As I regain consciousness, I expect to see the tranquil lakeside, but the reality is much more sinister. Thick, suffocating fog surrounds me, and the darkness is so dense that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. The only sound I can hear is a distant thunder, reminding me that I am not alone in this surreal world. Suddenly, a cold shiver runs down my spine. I realize that I am lying on a hard surface that is as slick and black as obsidian. Its sharp edges claw at my skin, leaving it raw and wounded.
As I struggle to get up, I realize that the very air around me is heavy and oppressive, dragging me down like quicksand. My body feels numb, as if I am submerged in icy water. The jagged spires of the same material surround me on all sides.
Despite the fear that grips me, I take a few tentative steps forward, hoping to find a way out. But the path vanishes before my eyes, leaving me stranded alone in this surreal wasteland. A voice whispers, low and insidious, beckoning me to follow it "Come" one word but the weight of which could not be ignored. My every nerve screams at me not to obey, but my body ignores my commands and moves towards the spire. The voice grows louder, more insistent, more hypnotic, until I am powerless to resist it.
I reach out my hand and touch the spire, and everything goes silent. The darkness closes in on me, consuming every bit of light and hope. lost in an endless abyss of shadows...
...My life had flashed through my eyes far too often recently but this felt different, I found myself viewing a painful memory from my youth. It felt like I was watching the final act of a play from the highest stand, with every character playing their part perfectly. In the dim light of the church, I watched as this dark part of my life unfolded in front of me and the scenes were so vivid that it felt like I was once more there. The emotions in the room almost palpable even as I watched from above.The somber tones of the preacher's voice echoed throughout the room, punctuated by the occasional sobs of mourners.
Sitting next to me was Flo, his hand resting on my shoulder, providing a comforting weight. Yet, even with his presence, my heart felt cold, and a nagging feeling tugged at the corners of my mind. As the service went on, I couldn't help but feel like a spectator in my own life, watching from a distance as events played out in slow motion. The story of my mother's death. A tangled web weaved in uncertainty.
Her death was shrouded in mystery. According to the police reports, she and a friend died tragically in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. But the details were vague, and her funeral was closed-casket, with my father refusing me my wish of seeing her remains, the sight apparently too "traumatizing".
Throughout the service, I couldn't help feel that something was not quite right. My father sat beside me, his hands clenched, his body tense with unbridled anger. Every breath he took was laboured, as if he was holding back an inevitable outburst.
I could see a fury simmering beneath the surface of his normally stoic expression. I knew that my father was a steady and restrained figure who always kept his emotions in check, but his grief seemed to be manifesting itself as anger.
As I looked at him, I realized that he wasn't just grieving, he was seething with rage. His anger wasn't directed towards the drunk driver or even at himself, but at my mother. His hands trembled with suppressed fury, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the prayer book.
It was a different kind of pain, not one of heartbreak or sorrow but of betrayal. I could tell that he was struggling to come to terms with the fact that the woman he once loved had left him so suddenly, and with so many unanswered questions.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that there was more to my mother's death than what I was led to believe. I spent years obsessively searching for the truth behind my mother's death, poring over every article, every report, hunting for any shred of information. Yet all my efforts ended in failure. I had gone over the narrative a thousand times, reading every newspaper and internet piece for any inconsistencies, but there were none. Mum, 33, was killed in a horrific, dreadful, terrible accident, and then the specifics are brushed over with the same reports, details, and names. But I felt that there had to be something more, something that my dad wasn't telling me.
Finally, I accepted that sometimes, there is no conspiracy or hidden meaning behind tragedy, just a cruel twist of fate. The service left my life feeling unresolved, an absence of some closure I felt I deserved. the beginning of a harsh chapter in my life.
In the midst of the sadness, my gaze drifted towards the church's clerestory, where a white moth fluttered against the colourful stained-glass windows...
The weight of my dad's absence was crushing. Every night, I would wander the streets until my throat was raw and my legs ached, calling out his name into the darkness. But no one answered. No one cared. The only sounds that filled the silence were the echoes of my own desperate cries, bouncing off empty alleyways and closed storefronts.
My dad had become a stranger to me after my mother died. He hid his pain behind the bottom of a bottle, and I watched helplessly as he slipped further and further away from me. I tried to be there for him in the only way I knew how, but it was a losing battle. It wasn't long before the bottle wasn't enough, turning to drugs to numb whatever it was he was running from. The weight of my father's addiction was unbearable. The burden of caring for him was an anchor, weighing me down; drowning me under an ocean of dispair. It was the dead weight of an almost dead man that had relieved me of my youth, way sooner than it should have been. It had splintered an already broken heart, robbing me of all the family I had left.
