Prelude
Before castles did turn to ruin. Before a convergence of realms. Before the druid had died. Before the last wars. Before the true gods rose once again. Before there were endless cries that shook the core. Before all the lost souls had died. Before even the grass had shriveled and had been blown away by the wind. Before the sweltering days when there was no wind and beasts and men were burned by the sun. And even before all the kings went mad and the people turned to hellish fiends, it was there that the true darkness had begun.
Castles had stood grand amongst ever-waving fields of green and were doused in an everlasting morning dew. The people had moved to and fro as they glided amongst the fields like birds against the sky. They worked with the wind upon their backs, and the beasts looked upon them from the shadows of the forest. The lords watched from afar, from their divine palaces. The gods soaked in the prayers, and the fire burned bright and hot. So bright it pierced the darkness like a sword pierced flesh. It burned so pure it scorched the void away.
No more, though! That world is long since dead. A fairytale in the minds of children who have long since perished from this world. Not to be remembered by anyone. Certainly not you, a disgraced one. A thing that no longer remembers thy origin. A thing cursed to wander this shadow of a world for eternity or a second. Slipping between death and life, waiting for madness to overcome you.
Or perhaps. Yes, perhaps, you are one of the few. The one to rekindle the little light, or finally, you mean to smother the flame and end the cycle.
—Words of a lost prophet
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The crones sat back and stared from the confines of their hoods. Looking at one another for any other words to be said. No one shifted. No one breathed. No one spoke. They sat silent.
The crones sat in a semi-circle about a fire on the north side of the hut. At the other end of the building, the door stood ajar with a man standing in its frame. He stood gripping a steel sword with a chimera's three heads carved into the pommel. He was wrapped in a heavy black cloak, fitted in a rusty chainmail shirt, tattered trousers, and rotting leather boots.
"He ponders it deeply, sisters, but no connection can be made. No bells ring within that hollow head of his," said the crone in the middle.
"Yes, no bells ring, but if struck, his head would ring like one," laughed the crone on the right.
"No," said the crone on the left. "He already knew. Our words are just confirmation."
"Truly," declared the crone on the right. "Could it be?" She said and shook her head. She stood and went to the far end of the room where a chest lay. She lifted its heavy lid and dug through it, till at last, she let out a hum of approval. She pulled out a small trinket no bigger than a fist and walked over to the man, handing it to him.
The man held the item up and looked at it. The item was made from rough twine and thin wire. There was a round ball on the top and a cylinder in the middle that held four apertures.
"The figure of a man," said the crone, "but who?"
"He knows," whispered the crone on the left.
"Does he?" quipped the crone in the middle.
"That's why I gave him the effigy," said the crone standing by the man. "To find out."
"Well, does he know?" asked the crone in the middle.
"Quiet!" snapped the crone on the left, turning to the middle crone. "You never knew when to keep your mouth shut. But does he? Does he know?"
The man's body under the heavy cloak showed no sign of understanding or connections to be made from the effigy. His face was covered in a deep shadow and partially hidden by a long hood, with just his eyes visible. These eyes shined like lonesome stars against the shadow of his face.
No muscle stirred from under his rough rags and no sound was produced. He was still as a statue.
"Well, does he know?" screeched the middle crone again. "He stands there like a fool."
"Dagny, still your tongue,"
The crone standing beside the man turned to the middle crone. "Hush, Dagny. Answers are not always abrupt or apparent. We all know this."
Then the man pulled back his hood and exposed his sunken face, and his otherworldly wounds were shown to the crones. It was as if his skin had been ripped from his body and torn into small pieces, only to be pieced back together and reapplied like a mosaic to the man's body. The crone next to him stepped back and gasped.
"It's not possible," she screeched. "Your kind cannot venture so far. The gods will not suffer you here."
The man looked at her with his two black eyes, and a rush went through her as he stared into her very being. She shuddered as she felt herself being devoured, but then her body buzzed with an old power. For a moment, her wrinkles faded, her hair gleamed crimson, and she felt a surge of old magic within. "Silva," she heard Dagny call from behind her, but she seemed very far away from her. She paid the old hag no attention. For the moment, her mind was finally clear.
"So many souls," Silva said, and she stroked his scarred cheek. "How many will you take before you heal, before you can rest?"
He held her hand to his face, and she felt a small ripple go through him. He was so very cold. When he spoke, his voice made her and the other crones tremble as if his words were a blizzard's wind.
