I pen this passage, half eulogy half introduction, on a somber evening, a smooth glass of vintage red seated comfortably within the wrinkled folds of my left, its transparency increasingly fogged by the mist of my own mourning. On the evening that these words of pitch black find themselves dedicated to these white sheets, words that I have no doubt will eventually shape future literary zeitgeists within Vulturia, the spirit of my dear friend Soul would have already left this world.

If a stranger declared to me one day that Soul had passed at the ripe young age of twenty-four without a sliver of evidence to back up their claim, I admit that I would find it difficult to cast him any doubt. As Soul was not one of the many warriors out facing the monster invasion within ‘The Baening’, I can empathize with the hesitation that my statement may invoke within a person only vaguely familiar with his personage. The issue, however, lies in the fact that Soul was truly a man of this country, in that, he was one who indulged in the many vices that its culture so feverishly embraces.

To this day, for example, my pockets remain light as a result of his endless borrowing—borrowing that existed all for the sake of rushing off to gamble at high-stake Fort Raid tables. Let me not delude you into believing that I was the exclusive victim of this habit of his, as this was a commonality I shared with many of his closest acquaintances. I am of the utmost certainty that his inability to return borrowed coin has led to violent altercations on many an occasion.

As if this weren’t enough of a satisfactory telling of his extra-curricular activities, he would often boast about how he’d shared a bed with half the courtesans in the country, and I fear to imagine what sort of ailments he carried due to his unabashed promiscuity. He was a slave to flesh, and I worried one day that it may have even gotten him into trouble with other men. On another note, since turning sixteen, I am hard-pressed to recall a single night that this man had spent sober. If the prospect of liver disease or alcohol poisoning weren’t enough of a worry, he would often find himself brawling with other saloon patrons, as he happened to be a terrible drunk. His infamously bright smile had lost two of its splendid white pearls at the age of nineteen during one of these disputes, which somehow hadn’t deterred him from going to bat with someone else the very next night.

His relationship with alcohol was one that would often dig him into a hole of implacability, and, as a result of his wanton lifestyle, he had once even attempted to court my own wife before my eyes while under the influence. I report to you all that I have no doubt that he had since regretted attempting to make a mockery of my marriage until his final day. So no, dear reader. If a stranger came up to me and declared that Soul had passed at twenty-four, my only response would be an inquiry as to which of these vices it was that had finally led to his demise.

For all my recognition of Soul’s rambunctious antics, however, it should be noted that his passing is not only the painful departing of my dear friend, but also the loss of The Baening’s finest linguistic mind, and I am of no uncertainty that this news will come as a shock to the few scholarly men that still inhabit this country. If you were ever to wonder how a man of such infamy always managed to swindle others into relinquishing their own money despite his notorious gambling, soliciting, and drinking addictions, it was simply because that mouth of his was a gift to the world.

It was a gift that, despite containing a wit that would be of great use to even the noble families of countries within Vulturia far wealthier than whatever pocket change exists within The Baening, whether it be Qormani, The Tillows, or even the Kingdom of Astra itself, was condemned to this poverty-stricken land of ours where the sword is valued far more than the tongue. His ability to talk circles around the average citizen of this country was the sole reason he hadn’t been murdered for his reckless lifestyle before today.

I understand now that I might be leading one to wonder why Soul had then decided to stay holed away in this lawless land of debauchery and unending infighting, one where his apparent aptitude for verbal linguistics was never truly to be appreciated or benefited from for the entire twenty-four years of his life. Though I wish not to speak ill of the man’s craft in the face of his reputation as a linguist, there is something that I must confess for the sake of answering this question. Despite Soul’s etymological renown, putting pen to paper such as I currently am had never been a particularly strong suit of his. Indeed. That man and the pen had been at odds with one another for as long as the monster threat has roamed the continental Vulturian soil, up until the day of his passing.

Now then, the reason he had decided to stay within The Baening despite his aptitude for speech, the reason that, while his body still lays warm on the floor of his Fort Dusk villa, I’ve begun going out of my way to convey this message in what he considered to be a stickler of a medium—a medium he often criticized in that eloquent manner that only Soul could, as one where the premeditation of each sentence, paragraph, and page deserves only the highest attention to detail while being crafted, in contrast to the free-flowing, spiritual expectations that come with the verbal dance that is conversation—lies in the final words I had exchanged with him.

I regret to confess that I had not been present in the last two years of his life. What I am about to recount was the single passing moment in which we’d shared a word within this time frame. It occurred about six months ago at the very spot I currently find myself writing—Sin’s Saloon in Fort Dusk.

