his best to do good. That's rare and worth more than most people think.”
Those were not the words Cole had expected. Momentarily stunned, a feeling he was facing much these days, Cole responded.
“I’m honored by your words Master Wilhelm, but they are not needed. Your feelings and actions make perfect sense, and I’ve taken no offense.”
Wilhelm sighed, rested his weight against the bar, and said, "And that's part of the problem.”
Cocking an eyebrow in surprise, Cole asked, “Excuse me?”
Folding his finger and resting his head on them, Wilhelm answered. “If you were a good-for-nothing bastard playing with my daughters' heart, I’d feel no guilt for despising you. But from what I’ve seen and heard, you seem a righteous person trying to help; and part of me can’t help but loathe you for stirring up a storm while involving Natalie.” continued Wilhelm, a mixture of guilt and bitterness touching his voice.
Slowly Cole picked his words. “I’m sorry, Wilhelm. It makes sense that you feel as you do. I wish I did not endanger you or Natalie with my presence.”
That got an annoyed grunt from Wilhelm. It seemed Cole’s words just fed into the man’s angst. They stood there in silence for a moment, Wilhelms confession souring the air. Cole debated just leaving the inn, not wanting to worsen the situation. For a brief moment, he also considered letting Wilhelm know more about Cole’s purpose in Glockmire. Explaining his identity as a Paladin and the threat brewing in the town. That possibility was quickly rejected. Cole was already gambling much with letting this town think he was a Rest-Bringer. Letting the knowledge that he was a Paladin spread farther than it had could be disastrous. The Vampires might ignore a Rest-Bringer who didn’t challenge them. A Paladin would be a different story.
“You can loathe me all you wish if it helps you. I will not object.” was all Cole could say as he left the inn. Cole felt guilty, but not as much as he probably should. He’d let himself get tangled with Natalie, and while that had proven a surprising boon, Gambling with other people's lives was not something Cole would do lightly, even if it might stop them from hating him.
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The trip to the ruins was uneventful. Using the map and directions Natalie provided, Cole navigated to his goal with relative ease. His path took him deeper into the forest he’d fought the Vryko-Ghouls in. Veering away from the worn cliff-face where those Undead had been born and into the forest proper. After entering the dense greenery of these woods, Cole relied less on Natalie’s directions and more on the gentle tug within his chest. That familiar cold pull moved away from Castle Glockmire and instead pushed Cole deeper into the forest. Providing all the confirmation he needed that Undead haunted these woods.
The ‘God-Touch,’ as other Paladins called that strange feeling, would always pull Cole to where he was needed. A fickle thing that was practically useless for true navigation but perfect for confirming what he’d suspected. It didn’t long for Cole to notice other signs that something was wrong. Most acute was the vague but ever-present feeling of being watched. There was an instinctual itch on the back of Cole's neck, screaming that something dangerous was nearby. That feeling would be enought to keep all but the bravest and stupidest from getting close to where Cole was headed.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Between the trees, Cole spotted what he’d been looking for, age-worn stonework sticking from the forest floor. Remnants of a building’s walls after centuries of neglect. Reaching the worn-down walls, Cole easily stepped over the now knee-high structure and entered the ruin proper. What was left of a foundation stretched out for maybe ten meters , the old stones falling prey to vines, moss, and the elements. The ruined wall surrounded perhaps half the structure, with missing parts marking entrances or where time took its tool.
Looking around, Cole guessed this ruin was Late Imperial in nature, probably destroyed in the madness of the Bloody Centuries. While Cole lacked any proper training in history and archaeology, he’d spent enough time around tombs and ruins to pick up a solid base of knowledge. As he continued his examination, Cole's sense of being watched never abated. Something was here, and he would need to draw it out and destroy it.
