In the disturbed sand and silt stands one solemn structure. It appears to be coated in a haze, and shimmers like a heat mirage. Flickering and flitting about the mind's eye of those who see it would know it for what it is. It's a tenebrous thing- made of the ink of night itself and seemingly bricks of the sludge made solid. If one could make it through the old oak doors nothing inside would be surprising. That is, to say, that the contents held within are precisely what one would expect to find in one of the wells of nightmares bubbling up in the Sludgelands. It doesn't mean that any of them are less disquieting than any other nightmare. Being a personal plane- one born of an individual humanoid, there wouldn't be assured something to cater to their specific, individual needs of some aspirant who found entry. That doesn't mean that one such seeker could ever be dissuaded from entry into the structure. One finds themselves now working the lock, and feeling the door for each exploitable fault in it's construction. To people like this, they are a part of the people that locks will always fail on. 1% of entites in the Sludgelands are fully and wholly honest, and respect the meaning of the lock. 98% of the residents of the Sludgelands are opportunists: if they have to try to get the spoils behind the lock they'll give up the second any resistance is made known. They respect the difficulty of the lock. Yet, 1% of the residents in the Sludgelands fill out the bell curve. The aspirants, the thieves: these are the people that will always, at extreme risk and cost to themselves find a way around the locks and security features of any given place. They round out the distribution of residents in the Sludgelands to make locks a proper tribute and tax to the Lords and Ladies of the Sludge.

With practiced motions, eventually, the aspirant would find their way to the pins of the lock. They'd rise, without a creak or any protest. Well oiled, they almost guided themselves where they had to be. The lock turned, and granted entry to the structure. The aspirant felt their heart slowly descend it's beating in their chest, and enjoyed the respite while there were precious moments of nothingness. They knew where the wealth of the structure is. Dust would fall around the larder yet the inside of that storeroom would be spotless. With practiced steps, in a half crouch the aspirant moved like the gradual encroachment of night upon day. Each footfall was calculated, planned, and chosen based off the disturbance it would make. Even though the structure appeared empty, there was never such a thing as too much precaution to be had. It took time to adjust too, but eventually they made a floor plan of the

structure, and knew about where the right rooms were and their purposes. The first stop would be the larder and food store. Making their way in through the foyer, they largely ignore the kitchen attached to the stores. Inside the smaller room, the aspirant craned their neck and searched. It didn't take long. The shelves were mostly barren. It would appear the Shade that owns this place was a newer one, or had recently changed wells. The thing that stuck out most was at the level of their waist, forcing their head to crane down to see the first set of the spoils before them.

Resting on a serving tray of chipped mahogany wood lays the treasure of this room. Items given to those beyond, and the tithe that was afforded to the land owner. Apples, crisp and red sat on the tray. The Aspirant counted two, and pocketed the one that they didn't begin to take bites from. The mealy fruit filled their mouth with a powerful crunch as their jaws snapped upon the fruit. They lapped at it, sucking the juice in and enjoying the tartness of the green apple. While enjoying the plundered fruit, their eyes kept scanning the rest of the tray's contents. The apples were flanked on the right to a meager bushel of grapes. Not as fresh, and would be devoid of that satisfying pop when chewed aggressively like the apple that the aspirant mangled in their maw. No matter, to this aspirant. They'd need every advantage they would be smart enough to seize. The grapes came with them, and rested next to the apple in one of the smaller pouches that was attached to the cloth belt at their midsection. There was a brief debate on taking the fine teaglasses inside, with elaborate designs. However, there was no guarantee that the delicate pottery would survive the heist. It was decided against being added to the loot taken by the Aspirant.

After sacking the larder and creeping out of the velvety dining room, they'd tiptoe to the luxe foyer, and look up the staircase. Most expect a painting of some hellborn aristocracy to reside upon the landing. Yet it curiously was absent! No art would rest there, no reason or design incentive that would keep anyone doing anything other than climbing the stairs, ascending them. The worn boots would tread up the stairs, and each lock and door would be tried. The only open room was the study, it only ever was the study. The Shade saw to that. Once, a bedroom was left open by mistake and a servant was whipped for this error. His skin was rended for this, torn and cracked in the yard of this estate. The Shade who owned this particular estate wasn't too cruel, but sometimes, vem thought, that the flesh had to learn alongside the mind. Vem later regretted that decision, but stood by it when pressed upon the matter.