"I need you," he said.
"Me? For what?"
"We are not yours to take," the crone on the left said.
"I don't need you, Agna," the man growled. "And you are always mine to take."
"You know her?" Silva asked.
"I have seen so much," the man said. "And you are mine."
"No," Silva said. "We must remain here." She stepped back from him, and she felt a stiffness spread through her, and the wrinkles ran through her as if snakes were running beneath her skin. Her voice croaked, an old woman's again. "You won't take us."
"I only need you," the man said, and the blade...
"He is not the one," said the crone in the middle.
"Yes, you were right, Dagny. I doubt he will ever…"
Agna's head and Dagny's hit the floor just as the horrid blade returned to its master's sheath. The man had not shifted an inch from his place.
He held Silva with a hard grip, her beauty and youth returned to her once again. Before she could react, the stranger had yanked her out of the hut and dragged her into the dark. As she was pulled along, she turned and caught a glimpse of a black void bursting from the crones' bodies.
The crones' voices sounded from the hut, but they were shrill and strained, like a bird's imitation.
"Run, run if you dare, you wretch. It will do you no good. You will never kill the gods."
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Ragged man
Before castles did turn to ruin. Before the convergence of realms. Before the death of the druid. Before the clash of helms. The true gods did rise once more. To hear the cries, that shake thy core. Before all else dies.
The ragged man could hear his voice, her voice, then his again. The voice constantly changed between the rasp of an old man and the sweet voice of young girl's, and the wailing masses. Yet it mattered not who spoke, for they were one in the same.
A crescent moon peered out from behind the clouds and let out a soft ray of light that gleamed across the cold black lake. The only sound in the dark was the water as it ate up the oar as the small boat slid silently through the almost too silent night.
The moon's light crept toward the boat as if it were a prowling cat that stalked its prey. Slowly and timid it came closer and it edged ever so slightly till it was no more than a foot away. Then it stopped, as if it were sniffing the boat and it wondered if it were friend or foe.
The ragged figure stood still with his oar just above the water's surface. His eyes ere on the light. Slowly he dipped his oar back into the water. And the light jumped back to hide beneath the clouds, leaving the ragged figure in darkness once more. And once more the world was cast back into pure darkness. The ragged figure persisted, his boat slowly pulling him forward deeper into the darkness. The swish of the water passing against the boat and the plunge of the oar into the cold black lake were the only sounds to be heard.
For how long he had been on the lake, the ragged figure could not remember. It had to be Well i Don't remember, thought the ragged man. For time had ceased to matter. For the moon in this dark world had finally replaced the sun and the nights and the days were one in the same.
When the ragged figure had first set out from the lakes shore the ruins atop the small island had seemed only half a day's ride away, then the sky had been lit by an unknown gray light. Before that it there had been lit by a black sun traced in a red circle,which burned more fiercely than the real sun before it ever had. Until one day it disappeared and then the only light to be had was found in the fleeting stars and shy moon. And soon their time will come, soon, and they will never be seen again. The ragged man thought, peering up into the darkness searching for the moon and stars. When suddenly the boat lurched to a halt, throwing the ragged man into the icy black water. The cold was deathly freezing and yet the ragged man showed no sign of feeling it. His attention on the sand beneath his boots, he had reached the island. Slowly walking forward sand became rock and then rock became mud, and then thin grass. Groping through the darkness the ragged man's hand fell upon a rough stone structure and as if on que the moon burst from the clouds casting light upon the ruins.
In front of him was a gate that loomed a hundred feet above the ground. It once would have deflected an army of a hundred thousand strong, but now was an open hand letting anyone and anything through. The once proud wall the gate had stood by had crumbled and turned to dust, only a few spires that still stood had become so overgrown with thorns that they looked like stone bushes. Before castles did turn to ruin.
Arranged in a circle the ruins defended a foundation of rectangular keep. In the middle of the foundation several trees had burst through the stone; Small white slender trees all in the same spot. Like vines they wrapped themselves around each other forming one grand tree. A monstrosity of a thing, it was pale and leafless, prickly and gnarled, dried and cracked, and lived despite it all. Before all else dies. He walked though the gateless gate and grew closer to the tree and the thing seemed to move under the moon's light. The hundreds of merged trees suckled upon the great branches of the one grand tree. It is moving, the ragged man thought.
He stretched out his hand and his charred fingers rested upon the shifting tree and under his tattered gloves he could feel it.
Souls.