Moving towards the center of the ruin, Cole’s foot brushed against something. What he’d taken to be mottled moss and stone was, in fact, a large tarpaulin. Covered in stray leaves and dirt, the canvas sheet covered something in the center of the ruin. Grabbing it, Cole tugged the tarpaulin and located the four pitons anchoring it to the stone. Cutting the canvas free, Cole pulled the tarp off the stone and found what he’d been expecting. A faded but still discernible symbol had been painted onto the ruin’s floor.
Roughly circular in shape, the symbol was strange and flowing, roughly two meters in diameter. Its pattern looked like curling serpents woven together in a strange overlapping appearance. Smaller, more intricate glyphs marked wherever the “serpents” overlapped. Each thick line of the symbol was traced with charcoal and then filled with a brown-looking pigment. Cole recognized the pigment as the residue of long dried blood, something he was unfortunatly familar with.
The symbol itself was not one Cole recognized, but the location, use of blood, and its style told him all he needed to know. This was a ritual site, where someone relatively recently practiced Necromancy. By the shape of the symbol, Cole guessed this was indeed a binding rite. Something meant to attract the attention of an existing Undead and then force its subservience. While he’d expected a rite of reanimation, this was still a promising lead.
Setting down his pack, Cole fished out a piece of paper and pencil he’d bought from a merchant in Glockmire. While no artist, Cole could still copy the symbol with some accuracy. Except he intentionally left the circular edge of his drawing unfinished. While Cole doubted his crude recreation would have any of the original's arcane power, tempting fate when it came to Black Magic was never a good idea.
With his sketch back in his pack, Cole gathered up what he’d need for what was to come. A few sticks of incense, some salt, and a bell. An odd collection of items, but one’s that would be crucial in luring and dispatching a Wraith. Lengthening his halberd to short spear proportions, Cole got to work. It was still the middle of the day, and the Sun cast short shadows on the ruins. That made things both harder and easier. No type of Undead enjoys the Sun. This is especially true of Wraiths. Lacking a body of any kind, spectral Undead fared poorly in Sunlight. So if Cole could lure it out, then dealing with the Wraith would be easier, but getting it to face him in the first place would be difficult.
A vague but ever-present feeling of being watched, accompanied by an instinctual sense of dread, were some of the most basic signs of a Wraith. The mind, body, and soul of a living being react instinctively to something that should not be. A soul without a body.
Unlike Ghouls and Rattlers with clear origins in unconsecrated corpses and magic-tainted bones, Wraiths lack a unified origin. While, by definition, they are souls that refuse to pass on and instead haunt the world, the reason for why they would not pass on varies. Sometimes a person chooses to not enter Master Time’s halls out of a skewed sense of responsibility to the living. More commonly a soul refused to pass on out of fear of inevitable judgment. No matter the reason, existing without flesh quickly wears down sanity, creating a distorted parody of the original person with frightening abilities.
Coaxing a Wraith out in the day would be difficult so Cole was going to get its attention then its anger. Cole started by wandering around the ruin, scattering salt and checking for any bones that might still be nearby. While he doubted nature nor the Feeder would let any remains lie still, Cole wanted to check. Having access to the body of a Wraith (or part of it at least) would give Cole other options. His search proved fruitless and Cole finished scattering salt across the stone floor. Keeping a handful of the crystalline dust for himself, Cole returned to his pack and started the next step in angering the Wraith.
Setting out the incense, Cole lit the four sticks and let the pungent aroma wash over the ruin. The type he’d purchased was usually only used in religious ceremonies. The overwhelming smell and the surprising amount of smoke produced made the incense good for little else. Soon clouds of thin smoke filled the ruin, and Cole knew he was nearly done. The faint pressure the Wraith had been exerting on his mind had bloomed into something massive. No longer was it a vague sense of being watched but now a visceral feeling of murderous hatred. Cole expected and hoped for this reaction.
Picking up the bell, Cole started to ring it softly and pray. A slow funeral cant he’d learned years ago. This, combined with the salt and incense, would begin the processes of consecrating this ruin. Changing its reflection in the Aether into something the Gods held dominion over. While he could do a “quick and dirty” version of this through blood magic and his divine boons, his goal was not truly to consecrate these broken stones. All Cole wished to do was force the Wraith to act. Which it most certainly would. Cole was doing the equivalent of entering a Bears den and dumping a mix of lye and shit right in front of the beast. Worse than a territorial challenge or insult, this was a direct attack on the Wraith and its “home.”