Upon the desk, tomes sat. Freshly disturbed and moved. Other telltale signs of recent use made themselves known only to those observant enough. There was an impression upon the desk where the reference atlases were long since left abandoned. With one being absent, it was an indication that other parts of the desk saw use beyond the longterm storage of that material. The oil of the desk and books commingled in areas where things seldom moved as well, as a second sign that most of the desk was actively used by something. There was a thin line of cobwebs, carefully woven to each of the more stationary objects as well. Something would need to clean the pseudoscorpions here, and it was just as well if it was a spider or one of the pactbound to the Shade who laid claim to this structure.

Next to the crystal cup, a scant distance away, was the writing. The real wealth of anywhere, the ledger of the transactions the proprietor of these structures had. It was a business insofar as transactions were held here, but it was seldom coins that traded hands. Usually it was food, memories, service contracts, or the occasional prayer cashed here for whoever sought the service of the Shade. The Aspirant suppressed the urge to smile ear to ear. This is what they sought, and trained to take. This collection of tales when understood by them would make them go from an Aspirant to Inauspicious. The end of a journey was mere inches from them, and it was tempting. So close, so tauntingly and tantalizingly close.

The aspirant padded their way into the room, the thick carpeting drowning the noise of each carefully placed step. The path wasn't trapped or designed in such a way to cause any physical harm to anyone who would so traverse it. Instead of a dais, there was a desk, but it could be assumed they served much the same goals for the Shade who likely had his clients get appraised in here, across the desk where the well cared for leather chair sat. The Aspirant found their way past, and locked their eyes upon the scroll greedily.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The scroll inside was penned with a blend of inks- the finest and most royal of purples and lavendars with tinges of blue and black added to the mixture. The swirls of color were meticulously weighed into each vial and a small amount of mana was added. Enchanted, the paper was cold to the touch like the Sludgelands themselves. The very paper that they used was altered to cause a slight unease to any who would take a quill to it. Theatrics were seldom enjoyed yet oft deployed since it helped the customers understand the gravity of the situation. Nobody from the Sludgelands dealt with the Shades. There was seemingly no purpose, they both knew and respected each other enough to ply their trade unless a deep desperation befell the residents of the Sludge. The depth of the fall of a Shade's client is easier to measure, to speculate on how far gone that “gone” would truly be. There were many expletives and adjectives that any Shade who found themselves proprietor to a place like this would be called, but “Cheat” wasn't ever one of them. They were, by self admission, unusually fair to their clientele. Honest to a fault. It seemingly was the true nature of the Shades in this place, as part of them as much as any other standard trait.

It was almost as if Shades would act upon their undesirability, that it would so seem nobody wished to provide this service. Yet, to attempt to combat that it became a social rule to be honest. That social rule became compulsion, soon, and the scroll that contained Shades eventually recorded it as fact. But, whenever a topsider would call, they would come. Whenever their rules were honored, they'd honor another parties deal. There were some limits and exceptions. Even the strongest shade was no divine entity. A power, surely, the Shades were. Nobody could mistake that in earnest, to deny them their place in the cosmology of this other world. But to call them a higher power was wrong. Simply and factually wrong, with no basis in how they behaved nor the depth of their ability and powers.

The aspirant figured the easiest way to get some of this power was the get their hands on writing from the Shades. Not unheard of happening, but not wise to attempt. Nobody likes thieves, especially with how precious little there is to truly have in the Sludgelands that they resided. The scroll was remarkable, and would make one salivate like the finest roast of meats and vegetables could. All it took was those grubby fingers to grip the wooden dowel that the parchment curled itself around. It easily slid between the creases and folds of the outfit the Aspirant wore. Then, the instinct would come to bound and dash out of the estate. That was always what divided the good thieves from the great ones: knowing when instincts were there to help or hinder. It took time, yes, but eventually they padded out of the study, and crept down the stairs. Past the first hall, down the stairs, the landing devoid of art, the foyer, and eventually the freedom. The spoils of a successful looting.