He stopped showing up for work, stopped answering the phone, stopped being a dad. His path was a downward spiral, and I was caught in the wake of his self-destruction. My life no longer belonged to me. Every moment, every breath was spent searching for him and trying to pull him back to the world of the living.
I dropped out of school to take on more jobs, to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. Some nights, I would find him huddled in a corner, his body shaking from the withdrawals. I would carry him home, my muscles aching as well as my heart.
Every rehab clinic was a new hope, a chance for him to leave the addiction behind and start over. But every time, the same story repeated itself. He would enter the clinic with the promise of a better life, but he always left. He always ran. I always followed.
The last time I took him to a clinic, I knew it would be the final chance I gave him. My emotions were frayed and crushed, but there were no tears left. I looked into his eyes, and they were hollow, empty, like the soul inside had already died.
As I walked away, I promised myself that I would break the cycle. That I would not chase after him when he inevitably left the clinic or take him in when he showed up at my doorstep. But as I walked, a black moth landed at my feet, and I knew that my fate was no longer tied to his.
Funnily enough I never saw him again after that day.
I'm now in Italy, stationed in a little picturesque village; at least, according to what the photos had promised. It was a war zone by the time we arrived, and there was something that films and games could never really capture. The stench of gunpowder, burnt flesh, and rotting corpses. The weight of responsibility, the fear of failure, the silence found in the midst of the chaos of gunfire and explosions. I'd never seen anything like it; my life had not been pleasant, but it was incomparable in the face of this. We were on cleanup, turning this location into some sort of forward base.
The images of that day were seared into my mind like a never-ending nightmare. The stench of death and destruction, the fear and uncertainty, and the sudden and shocking violence that ripped through my world. It was a baptism by fire, a brutal and unforgiving introduction to the horrors of warfare.
A shitty first mission, turned even shittier when the ambush sprung. I was checking a small storage shed for any salvagable supplies when it happened, a commotion started across the encampment. I felt the cold blade pierce my side as I turned to go and help.
Fortunately for me, the assailant had fumbled, or else I wouldn't be here. I brought my elbow around only to hear a crunch as I dislodged their jaw, I pulled out my own knife and firmly lodged it in their chest. I didn't move for a long time, the reality of what happened pierced through my being.
But it was the face of the assailant I killed that haunted me the most. He was just a child, caught up in a senseless conflict that he could not escape from. The sickening crack of his jaw still echoed in my ears, and the look of terror on his face was a never-ending reminder of what I had done.
I tried to tell myself that it was necessary, that it was either him or me. But deep down, I knew that it wasn't that simple. I had taken his life, and no amount of reasoning or excuses would ever change that fact.
As I leaned in to listen to his last words, a moth crawled up out of his mouth.
I was back in the present, lying on cold, hard ground, alone with my thoughts and regrets. The weight of my actions bore down on me, crushing my spirit and leaving me lost and adrift in a world that seemed so unforgiving and cruel. That was the first time I took a life, and it's likely what led me down such a dark and lonely path.
The aftermath of that day was almost as unbearable as the event itself. I wasn't the only one who had taken a life, but I was the only one who had killed a child. The whispered voices of my fellow soldiers accusing me of being a "child killer" were constant, and I could hear them even when I was alone. It was as though my mind was taunting me, picking at a psychological scab that refused to heal.
Everyone who found out slowly distanced themselves from me, even though they assured me that my actions were necessary. I tried to tell myself that I was a soldier, that I was just doing my duty, but the shame and guilt weighed heavily on me. It felt like I was carrying a burden that no one else could see, and the weight of it threatened to crush me.
At some point, I became the one doing the distancing. I couldn't bear to be around the people who knew what I had done, who could see the horror in my eyes and the pain in my soul. So I threw myself into my work, focusing on the mission and trying to forget the past.
But that past always haunted me, and the memories and nightmares followed me wherever I went. It consumed me, I became solitary and buried the remnants of my emotions becoming the ruthless killer the war demanded of me.
I scurry back from the spire, not wanting to see anything else. Not wanting to relive the moments I had tried so hard to forget. I'm not even sure when I started crying. With the memories gone, I was left alone in the fog, with nothing but purple lightning above me and the icy ground beneath me. I felt lost, trapped in a maze with invisible walls that threatened to close in on me at any moment.
The fog seemed to press against me with every step, resisting my attempts to move forward. It was like wading through a thick, viscous fluid, slowing me down causing my every step to falter.
The moth had been my only guide, and without it, I felt hopelessly adrift. Its light had been my only beacon of hope in this strange, dark place.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
As I stumbled forward, my foot caught on something, and I fell to my hands and knees. Looking down, I saw the black stone lying beneath me in the fog. It was smooth and cold to the touch, but there was something about it that made my skin crawl.