That giant of a man, though not to be taken literally but as he was seen in the field of linguistics, seemed to have a dark cloud hanging over his shoulders that day. When I had accepted his invitation for a drink, I had gone with the full expectation that the boisterous, coarse, skirt-chasing Soul of four or so years ago would be the one at my side, and so it was a meeting I had attended with great reluctance.

Stolen story; please report.

However, what I was instead greeted by had given me cause for concern. He confessed to me that he had taken a break from his old life and had finally given the pen a go over the tongue, and, for the aforementioned reasons, it frustrated him to no end. He was rushed, and he admitted to me that he felt that his life would become forfeit before he could finish the piece he had been working on.

What it was that would end his life, he wouldn’t say. However, he met up with me that day to give me instructions for procuring his manuscripts should he end up passing. I’m certain that two and two are joining together in that head of yours now. And if not, allow me to lead you to the proverbial finish line of this thought, namely, that I have taken it upon myself to complete the words Soul had left behind at his passing.

I have skimmed the events of which he transcribed in what appears to be a mess of several non-fiction literary novels. It is understandable now why he found it so difficult to complete this work, as, while the stories all appear to take place within the same setting of this humble country, the vast differences in each story and each protagonist, as well as the simultaneity at which each event takes place within these stories, creates a tangled narrative that even I had difficulty deciphering.

However, there is one thing I can promise you for certain, dear reader. These tales are a collection of very real events that all took place within the country of The Baening. After getting my hands on these words that Soul had smithed, I am now filled with both a newfound fascination over our great country, and a fear that if these are not published by some hand, then an integral piece of Vulturian history will be lost to the void forever. I finally comprehend now the turmoil that had haunted Soul, and the reason he took up the pen despite his disdain for the medium.

Soul loved this country, and for the sake of this country he loved, he sacrificed his joy and his future in order to immerse himself in the pen for the last few years of his life. This was all to convey to future generations the story of events that unfolded of over ten years ago; for the purpose of illustrating this splendiferous mosaic of a tale that the colorful characters within these pages have created.

I couldn’t dictate to you, dear reader, exactly which of the individuals in this tale exists as the centerpiece of this design. After all, even the late Soul’s vision only consists of assembling these shattered pieces of history and breathing life into them in the form of a completed work. His goal appeared to start and stop at painting a compelling narrative that could stand the test of time, not only as an epic piece of literature, but as a warning about the dangers this continent might face in the future due to the ongoing monster invasion. This is all to say that, said centerpiece, the ‘main character’ of this tale, is a question that you, the reader, must grapple with on your own.

The Ace Adventurer, who lacks the ability to save those dear to him.

The Hapless Harlot, who yearns for freedom despite her condemnation to a life of selling flesh.

The Defective Detective, whose haphazard methods of solving cases are only consistent in that nothing ever ends well.

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The Grimly Gladiator, whose thirst for greatness in the field of battle is constantly overshadowed by their own circumstances.

The Benevolent Bandit, whose successes somehow always manage to find themselves in the hands of those in need.

The Scheming Secretary, who manipulates the systems designed to protect in order to selfishly consolidate power.

The Kyphotic Killer, who views murder as naught but a medium to express the aching artistic bones in his body.

The Playful Performer, whose antics have earned him both coin and admiration where even the greatest of dangers reside.

Who is the main character of this story? Is there truly even a main character to begin with? Regardless of whatever feelings any of these personalities may arouse within you as you engage with this tale, both myself and Soul, as he had penned this, have chosen to remain impartial in order to afford them, each of these imperfect shards of broken glass, their own unique voice in the following saga of events. After all, while you, the reader, may find favor with one or two of these unique individuals, the greater picture that we aim to highlight is the world and culture of The Baening, a land that appears all but forgotten when Vulturia is discussed at length by the literate higher class of continental citizens.

After all, it is worth mentioning that, despite our depraved culture, despite our lack of material resources, and despite our poor reputation among the wealthy principalities that we share this continent with, we have uniquely resisted the rule of monsters since the invasion twenty-four years ago. Soul loved this country for all its strengths and flaws, and he wished to write this tome as a celebration of its culture.

However, and this may surprise you, even that alone did not propel Soul towards working for the sake of this goal. No, it was precisely the uniqueness of the situation in this country that had produced its greatest danger.

The Enigmatic Entity.

It was an creature far more terrifying than the goblins, trolls and orcs that invaded the continent all those years ago. And it is this uniqueness that draws a line that connects the eight fragmented stories that I have highlighted.

Well then. I suppose that I’ve rambled on for long enough. I shall open up this tale, as it closes, within the impoverished country known as The Baening, where a ferocious monster had made its way to the center of a small town. What the townsfolk witnessed that day twelve years ago, though at a glance might appear insignificant in the grand scheme, would soon alter the course of the country’s history beyond anyone’s expectations.