Before Cole could start the prayer’s second verse, he felt the temperature around him drop rapidly. Frozen breaths joined the incense in the now chilled air. Cole dropped the bell with an ugly clank and held out his halberd. Slowly rotating, Cole kept his senses peeled for his enemy. That proved to be unnecessary as a gods-awful shriek cut through the air. It came from every direction and no direction, filling the ruin with a near-deafening wail. Sounding like a mixture of tearing metal and a child being tortured. It was so loud Cole could feel it in his teeth.
Shaking his head, Cole responded with his own challenge, “MAGNI MORTAE MUNDUS!”
His bellowed words echoed on the stone, and the shriek faded. Movement caught Coles's attention, and he barely turned to see a figure standing in the smoke, only two meters away was a dark gap in the incense. An absence unfilled by curling smoke, forming the rough image of a person. It was little more than arms, legs, a torso, and a head without detail. Just a faint dark patch of air marked chiefly by where the smoke touched it. Seeing it, Cole spoke again.
“I am a Servant of Master Time. Sent here to lay you to rest, Lost Soul. I do not know what suffering has driven you to this state, but I am here to end it. The judgment of his Halls will be fair, and I ask you to submit to it willingly.”
The Wraith didn’t move or respond in any way. So Cole continued this time in a more gentle tone. “It is normal to fear what comes next. But surely it must hurt to exist as you do? Let me help you move on.”
Cole barely finished speaking when the Wraith charged him, or more accurately, ‘flowed’ toward him. Not moving its limbs; instead, it simply pushed through the smoke with terrible quickness. It was upon Cole in a moment, and only then did it move its limbs. Shadowy arms shot out and touched Cole, spreading a bitter, bitter chill. Phantom fingers touched Cole’s chest and left burning cold where they went. Despite what it felt like, frostbite was not ripping into Cole. This was an attack on his soul, not his body. The Wraith was reaching into his being and trying to rip his essence from him.
This was why Cole hadn’t let Natalie accompany him. Wraiths rarely attacked in mundane ways. Instead, striking the mind and soul of their victim. Cole hadn’t known exactly what this Wraith would do, but he’d not wanted to risk Natalie’s sanity in facing it. The cold of the grave accompanied by the wails of a tortured spirit would be enough to put most people into shock. Letting their guard drop, giving the Wraith the moment it needed to rip their very soul apart, leaving a Corpse that showed no apparent cause of death other than the fear on its face.
Whatever was left of this Wraith's mind cleary expected this to happen, that the pain and fright it inflicted would give it an opening into its attackers being. So when Cole swung his halberd into the Wraiths side, it exploded backward in a confused shriek. Pearlescent fluid splattered onto the stone before quickly evaporating into thick fog, Ectoplasm leaking out of the Wraith’s shadowy form.
Not letting the Wraith recover, Cole lunged forward with his halberd cutting through one of the restless Spirits' arms. The severed arm dissipated into a white fog, and the Wraith let out another howl, this one of pain. Frantically the Wraith charged Cole again, its remaining arm outstretched and warping into a shadowy claw. With contemptuous ease, Cole batted the limb away with his halberd and went for the re-killing blow. Cole drove the halberd into the Wraiths torso and ripped up. Letting the Wraith fall apart into a bloom of ectoplasm.
Cole bowed his head and spoke. “May you find peace in the next life.”
One of the most dangerous facets of dealing with Wraiths is their incorporeal nature. As their soul congeals into something rotten, Wraiths aren’t bound by most natural laws. Existing predominantly in the Aether, only partially entering the material world in an envelope of Ectoplasm. Capable of phasing through walls and unbothered by steel weapons, destroying a Wraith requires magical intervention. A fact Master Time, as the God of Death, accounted for when investing a bit of his power into a Paladin. Just as Cole could look into the eyes of a corpse and see flickers of their last moments, he could touch Wraiths as if they were made of normal matter.
