Verlon’s travel through the Craggy Chasms was nice and peaceful. He followed his path, easily sneaking through on a trail he already knew to be probably safe. Of course, that didn’t stop him from second and triple-checking every bend and weave in his path. All a beast needed was a moment of carelessness to snuff out his life. When he spotted something, he rerouted most of the time rather than shooting. The kills just weren't worth the ammo.
The weather in the red zone was always disconcerting to him. Since the sun rarely showed in between the rocky cracks, it was always fairly cold. The deeper parts also had frigid subterranean water running in them, so that didn't help the chill. To make it all the worse, cutting winds were near constant as they blew through the crisscrossing canyons. His clothing kept warm rather well for cool weather seeing as Preshen was on the north side of the Empire of Dawn.
Once every few seconds his Mire-counter beeped from its resting spot on his backpack strap, alerting him to the low levels of miasma common to the red zone. It had been silent all the way to the entrance of the Craggy Chasms, though it began to beep intermittently as he walked through the shadowed path. For now, he could mostly ignore it since the miasma in a tier-one contamination zone seldom rose to above-worrying levels.
High miasma exposure was bad for a kaleidoscope of reasons. If it were to be boiled down, however, most miasmic events could be put into a simple category: mutations. Mutations were the most common symptom and could be anything from decreased mental stability to turning into a monstrous beast ravenous for human blood. Most of the time, mutations only occurred in animals and monsters, requiring at least prolonged exposure to tier-three miasma levels to begin impacting unprepared humans.
After nearly five decades of research, miasma wasn’t impossible to fight against. Sure it was an invisible source that corrupted everything it touched, but it had a couple of weaknesses. The issue is that they tended to be circumstantial at best. If a Seeker wasn’t prepared and unlucky when receiving a large dose of Miasma… well, at least the next Cross to pass through would get some gear.
He followed the ledges of the cliffs, careful about keeping his elevation steady as he went. Or at least as steady as his years of instinct could get. The Craggy Chasms, although they looked tall and menacing, actually dropped super far beneath the surface. Newcomers to the red zone usually wouldn’t notice this as they followed the easy path. That was a mistake. The deep rivets were well known to be flash flood hazards, and even a light current could seriously injure someone as they smack into the jagged walls.
Occasionally he would spot another Seeker, though he kept his distance from them as best he could. Most were simply mining away without a care in the world as they chipped out the visible ores from the canyon walls. The presence of humans drastically dropped as he headed further into the depths of the tier-one contamination zone.
The yellow Seeker kept true to his path, sticking to the route even as it dropped off into sheer cliffs with barely a foot-width ledge to stay on. Occasionally he would stop to crank the Mire-counter back to life when it fell silent, but otherwise kept up his pace. One foot in front of another, he moved about unhindered until the sun fell too far to cast the minimum light, dropping the place into pitch darkness. Thankfully, he was already on a wider part of the path, so when visibility dropped to zilch, he was okay with stopping.
Verlon rested his rifle against his leg and pulled a lantern and striker from his pack, careful not to spill oil as he put just enough in to last half an hour. Although he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face, over a year of muscle memory guided him as he set his lantern up. Then, with a click of his striker, sparks appeared briefly illuminating the wick and his hand in their red glow. He moved closer and tried again, this time the wick took as a gentle flame flickered to life.
His lantern cast a smooth glow across the surrounding area, illuminating the sharp rocks around. The path, about the size of a carriage with a sheer drop off to his side and a wall to his other, called to him, promising quicker time if he just traveled through the dark anyway. And yet he resisted the temptation to rush. Rushing would only end in a twisted ankle or worse…
Water trickled far, far below the edge of the cliff and the entire place smelled a mixture of mildewed water and an iron scent. In the distance, a wretched roar echoed off the silent rocks, carrying a beastly tune. The light of his lantern bounced off of small gleaming bits in the walls. making him jump back as he thought it was a predator. It took him a moment to calm down after that blunder.
The light of the lantern moved about as he waved his arm in a slow motion, trying to find a good spot. After a brief hunt, he found a small divot on the side of the wall with just barely enough room for a person to stand in. He stripped off his back and snuggled into the divot for the night as he ate some of his rations, jerky and hardtack, under the lantern’s guide.