I couldn't explain why, but the stone seemed to hold some kind of malevolent power, like it was watching me and waiting for me to make a mistake.
I tried to get up and move on, but my body refused to work. The cold of the mist was seeping into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. It was like I was caught in a giant spiderweb, unable to move no matter how hard I struggled.
I slump to the ground not daring to move recklessly, fearing the true horrors I had buried within my mind. Ones that should never be dug up. This place eluded the passage of time, I couldn't remember If I had been here for ten minutes or ten years. I just sat, in silence remembering what I had seen thinking what life would have been like had they never happened. Would I still be here, would my friends still be alive. Would...would...
No. I can't do this, what's done is done. Sitting here in a pit of self fucking pity won't change that. I stood up, steeling myself before charging straight on.
At this moment a glimmer of light appeared in the distance, and I knew that I had to keep moving forward. For a moment, the fog parted, and I saw the shape of a moth fluttering just beyond the glow
I knew that I had to go to it, that it was my only hope of finding my way out of this dark and terrible place. So, with a renewed sense of purpose, I picked myself up and moved towards the light, towards the promise of salvation.
I walked until the fog cleared. My heart sank; I had returned to where I first awoke in this hellscape. My knees buckled, the strength in my legs crumbled like my final shred of hope. The spires started to move, twisting and weaving together till they formed a series of large archlike structures.
I knelt for what felt like an eternity before registering the three towering arches ahead, their dark silhouette cutting sharply against the pitch-black sky. The first archway was wreathed in a creeping fog that soaked the air with icy tendrils. As I approached, the fog thickened and began to take form, an eerie performance unfolding before my eyes. Elusive shapes twisted and twirled in a slow dance, their movements graceful, but the air carrying a sense of dread that made my heart race.
The fog curled round my ankles like a clutching hand, and before I could react, a blade sliced through the murk, aiming for my throat. I dodged in the nick of time and staggered backward as my eyes searched the surrounding mist for the attacker. But it was futile, as the killer vanished without trace.
As the fog thinned, I glimpsed him among the other wraith-like figures. He moved with breathtaking speed, weaving in and out of the mist, slicing through each figure without so much as a rustle. It was hypnotic yet terrifying, as if my deepest fears had been given form and flesh.
With each figure killed, his movements became more fluid, his strikes cleaner, and it was clear that it was not just his own power but something far more agile, more precise, and infinitely more dangerous.
By the time the slaughter was over, there was nothing left but a ballroom drenched in blood. The knife-wielding assassin stood amidst the carnage, still as death but with a glimmer of pride in his eyes as he regarded me.
I could recognized him, his face, his movements. It was like looking in a distorted mirror, a twisted image of myself. Dread consumed me as his skeletal hand beckoned me forward. Despite the horror that gripped me and my growing intrigue I turned to look toward the next archway, knowing that whatever lay beyond, it was not going to be good.
For a moment, I just stand there in disbelief, thinking about how much simpler some of my missions would have been if I had that kind of power. Seeing as how entire rooms can be wiped out in an instant with no one even noticing a thing, I am drawn to the arch like a moth to a flame. When something from the second arch stopped me in my tracks, a terrifying entity that demanded my attention. The scene here is a painful one; Trakai castle.
That’s when I see him: my doppelganger, twirling two razor-sharp daggers with effortless precision, his movements wild and frenzied. He charges forward with startling speed, taking on the hapless guards with wild abandon, tearing past leaving nothing but a trail of mutilated corpses in his wake.
The sound of steel slicing through flesh rings painfully in my ears, as my doppelganger tears through his enemies with savage glee. Blood sprays out in every direction, coating the walls and floor in a macabre red wash. Intestines spill out from stomachs, limbs hacked off with brutal strokes, and screams of pain and horror fill the air.
I am transfixed by the doppleganger’s deadly dance, his movements graceful and deadly, like some twisted extension of my own dark nature. Despite the horror that fills me, there is a part of me that feels a strange and unsettling fascination with his ruthless efficiency. He is like an unstoppable force of nature, an avatar of destruction, moving with a primal fury that is both exhilarating and terrifying.
The dopple drags the headless corpse of Andrei Delerouge behind him as he walks away. This time, he does not beckon me to follow, but the urge is almost overwhelming, my eyes burning with the desire for the power he holds.
I turn my gaze towards the final arch, hoping to see a spectacle that is even more impressive than the one I just witnessed. Instead. Another doppelganger is sitting on the ground, writing strange symbols with chalk, and I have no clue what they mean or what they are supposed to do.
