Death’s Journal Entry 3096: Threads of Fate

The Tome of Eternity lies open before me, its pages whispering the secrets of time itself. Through these ancient pages, I see the past, the present, and the future—threads woven together by the hands of gods and mortals alike. But what is a thread if it is destined to fray, to unravel?

I have seen many such threads—strong and resilient, yet inevitably weakened by the weight of their journey. This one, the thread of the Mistwalker, is no different. Yet, there is something about it... a fragility, perhaps, or a destiny that calls out for a different ending. I find myself wondering, for the first time in eons, if I should intervene.

Magic is a fickle thing, a gift that comes with a price. The gods’ emotions, their desires, their very essence flow through their respective elements like a river carving its way through rock. Over time, or even in an instant, these influences can overwhelm the caster, bending them to the will of the god from whom the power originates. It is a subtle, insidious corruption, one that I have observed with both fascination and dread.

In my previous entries, I record the nature of this influence, for it is critical to understanding the forces at play in the world of mortals.

As I read these notes, I cannot help but wonder… will the Mistwalker, too, fall victim to these influences? Or will he rise above them, using the power of the Nine without succumbing to their will? It is a question that only time will answer. Yet, as I sit here, turning the pages of fate, I am reminded of the delicate balance I must maintain. To intervene or not… that is the question that weighs heavily on me now. But one thing is certain: if the Mistwalker falls, all may be lost, and that is a fate I cannot allow. He must discover his power on his own.

Chapter One: Nightmare

Falling.

The sensation grips you suddenly, yanking you from nothingness into a terrifying descent. Wind tears at your skin, your limbs flail, and for a moment, you think you’re screaming—but no sound escapes your lips. The darkness swallows everything, the endless void pressing in from all sides, suffocating you.

Panic surges through you, but the cold is what truly takes hold—a deep, numbing cold that gnaws at your bones, turning your blood to ice. You try to move, but your body feels disconnected, as if it’s no longer your own. The abyss pulls at you, dragging you further into its depths, and you realize with a jolt of terror that there’s no bottom.

This is how it ends, you think. Lost in the void, a fragment of a forgotten dream.

But then, something shifts.

A light—faint, distant—begins to pierce the darkness. It flickers like a dying star, timid and unsure, but it grows, swirling into soft hues of red, yellow, and blue. The colors spiral around you, chasing away the cold, bringing a strange warmth to your frozen limbs.

You’re still falling, but now you can see—barely. Below you, jagged rocks jut out from an island suspended in the void, an ominous sight that sends a fresh wave of fear through you. The wind whips around you, carrying whispers—voices, ancient and unknowable, echoing in your ears.

The ground rushes up to meet you.

With a bone-jarring impact, you crash onto the jagged rocks. Pain explodes through your body as you scramble to your feet, heart pounding in your chest. The mist, thick and cloying, swirls up from the island, curling around you like a living thing.

Then, you see them.

Shadows, shifting and writhing in the mist, their eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light. They slither forward, their distorted forms growing clearer, their whispers rising to a fever pitch. They are not just watching—they are hunting.

You turn and run.

The ground is uneven, the rocks sharp underfoot, but you push yourself to move faster. Panic claws at your throat as the shadows close in, their twisted forms looming ever closer. You’re trapped on this island, nowhere to go but down into the void.

Ahead, the edge of the island looms—a sheer drop into nothingness. You skid to a halt, the loose gravel slipping under your feet as you teeter on the brink. The shadows are upon you now, their whispers turning into shrieks of anticipation.

Just as you think the darkness will consume you, you open your eyes, the harsh sunlight blinding you momentarily. As your vision adjusts, you realize you’re lying in a small, weathered canoe that has washed ashore.

A shadow falls across your face, and you squint up to see a man standing over you. His rough, calloused hands hold a fishing pole, and his expression is one of mild surprise. His figure is broad-shouldered and strong, with a rugged look that speaks of a life spent outdoors.

Runes, geometric and intricate, snake down from his chin, subtly glowing with a faint, mystical energy. His long, silver hair is tied back, and his dark red eyes, though sharp, carry a kindness in them that belies his appearance.

“Ah, awake at last, eh? Thought you might’ve tried crossing the border.” The man’s voice is deep, with a weathered quality, like stones worn smooth by the ocean. He crouches beside you, offering a waterskin. “Here, drink up. You’ve got the look of one who’s been through the wringer, lad.”