Then he pulled his canteen from his bag. His canteen was quite special. It had cost a pretty penny, but it was a hundred percent worth it. The slight disturbance - almost as if there was pressure on his skin - around the canteen was similar to his Boosting Boots, revealing its nature as a relic. And indeed, his canteen was a relic called the Endless Flask. It was just another one of the ancient relics found in the ruins scattered across the various contamination zones.
And no, not that kind of flask. There was no way he could afford something that endlessly poured out alcohol. The Endless Flask passively filled up with water. By magic, in his opinion. No amount of imperial propaganda about relics “just being advanced technology” could convince him the flask wasn’t magically producing water. Logically, magic made sense. The laws of nature themselves dictated that water couldn’t just appear from nowhere.
He gulped down some water before stashing his stuff and snuffing out the light of the lantern, leaving him in endless darkness with his rifle across his lap.
Morning came quickly, the son’s rays blocked by the toxic clouds, and yet still offering its light to guide his path. Sleep was… about as well as he could expect from Endenheim. He tossed and turned with his back against the wall all night, flinching awake at the barest of sounds. Sometimes, there wasn’t even a sound, just his survival instincts warning him of danger. And he always followed his instincts. They exist for a reason, and it was better to look when there wasn’t anything than to not see an attack coming.
Verlon stood, hearing his back and bones pop several times as he stretched out. He took care of his morning routine, splashing water onto his face and eating a light snack. He also drained the remaining oil in the lantern and stored it. It was best not to waste the resource as he never knew when he might be able to refill it.
He picked up camp, calmly ignoring the light mist that was falling from above the jagged cliffs as he wrapped a piece of cloth around his face. The mist might not be toxic, but he didn’t want to take the chance. He then picked up his rifle and began to move once more, heading deeper into the tier-one contamination zone.
While traveling, he thought about his parents on occasion. Would they be proud of him for following in their footsteps and becoming a Seeker? Sure, he was nowhere near their rank, a solid three ranks separating him from being a purple cross. And yes, he wasn’t nearly as skilled, but he liked to think he was moving in the right direction. Assuming he didn’t die, of course. That's why he mostly scouted locations instead of participating in the raids groups of Seekers attempted. Scouting was far safer.
Scouting was... less effective at increasing his own strength. He rarely got strong loot, whether it be ancient weapons from ruins or powerful plants, and it was beginning to show. He made do with his gun and his mobility, but that could only hold up so long. He had little faith in becoming a green cross at the rate he was going. Maybe he should join a fireteam? Even his parents were part of a fireteam, as were most high-rank seekers.
Verlon desperately wanted to figure out what happened to his parents, though the chances of finding anything after three years were… especially considering they disappeared in a purple contamination zone, where reality becomes far less Euclidean due to the heavy miasmic presence. He just needed a lucky break. If he could find a high-tier relic or something, maybe he could pass into the tier-four contamination zones without a fireteam-
His path cutting off paused his thoughts. A ravine had split into his path, separating one side from the other in little more than a twenty-foot gap. The drop fell far, far down and any fall would end in severe injury if not outright death.
He froze, calculating in his head how long it would take to find another route around the canyon and how much it would delay his trip. Judging from the size of the ravine, it could just be a couple of hours to find a new route, but that number could just as easily go to half a day. He didn't have that kind of time to waste.
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He let out a shaky breath as he tightly gripped his rifle before tossing it over his shoulder. Moving over to the nearby canyon wall, he set his bag down and retrieved a metal stake, hammer, and rope. After searching for a moment, he found an ideal spot and hammered the stake into it. He then tied the rope to the stake before tying it around himself in a makeshift harness.
He packed up his bag, making sure both his satchel and backpack were sealed up before backing up a ways from the drop-off. Verlon took in a calming breath, trying to force his pounding heart to slow down. Focusing on the Mire-counter helped, his heart slowing down to a steady tempo in time with its ticks. Then, he bolted towards the cliff, launching himself off the side.
He flew true, falling far short of the gap. Just as he began to lose elevation, his boots activated with a simple mental impulse launching him the rest of the way across the gap as steam exploded from his feet. He tumbled, dust and debris flying everywhere as the harness pulled him to a stop, jerking his body as the rope dug into him.