For a while, I wait and watch, anticipating something inspiring, something powerful. The silence is almost unbearable, the only sound the eerie scratching of chalk against stone, as the doppelganger's face remains emotionless. I feel a strange sense of unease and vulnerability, as if something unseen is watching me from the shadows. I turn to leave, resolved to enter the second archway.
Suddenly, the doppelganger stops, and the air around him crackles with dark energy. His face contorts into an ominous sneer. "What good is raw power without a means to use it, without control?" he asks, in a voice that is both angry and mocking.
I try to back away, but it's too late. The area around the doppelganger implodes into darkness, and a shadow suddenly springs to life before me. It rushes me, its snake-like jaw wide open, and it latches onto my shadow, its fangs piercing deep into it.
Pain radiates through my body, and I feel a strange sensation that I can't quite place. It's like something inside me is being tugged and pulled at, but I can't break free. My shadow being dragged away and like a marionette my body follows, hauled forcibly through the final arch.
The area around me starts to collapse, the ground tearing apart and seemingly the very space around me crumbles. The spires burst into blinding lights enveloping everything, as I open my eyes I find myself back by the lakeside. still reeling after the strangest non-sexual dream/nightmare/epiphany, or whatever the fuck just happened, the thought sends my spine shivering with the lingering fear. This whole experience feels like a living nightmare. I turn around, half-expecting to see creatures rising from the water ready to rip me limb from limb. whatever the fuck just happened definitely has me on edge.
But there is nothing there, only the ominous stillness of the lake, and the sense that I am being watched by something dark and infinitely powerful. I know without a doubt that I need to be more careful, that this place is far from safe, and that I am lucky to have made it out alive.
An undeniable transformation had taken place within me. It was a knowledge that glimmered like golden embers, deep within my soul. I felt drawn to the well-worn leather cover of my journal, entranced by the intricate runic symbols that adorned the remaining pages a delicate web woven by something unfathomably ancient.
My hand reached out for my quill, but it was no longer the same quill the old man had handed me. Instead, it had transformed into a shimmering metal fountain pen, embellished with mystical images of moths, glinting in the dim light. As I lowered the pen towards the pages, I witnessed a trickle of inky black energy flow down my arm, filtering into the nib of the pen. It was a power that was unexpectedly intense, yet I knew then that it was far from complete.
As I contemplated the enigmatic transformation that had taken place, my mind drifted back to the third gate - the threshold that had led me into the shadows and the being that had dragged me through. The pages of the book that once seemed opaque had become translucent, flickering through stopping on a certain page.
Gathering my courage, I positioned the pen over the page and began to write. The ink was like a river of energy flowing through the spiral pattern, taking a life of its own. A power burst forth seemingly incomplete, I was unable to provide it with what it fully needed.
In the corner of my eye, I spotted a small bird perched on a nearby tree, and as I lifted my pen from the page, a shadow burst forth from the book. In the darkness, a rat-like creature sunk its fangs into the neck of the bird, causing it to struggle in agony. With a burst of movement, the rat dragged the bird and disappeared into the pages of the book. Suddenly, a new runic symbol appeared on the page, shimmering like a star in the night sky.
It was a mystical manifestation that took me by surprise. It seemed as though the book held secrets of another realm, with powers beyond my imagination. An enchanting mystery lay within its pages, and I knew then that I must explore everything this book had to offer.
I stood there, mesmerized by the unfolding wonders, my mouth agape in amazement. Yet, instead of focusing on the mysterious symbol, my empty stomach growled, and I took this as a sign of my intent. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a silhouette of a bird flew along the ground. Glancing up, I saw an empty sky where it should've been, but then it pulled a circle around the place and came to a halt at a short distance away.
I wandered towards where it stopped and found a bush filled with dark berries. They looked suspiciously poisonous, but the bird pecking at them somehow reassured me. Carefully taking a small handful, I ingested them and waited anxiously to see if any harm would come to me. After a while, I began to relax as I felt no ill effects. Emboldened, I gathered more of the berries until I was satisfied, sitting down to rest.
My body, still healing from minor cuts and bruises, was now fatigued, and my mind was even more so. The unanswered questions weighed heavy on my mind, causing me concern with every passing moment. It was infuriating to think that I could practice magic, an ability I had only dreamed of, which added another layer of complexity to my situation. I didn't want to offend any sorcerer and end up being kept as a lab rat, toad, or any other type of familiar that arcane individuals kept.
I knew I needed to hone my abilities, to train and learn, but the thought of it all made me feel weary. I was reminded of my father, who even in this new reality, haunted me. If only I hadn't dropped out, I could have learned how to do all of this effectively.
Okay well shit let's just fuck around and find out, I started playing with this new ability of mine...I mean "researching"