Gratefully, you take the waterskin and drink deeply, the cool liquid quenching your thirst. “What brings you to Carlin, friend? Don’t seem like you’re here for the fishing.”

“Carlin?” you murmur, your voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t remember. I was on a boat, and then….”

The man studies you for a moment, then nods thoughtfully. “Aye, looks like you’ve been tossed about like a leaf in a storm. The sea has a way of taking what it wants and leaving the rest. You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen more than his fair share of tempests.”

You glance at him, puzzled, as you take another sip of water. His words are confusing, but there’s a familiarity in his tone, as though he sees something in you that you haven’t yet discovered yourself.

You try to speak but cough out the words with your dry throat “Where.. are you from? My name.. pretty sure… it’s Erazon”

He continues, his voice softening slightly, “I come from a place up in the mountains, where the folk have a bit of the old world in them. Hard as stone, but with hearts still beatin’. Whatever brought you here, Erazon, it’s not the end of your story, just another chapter.”

You try to stand, but your legs wobble under you. The man quickly reaches out, steadying you with surprising gentleness for someone of his size.

As you rise, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the water's reflection. Your golden eyes stare back at you, glowing faintly even in the murky shore. Your dark hair, disheveled and tousled, falls into your eyes as you struggle to regain your balance.

“Easy now,” the man says. “You’re not in any shape to be wanderin’ around just yet. But if you’re set on goin’, I won’t stop ya. The temple’s not far, just follow the main road.” He gestures with his hand behind him, and you can see the dirt road stretching on into town.

He pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Those eyes of yours... rare to see in these parts. There’s history in them. Don’t lose sight of it."

As you regain your balance, you notice a girl with vibrant blue hair approaching. Her hair is tied back in a high ponytail, and she carries a basket filled with what looks like a freshly prepared lunch. Her face lights up with a smile when she sees the man.

“Godriiic! Let’s go home!” she calls out, her voice cheerful. Then she notices you, her smile faltering slightly as she takes in your disheveled appearance.

The silver haired man turns to her with a gentle smile, the kind that softens the hard edges of his features. “Aye, Elii, just a moment.” He then looks back at you, his expression growing more serious. “You’ll be plenty fine, take care of yourself, stranger. The temple will see to your needs. Just tell them Godric sent you. They’ll know what to do.”

Before you can respond, he adds, “And remember, lad, whatever’s behind you, don’t let it weigh you down. The past has a way of makin’ us stronger, if we let it. Don’t forget that.”

With a final, grateful nod, you turn and start down the path he indicated. As you walk you can hear the girl asking him about you, her voice full of concern. His deep, rumbling laughter reaches your ears as he reassures her, their voices blending with the sound of the waves and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Soon, their voices fade, leaving you alone with your thoughts. But something about the man’s words lingers in your mind. You find yourself reflecting on his words, wondering what lies ahead, and what Carlin will be like.

The road is lined with ancient trees whose gnarled branches form a natural arch overhead. The shadows they cast make the path feel almost claustrophobic, but you press on, eager to find the temple.

As you enter the city, the narrow streets and towering buildings close in around you. The air is cool and damp, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and something else—something darker that you can’t quite place. You tighten your grip on your worn spellbook, the only remnant of the life you once knew, and steel yourself for what lies ahead.

The city feels eerily quiet, the usual bustling energy of a port town replaced by an unsettling stillness. You pass by a small square where a group of children are playing near a fountain. They laugh as they toss stones into the water, but their eyes are hollow, their smiles empty. Something about the scene feels wrong, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

One of the children, a boy no older than twelve, struggles to lift a heavy crate. His small hands grip the wooden sides, and his face is twisted in a grimace of effort. Your heart softens at the sight, and you approach the boy, offering a gentle smile.

“Here, let me help you,” you say, bending down to take hold of the crate.

The boy looks up at you with wide, innocent eyes and nods. “Thank you, sir,” he says, his voice small and trembling.

You lift the crate with ease, surprised by its weight. You follow the boy a few steps, but before you can set the crate down, two older boys emerge from the shadows, their expressions hard and unfriendly. They move quickly, positioning themselves between you and the exit.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“What’s this, then?” one of the youths sneers, his eyes narrowing as he glances at your spellbook. “Looks like you’ve got yourself something valuable here.”

Your heart sinks as you realize you’ve walked into a trap. “I don’t want any trouble,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just let me take my book, and I’ll be on my way.”

The second youth chuckles darkly, blocking your path. “You’re not going anywhere with that book,” he says, his voice dripping with malice. “Hand it over, and we might let you go.”