In the bright sunlight and under the withering assault of Cole’s halberd, the Wraith was destroyed. Its vessel of ectoplasm burst, and its essence damaged, the Wraith dissipated into the Beyond where it might face Master Time. While he didn’t know for certain, Cole guessed the Wraith was a Shade. The result of a soul stuck in the material plane for a very long time without any sort of anchor. Its mind deteriorated to the point nothing of the person remained. Leaving a putrefied soul in extreme pain and unable to comprehend the world around it. Bitterly Cole thought that even if that soul was consigned to the Infinite Hells, that would be more merciful than whatever unlife he’d just ended.
Rolling his shoulders Cole decided Philosophy and Theology could wait, his sense of being watched remained. Slowly turning in a circle Cole restarted his scan of the ruin around him. In the smoke, he spotted perhaps a dozen more Shades floating at the edges of the ruin. Cole had expected this. A single Shade was not worth the effort to bind, but a group of them? That would be something the Feeder might be interested in. Looking at the voids in the smoke where indistinct shadows floated, Cole repeated his plea.
“Please, let me release you peacefully. Damaging your Ectoplasm could damage your very soul. Allow me to help you in a way that won’t hurt.”
This was part of what made fighting Wraiths so unpleasant. A soul shredded through force might not reconstitute correctly in the Beyond. Bits of the spirit could be lost to the Beyond’s infinite expanse. That is, if it didn’t just dissipate away into nothingness entirely.
The Shades didn’t respond, just staring at Cole with those murky false faces. Raising his halberd up in a guard stance, Cole grit his teeth in frustration. He hoped he could reach whatever scraps of sapience might hide in the Shades, but he knew it was unlikely. They were each a morass of jumbled memories, instincts, and feelings, who saw him or any other soul-bearing creature as something to attack and destroy.
Confirming Cole’s fears, the Shades erupted forward. A dozen different shadowy forms stretched in inhuman proportions as they attacked. Arms and hands lengthening into talons. Legs faded into a wispy afterthought while shadow-covered faces contorted in a scream. The horrible shriek from before accompanied the attack. This time multiplied in intensity to mind-shattering volumes. The scream was not a sound pulled from tortured throats. Instead, it was a grating attack on the very soul. The Shades influence on the surrounding Aether interrupted by Cole’s mind.
Experience, his unusual nature, and Master Time’s boons inured Cole to such attacks. Swinging his halberd in a great arc, Cole struck one Shade right through the head and another in the torso. Even as they faded into unchained ectoplasm, they reached out for Cole. Hints of their grave-cold touching him. This was something else Cole paid no mind to. He served the God of Death, Time, and Entropy. The chill of death was something he knew well.
With the first two dissipated, Cole leaped towards another. Ramming the spear-tip of his weapon through its body and ripping the halberd to his right. The impaled and fading Wraith smashed into one of its kin Cole now cleaved into. Both melted into clouds of Ectoplasm, and Cole tried not to wince in annoyance. He didn’t think mixing two Shades as they were destroyed would be good for their souls. While he may be fighting for his life, he still needed to remember his duties and not let this melee turn into something worse than it had to be.
With the original one destroyed and four more fallen to his blade, only eight Shades remained for Cole to face. They’d been buffeted back by his attack. Circling him with that strange unnatural movement of most Wraiths. While they had a numerical advantage, Cole’s aggression and resistance to their attacks kept them at bay. Cole wouldn’t let them regroup, tortured broken souls as these were, they were still dangerous, capable of surrounding him and tearing his soul apart. Something Cole was not sure even he could survive.