“Fuck, I hate doing that.” He groaned out as he forced himself onto his hands and knees. His hip hurt, an unfortunate result of smacking into the ground with as much force as he had. He pressed on it a couple of times, feeling greatly relieved as the pain steadily faded. Thankfully, it was just a sting of pain that might bruise, but nothing serious.
Once he was stable enough to walk, he untied the harness and staked it into the ground. If things went well, he would use it to get back across the gap on his return journey. This way, he wouldn't have to throw himself again and could swing back without too much hassle.
He checked through his bag, making sure nothing broke before continuing on the path, albeit with a slight limp for a ways. He checked his notebook occasionally when he came to a crossroads but otherwise had an uneventful walk till about mid-day.
It was right when he paused for a lunch break that he heard it. “Help! Please!” The shout was faint, bouncing off of the walls of the canyons as it echoed to him. The cry instantly put Verlon on edge as packed his rations back up and grabbed his rifle.
Should he go check it out? He wanted to, but if that person was crying for help, there was no way something else hadn’t heard. For the most part, the creatures of the Craggy Chasms were weak, sure. But if a Hornracer showed up? Even he, an experienced yellow cross, didn’t want to go up against those flying menaces. It wasn't necessarily that they were dangerous, rather that the location greatly favored them. In an open field, it wouldn't be a problem to kill a Hornracer. Here though? All it would take was a simple stagger off the side to spell doom.
The indecision lasted only a moment and ultimately didn’t matter. He already knew in his heart as soon as he heard the voice. He would go help, as was only right as a human being. Or at least, he would go see if he could help. If the person was in trouble beyond his help? There was no point in two people dying.
Verlon moved closer to the cry, carefully checking his corners even more than previously as he moved closer to the source. Oddly enough, he saw no tracks as he moved in. The person must have been an orange rank coming back through the Craggy Chasms. That thought put him even more on edge assuming it was a high rank Seeker.
He paused at a sharp turn as the canyon cut through a deeper chasm. Peeking his head around the corner, Verlon spotted the person. They were lying up against the canyon wall on a ledge just below the one he was using as a path. The person was still quite far away, maybe four or five hundred yards, so he couldn’t make out too many details. Occasionally, the person would twitch before shouting. “Help, I can't move!”
Something about the situation nagged at the back of Verlon’s mind. Call it paranoia, but he didn’t move for a moment as he pulled a pair of binoculars from his satchel instead of immediately charging in. He looked through them, annoyed to see one of his lenses had cracked. It wasn’t a terrible issue, but it distorted his view slightly.
He looked at the man, taking in more details. The man’s pack was sitting on his lap, covering his chest. He couldn’t see any noticeable injuries, not even a speck of blood indicating the man’s issue. The man twitched, his head rose slightly and he shouted once more, revealing an orange cross, before his head slumped again.
Verlon looked a little harder, spotting a few more oddities. There were no footprints. Like, anywhere. That should’ve been impossible considering the Craggy Chasms had a permanent layer of dust on it from the falling rocks and canyon walls, unless the man had been sitting there long enough for the dust to recover his tracks.
The final nail in the coffin, so to speak, was something he almost missed. The man had another backpack sitting next to his side, partially covered by the one in his lap. What Orange Rank in their right mind would carry a spare backpack through the contamination zones? That was just asking for issues considering how much it would slow mobility. Especially considering how much the Steamglade, the tier two contamination zone, required mobility.
He rested his hand on his chin, thinking for a moment. He swapped his binoculars for his notebook and glanced through it before sighting his rifle on the man. Pausing for a moment, taking the slight breeze into account, he adjusted his aim. Breathe In. Breathe Out. With a sharp crack, smoke exploded from the end of his barrel, propelling a shot toward the direction of the downed man.
Verlon quickly recovered from the recoil, just in time to hear an inhuman screech. The pack on the man’s lap, what he aimed for, bounced off with the force of the bullet. The pack instantly lost shape, camouflage failing as it changed into a tentacled creature and settled on the floor. He slid the bolt back, pushing another round into the chamber. After a moment he fired again, making sure the creature was truly dead.
The young man didn’t move for a solid ten minutes as he watched the scene, patiently waiting just to make sure nothing else would come running to the noise. He reloaded as he watched, cutting down his supply of bullets from fifty to forty-eight. He had wanted to bring more, but ammo was expensive. A silver coin could only buy ten.