Panic surges in your chest, and you take a step back, clutching the spellbook tightly. You know you can’t afford to lose it—it’s your only possession. Even if it smells of old socks and some of the pages appear to be missing, it’s a gift from the Nine. Without thinking, you turn and bolt, the crate slipping from your grasp as you sprint down the narrow street.

The youths shout after you, but you don’t look back. Your heart pounds in your chest as you weave through the twisting streets, the mist seems to close in around you. The buildings blur together, their dark silhouettes blending with the fog as you run. You can hear the footsteps of your pursuers growing fainter, but you don’t slow down.

Ahead, the tall spires of the obsidian temple come into view, rising above the city’s rooftops like sentinels in the sky. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you near the temple’s entrance.

A stout and elderly man with a bald head and bright blue eyes stands at the doorway, sweeping cabbages into a pile. His face is scrunched with annoyance as he works, his expression clearly conveying his frustration with the task. The bells attached to his belt jingle softly with every movement, their sound reminiscent of faint tolling bells, adding an eerie quality to his presence.

He notices the boys chasing you and quickly waves you inside. "Quickly, quickly now! Get in before those rascals catch you!" His voice is high-pitched and raspy, filled with the urgency of the moment.

You don’t hesitate, darting inside as the heavy wooden doors close behind you, muffling the shouts of your pursuers. The sound of your footsteps echoes off the stone walls as you stumble to a halt, nearly tripping over a pile of freshly stacked cabbages, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

The interior of the temple is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and old parchment. The main hall is vast, its walls lined with beds where people lie moaning in pain. The man moves between them with surprising agility for his age, his hands glowing with a soft, healing light as he tends to their wounds. The bells on his belt jingle faintly with every step, a haunting yet oddly comforting sound in the otherwise quiet temple.

"Ah, another lost soul washed ashore by the sea, eh?" His voice is quirky, with an almost sing-song quality, making his words feel both whimsical and unsettling. "Carlin's full of dangers, yes indeed. You’ll learn soon enough. Youngins always fall for the pickpockets and thievery!" He shakes his head with a knowing chuckle, the bells jingling again.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. “Thank you for the quick rescue, I’m Erazon,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “A man who helped me from my boat said you might be able to heal me.”

The monk’s expression shifts from one of curiosity to one of intense focus. He stands slowly, wiping his hands on his plain, purple robe as he studies you. A large, macabre pendant in the shape of a skull, made from polished bone, hangs from a leather cord around his neck.

“Ahhh freshly arrived, you say? And already needing aid, hmm?” He squints at you, his bright blue eyes narrowing as he looks you over. "Dehydration, fatigue, maybe a touch of delirium... Here, drink this," he says, waving his hand in a circular motion above an empty cup, which magically fills with water. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Drink up, drink up! Water’s the best cure for what ails ye. Not much need for fancy spells here, no sir.”

As you take the cup and raise it to your lips, a piercing scream echoes through the temple, causing you to freeze in place. "IT BURNS! PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!" a man screams from the back of the temple, clutching at his chest as if trying to extinguish invisible flames devouring him from the inside.

Monk Kiatsu’s face twists into a mask of sorrow and irritation. He sighs deeply, the bells on his belt jingling mournfully. "Another one," he mutters under his breath. "Come, lad, let me show you something. Might make your troubles seem a bit smaller, hm?"

You follow the elderly man as he shuffles quietly to the back of the temple, the sound of people coughing and moaning filling your ears. The air grows colder as you walk deeper into the temple.

As you approach the source of the commotion, you see a man sitting and trembling on a straw mat. His skin is a vivid patchwork of deep reds and blistering burns. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps, and a faint, almost imperceptible steam rises from his body, a sign of the internal heat ravaging him.

The monk kneels beside the man, his bells jingling faintly as he moves. "Ah, the curse has taken hold deep within him," he whispers, his voice full of pity. "His body’s burning from the inside out, poor soul. You can see it in his skin, the way it blisters and peels, unable to heal properly. He’s trapped in an inferno of his own making, though there’s no flame to be seen."

Staring at the man in agony, you look down at your cup and realize your situation could be far worse. But you wonder to yourself, “What… kind of magic does this to someone?” The silence weighs on you heavily, and asking your questions feels like too great a challenge. You didn’t know what to say.

You watch as the monk outstretches his hand and emits a cooling, blue light onto the man. Within moments, the man stops writhing and begins to drift back off to sleep. Feeling slightly better about the man's situation, you lift the cup and drink, feeling the cool liquid soothe your parched throat. “He... used too much magic?” you ask weakly.