Yet, curiously, at the landing did the aspirant pat themselves to ensure the scroll was still there. It was, and the hands of the aspirant felt cool against the dried sheet. A smile came across cracked lips, dry from having had minimal access to water since their time in the Sludge. While wondrous in it's own right, the apple isn't a permanent source of hydration, not one potent enough to solve the Aspirants issue, at least. The aspirant knew, of course, it was a trick. Nobody could so easily steal from a shade. Perhaps their individual terms had conditions that pactbound any who stole from the structure? Perhaps there were stipulations that to use the information within came at a steep price, beyond the usual expected ones of any contract. Every transaction has a price. Only a shade would be so direct as to lay out what are traditionally hidden costs. Each thing meticulously measured, valued, and almost insured to be the exact value of a commodity at any given time. The wares and experiences peddled was so niche that it is a standard practice that their scrolls update the pricing for the proper market value each second they get in touch with mana. The Sludge itself takes on that role, as if it knows it's ability to sustain itself as a biome is directly tied into the Shades that build structures in lands nothing dare lay claim too. A type of mutual respect and symbiosis flourished between the Sludge and Shades. Most didn't think the Sludge was alive, or unalive, or whatever term the residents of this world used to explain What-Comes-After. When life ends, yet continues paradoxically.

The aspirant saw the door, and placed a hand on the finely polished wood. Felt the coolness of it, and the metal that served as the latch and knob to sturdy door. The hand rested, and chills ran their way up and down the aspirant's back. They knew what was coming, what would happen if they forced the door in any capacity. They backed off, and grinned. It was the grin of someone impressed at the opponents gambit in chess and were impressed at their loss. It was the admission of a type of defeat, but the admiration in the skill of the opponent opposite the table. They admitted to themselves finally that it wouldn't work, and with a nod to nobody they found a couch in the foyer.

It looked comfortable enough. It was a minty green, and reminds the aspirant of what a frosty December morning felt like when you were the only one awake. When you waited to hear tea hiss, and the bells of worshippers a world away toiled into the chilly air. They kept letting their fingers crawl across the furniture, and feel the texture. Where the fabric would recess and be held more tightly by a panel they'd linger a few more seconds, and flick at the fabric. It didn't do anything, but the texture was exotic. It was so firm as to feel like it was river stones. Yet, it was still alluring as any place to rest.

They put their feet up, and laid themselves back. They reclined with a posture that'd be poor for their spine, and make getting up to run initially hurt if the master of the structure came back and spotted the aspirant, but it didn't matter. The way this trap was set up, it didn't appear that it would matter at all. They reached into their long, baggy pants and felt for the hidden pockets they'd sewn into them. Finding them, the scroll was retrieved, and the aspirant looked deeply at the closed document.

They always found something so peculiar, about the points of no return. Their weddings, their loves, their decisions, their tattoos, all things that held a weight to them. A finality, of sorts. It was the sort of thing the aspirant collected, be it in their prior life or others. Firm anchor points of novelity that was always easy to center oneself upon the mere recollection of. After all, each tattoo or permanent mark on the skin meant that, the divine powers willing, a threshold was crossed permanently. Even with removed tattoos or covered scars, they just transmute themselves to a different permanence. The place of healing where there was once identity or a different story to tell.

The aspirant knocked on the scroll, and gently shook it. It didn't seem to be behaving any differently than the others they've heard being pilfered. Recalling a memory of a time where they had their own circumstances of finality; the moment they decided to aspire toward something in the Sludge, was at the forefront of the mind. They knew what they had to do, they just had to dig deep enough within to find the bravery to do it.

With a resolute hand, they tugged the small ribbon that ensure it stayed clasp shut and opened the scroll and began to read.