After the pack warped, Verlon felt justified in his paranoia. The tentacled creature was known as a Corpse Bud. They were a type of ambush predator that would attach to a person just before they died, changing their color and shape to mimic something in the surroundings. Then, they would worm their tentacles into the body as they ate, careful to not kill the person as they stimulated the body just enough to keep them alive. Finally, the Corpse Bud would jack into the nervous system and use their victim's voice to cry for help.
Once he was assured, he finally moved towards the ledge with his guard up. He checked on the man, finally seeing blood as what was left of his intestines fell out through the hole left by the Corpse Bud’s burrowing. The man was still breathing, though Verlon knew better than to think he could live. Part of how Corpse Buds worked was by killing the brain but keeping the body alive.
Verlon didn’t waste any time, pulling his short sword from his sheath and stabbing the man through the heart. A small surge of blood seeped up from the wound, though not near enough force to spray like a normal heart injury should. The Corpse Bud had seemingly devoured all but the last remnants of the red substance leaving the bare minimum to keep its host alive.
He didn’t retch, or even feel sick as he once used to when killing a person. Instead, he felt deep sorrow as he sighed. Still, he was glad he was the one to stumble across the scene. If someone else had, the Corpse Bud might’ve gotten another meal.
Verlon looked around, making sure nothing was approaching, before quickly searching the now-deceased man. He wouldn’t need his supplies anymore, so there was no point leaving them to rot.
The man carried the same rounds as him in his bag, so he grabbed those. Three sets of five were already in stripper clips and there were twelve loose rounds, bringing his ammo count to seventy-five with forty of them being in stripper clips. He also found a variety of ores and rotting plant matter but didn’t grab any of it. The man had been under the Corpse Bud's grasp for a long time for all his plants to rot.
He also found various goods and tools, which he took some of. All the deceased man's rope and oil were grabbed as well as his spare wicks and anything else that wouldn’t slow him down too much. The man didn’t have any money on him, which wasn’t too odd considering money tended to be useless out in the wilds.
Verlon backed away and bowed his head in a moment of solemnity. Before he left the corpse alone, he pulled the orange cross pendant from around the man’s neck. It was common practice amongst Seekers to return the crosses of the deceased. He brought the cross closer to his face, reading the name imprinted on the back: “Richard Stewart".
He looked over the corpse one last time, noticing the man had clenched something tightly in his hand before he died. He reached down and unfurled the ashy, yet still-warm, fingers, pulling out a small round pendant. Verlon froze for a moment before opening it. The low light of the Craggy Chasms revealed the pictures of a young woman and a little girl. Another sigh escaped his lips as he looked down at the man before stashing it in his satchel as well.
The yellow Seeker moved away from the body and towards the Corpse Bud. The octopus-like beast lay dead on the floor with its tentacles still covered in the gore of its victim. “Bastard.” He kicked it in frustration, causing it to flop to the side. Corpse Buds weren’t even supposed to be in tier-one contamination zones. They were native to the Steamglade's underground cave systems.
The man had probably been caught off guard, allowing the thing to get him. Corpse Buds had terrible mobility, but were extraordinarily vicious once they closed the gap. A combination of their venom and toothed tentacles usually ensured their victim's prolonged death. It had probably either got him while he was asleep or ambushed him using its camouflage.
Verlon stabbed it with his knife, cutting open its slimy flesh. Corpse Buds were incredibly valuable, or at least their venom was. To keep their victims in a state between life and death, their venom was capable of putting injuries into a sort of healing stasis. This effect made their venom highly prized and the Sekorium would pay a hefty bounty for it. Additionally, he could use it if he sustained a serious enough injury.
He pulled one of several empty containers from his bag and cut open the tentacled beast's venom gland, filling the bottle about a fourth of the way with its red venom. Once he wrung out as much as he could, he kicked the thing off the ledge and washed off its ichor with his Endless Flask.
He spared the corpse one last glance before continuing on his way. It would eat up too much time and energy to bury the body. Even if he did bury it, some scavenger would come dig it back up shortly after he left. It was a nice notion, but a wasted effort out beyond the walls.