The healer looks at you, his eyes narrowing as they study you intensely. "Aye," he says, his voice carrying a faint echo, like distant chimes in the wind. "Magic’s a powerful thing, lad. But it’s also a hungry beast. Feed it too much, and it’ll eat you alive."

Monk straightens up, the bells on his belt chiming softly as he does so. He studies you from head to toe, his eyes lingering on your hands. "Where did you say you came from, eh?" he asks in a tone that’s both curious and accusatory, as if trying to piece together a puzzle in his mind.

As Monk Kiatsu looks you over, his eyes fall on the faint, glowing lines that have begun to appear on your hands and forearms. He raises an eyebrow, a hint of recognition in his gaze. "Ah," he mutters, almost to himself, “You may be more dangerous than you know."

You blink, taken aback by his words. "Dangerous?" you ask, confused.

The monk only smiles, his expression enigmatic. “I bet you don’t remember a thing, do you?”

“I… I don’t, I woke up from a…nightmare” you stammer, your voice wavering as you try to piece together the fragments of your memory. “I was in this place... filled with mist and shadows, and these... things were hunting me..” The last words escape you in a whisper, heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

Monk’s eyes narrow with curiosity as he listens. He places a bony, yet comforting hand on your shoulder, the faint chime of bells following the motion. “Ahh… You’re right to feel that way,” he says gently, with a hint of a smile that could be described as either comforting or unsettling. “The path you’re on is not an easy one.”

You look up at him, your heart heavy with uncertainty. “What path, can you tell me anything?”

The monk’s smile widens, and his blue eyes twinkle with a mischievous light. “I am Monk Kiatsu, a humble servant of this temple. And you, Ara’zone, are in the right place.”

Furrowing your brow, you say, “It’s Erazon.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Names are just words, lad. It’s what’s inside that counts, eh?”

Monk Kiatsu turns and begins to walk toward a narrow corridor near the back wall of the temple, gesturing for you to follow. “Come hither,” he says, his voice echoing softly in the dimly lit hall. “Let us find some peace and quiet so you may ask your questions properly.”

You follow Monk down the corridor, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick obsidian walls. The air grows cooler as you descend a spiral staircase, the dim light of the temple fading into the darkness below. The walls here are rougher, blackstone worn and cracked as if the weight of the city above is slowly crushing them. You feel the temperature drop with each step, the air becoming thick with the scent of decay and ancient stone.

At the bottom of the stairs, you enter a circular chamber lit by flickering torches. The room is lined with tombs, each one marked with the name. The atmosphere is heavy with the weight of history. Ancient carvings on the walls appear to dance and move as the torchlight touches them, creating eerie shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

Monk leads you to the center of the chamber, where a massive mural covers the wall. The painting depicts a great battle between two cities—one bathed in a green light, the other shrouded in shadow. The figures in the mural are detailed and lifelike, their expressions twisted with fear, resolution, and sorrow as they fought against an unseen enemy.

You stare at the mural, and your heart begins pounding in your chest. There is something unsettlingly familiar about the scene, something that tugs at the edges of your memory, like a half-remembered dream. The colors, the figures, the expressions—they all seem real to you, stirring emotions you can't quite place.

As you reach out to touch the painting, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. The room spins, making you nauseous. The light from the torches dims until it’s nothing more than a distant glimmer, making it hard for you to see clearly. You squint your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but it feels as though you’re being pulled away, your surroundings dissolving into a swirling void. The last thing you see before everything fades to black is the concerned look on Monk Kiatsu's face as he reaches out for you.

When you come to, you find yourself standing in a vast, impossibly tall, and gothic-looking chamber. The walls of the crypt are gone, replaced by an endless room that stretches out in two directions. The air is cold and still, and the only sound is the faint echo of your own breathing. The darkness here is thick and oppressive, pressing in on you from all sides, making it difficult to breathe.

Above you stands a terrifying figure. He is abnormally tall and imposing, clad in black and green robes that glow with an impossibly fatal aura. Just being near this being sends waves of finality through your core, as if you were approaching the void itself.

The figure's face is hidden beneath a hood, but you can make out the shape of a large skull beneath the fabric, its hollow eyes glowing with a faint, eerie light. In the figure's massive skeletal hand is an equally large book, its pages flickering with an ethereal glow.

“Do you know what this painting is?” the figure asks, its voice deep and resonant, echoing through the void like the tolling of a bell.