Charging forward, Cole tried to strike one of the closer Shades. It flitted backward, leaving a trail of empty air in the smoke-filled ruin. Another Shade tried to take advantage and lept towards Cole’s back. Whirling around, Cole shot out his free right hand and tried something stupid. Cole gripped the Shade with his bare hand, something impossible to a mundane warrior. This proved to be a mistake. The Shade was a soul, the essence of a person, stretched out of the Aether and into a facet of reality never meant to hold it. Bitterly cold to the touch, it felt like Cole had thrust his hand into glacial water. But that supernatural chill was the least of it, flickers of memories pulsed against Cole’s mind.
* The deep ache of overtaxed muscles accompanied by the ugly pang of hunger*
* The bitter sting of a slaver’s lash and the scream of pain accompanying it.*
* Lungs burning with exertion as animal panic fills an innocent mind *
* A group of youths hiding in an abandoned Imperial villa*
* Choking smoke and burning fire as thirteen people try to break open a sealed door *
Smashing the Shade’s head, Cole let it dissipate and tried not to vomit. The jumbled memories told a story, one he could decipher later. For now, he needed to end this. Seven Shades remained, and every second they existed was another second they’d been failed.
The sixth fell to a cut from its shoulder to hip. The fifth broke apart when the flat of the halberd slammed into it. Numbers four and three were cleaved in a single blow. While the second Wraith was run through. Leaving a single thrashing Shade attempting to grip onto Cole. He didn’t let it get close, moving back slightly to whisper a few words. “I’m so sorry, lost soul. Let this pain end, and may your next life be something beautiful.”
Cole struck the Shade cleanly and let it dissipate into nothingness. Leaving Cole alone in the ruin. After a few minutes of silence, Cole moved over to the ritual symbol painted on the stone. Lifting up his halberd Cole struck the dried blood and charcoal. Screaming in rage as he did. Cole struck and struck again, hacking into the old stone with reckless abandon. He did this until nothing of the symbol was recognizable. Cold sweat dripped down Cole’s face and his arms burned from the exertion. The axe-head of his halberd was blunted and chipped as well. Swearing under his breath and annoyed with himself, Cole nicked his arm with a sharp part of the weapon and had it reform into a hand-axe. The transformation fixed the blade but required a fair amount of blood. Partially to power the more complicated spell, partially to provide material for the repair.
Slumping down on his knees, Cole set the axe next to him and gritted his teeth in anger. While he didn’t know for certain and doubted he would ever. It seemed the Feeder found the Shades of centuries-old escaped slaves and bound them to its will. These souls were the product of terrible tragedy. Little more than children, they’d escaped bondage only to die in a fire. Leaving behind Wraiths so terrified of what came next, they devolved into Shades. Haunting where they died for centuries as their minds devolved. This was a tragedy never to be recorded in any tome of history. Only remembered by the tortured Wraiths who lived it. The Feeder found this tragedy and saw it as an opportunity to gain a weapon.
That fact made Cole hate the Feeder. Before, he’d loathed this being, who perverted the unquiet dead for some twisted purpose. Now Cole hated this enemy. Perhaps not with the same choler as Natalie, but he still felt a deep, freezing cold hatred for whatever being could see this pain and repurpose it to hurt others.
Slowly getting back to his feet, Cole recollected himself. He spent a few minutes praying, combining a Saint-Speech Funeral chant with his pleas that these lost souls find peace. As Cole finished, he felt a familiar chill brush against his soul. A cold that didn’t burn but instead soothed away the pain. With its touch came an impression of a number.
*Seven*
Master Time answered his prayer with the honesty you’d expect from the God of Death. Seven of the thirteen could be reincarnated. The other six had been too far damaged. Their souls were mutilated, unstable things that even a God couldn’t heal properly. Master Time and his Seraphs would ensure those poor broken souls faded into nothingness peacefully. Something that was little comfort to Cole.
For a moment, he felt a surge of regret and self-loathing. If he’d done this better, maybe more of them … no, he couldn’t go down that path of thought. Reflecting on one’s mistakes could too easily become hating yourself for failing. Cole just needed to do better and save as many souls as he could.