You shake your head, your heart pounding in your chest, sweat forming on your brow. “No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Who… who are you?”

The figure steps closer, the darkness seeming to thicken around it, pulling the light from the void. “You know who I am,” it says, its voice sending a shiver down your spine. “This painting… It tells the story of two cities… united under the guidance of the Nine. People worked together, their lands fertile, their lives intertwined in harmony.”

You listen intently, feeling the gravity of his words as they weigh heavily upon you. His presence is overwhelming, filling the void with an aura of power, death, and ancient knowledge.

“But,” he continues, his tone darkening, “ambition and greed... The God over this city...” He points at the one cloaked in shadow, his skeletal finger outstretched like a claw. “He grew hungry for power, desiring to reshape the world in his image. He twisted the land, turning fertile fields into barren graves. He began to create creatures of darkness… monsters born of shadow and despair… who now roam the lands, spreading death and decay.”

Your mind races as you try to grasp the enormity of what you are hearing. The image of the painting lingers in your mind, now illuminated with the weight of this revelation. "What happened to the other city?" you ask, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity.

"Carlin resisted," he replied, his voice a somber echo in the void. "Its people fought to preserve their way of life, to protect the balance.” His bony hands washed over the painting with sorrow, a sorrow that you felt in your very soul. The skeletal figure continued slowly, deliberately. “The light of Carlin has begun to fade, and that darkness… is drawing near.”

A heavy silence follows, filled only with the soft rustling of his robes as he shifts slightly. You feel the pressure of his gaze upon you, as though he’s looking deep into your soul, weighing your very essence. The void around you seems to pulse with his power, and you feel a chill run down your spine.

"And now," he continued, his voice softer, yet no less powerful, "The balance is truly threatened. If Carlin falls, so too will the world.”

The weight of his words hangs heavily in the air, and you feel a surge of questions welling up within you. "What can I do?" you ask, your voice steady despite the fear gnawing at your heart.

Lord Death regards you for a moment, his hollow eyes piercing through the darkness.

You swallow hard, the lack of knowledge settling heavily on your shoulders. Trying to ask another question, and fearing what happens if it is the wrong one... you ask again. "How do I learn? Who will teach me?"

"Your journey will be your teacher," he replies. "You must rely on your instincts, on the connections you forge with others, and on the power within you. You must not let it consume you."

With that, the void around you begins to dissolve, the darkness peeling away like mist in the morning sun. The crypt slowly reappears, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the ancient tombs. You find yourself once again standing before the mural, your hand still outstretched toward the painting.

Monk Kiatsu stands beside you, watching you with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “What happened, son? Your eyes went blank. I tried healing you, but... you didn’t snap out of it,” the monk asks gently.

You lower your hand, your mind still reeling from the encounter. “I had a dream, or a nightmare... I spoke with an ancient... giant... skeleton,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “He told me about the two cities, about the god who turned against the balance. And he told me that Carlin is in danger.”

Monk’s eyes widen, and he nods slowly, his expression growing serious. “The Lord of Death... That is no small thing.” he says, his voice lowering as if speaking a sacred truth. The bells on his belt jingle softly, the sound almost mournful.

You look down at your spellbook, the weight of it suddenly feeling much heavier.

Monk gestures toward the spiral staircase leading back up to the main hall, but you can sense that his thoughts are elsewhere, lost in the depths of whatever knowledge he holds.

“Rest here for the night,” he finally says, his voice regaining its light, whimsical tone. “Tomorrow, I will guide you further. But for now, you must gather your strength.”

You nod, feeling the exhaustion of the day’s events settling into your bones. As you follow Monk Kiatsu back up the stairs, your mind drifts to the encounter with Lord Death and the warnings about Carlin.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you notice that the temple is even quieter now, the patients resting under the watchful eyes of the caretakers. Monk Kiatsu gives you a final, knowing glance before turning away to tend to his duties.

You find a small corner to rest, laying your spellbook beside you. As you close your eyes, the day’s events replay in your mind—the nightmare, no memory, and then the vision with the grim reaper.

Just as sleep begins to take you, a faint whisper echoes through your thoughts, as if carried by the wind itself.

“It is always darkest before the dawn.”

Your eyes snap open, but the temple is silent, save for the soft breathing of those around you. You close your eyes again, forcing yourself to rest, but the unease lingers.

Tomorrow, you will seek answers. But tonight, you are left with only questions—and the sense that something far greater is at play.