[game-notes version here]

XXVI.

Duskmarch 27, Moonday, Year 731

Everything in Alric’s body ached. Indeed, pain had become such a constant experience these past two days that he hardly knew where to focus on it. He was footsore. His weaker leg complained with every step, worse than at any point in his life. His hips felt pulled out of their sockets. His entire torso itched and burned with half-healed bite marks. He had strained an arm muscle in the climb out of the Starless Rift, and any time he tried to lift something it screamed. Somehow, he’d twisted his neck wrong, so that looking to his right triggered a lightning bolt of agony. Even his jaw ached. The mage couldn’t remember what the embrace of a soft bed was like, how it felt to lose himself in his thoughts without his body demanding attention.

And yet, the mental anguish he experienced was worse. They had failed to keep Saelith the Vanished contained, and now he was free upon the world after centuries of imprisonment. Yesterday, they’d seen a hill giant on the plains, evidence that Orthuun’s army was beginning to assemble. Twice today they’d passed small animals, dead and with either their eyes or faces gone. How long did they have until Oakton and its surrounding settlements were under siege? A year? A month? Could humanity survive the Blind Sovereign’s forces, or were the secrets to defeating the demon lost to time? Did the knowledge of who created Thornmere Hold and the Starless Rift exist in the Inkbinders Lodge somewhere? Were there other caches of ancient artifacts nearby that would prove the key to repelling Orthuun? The implications of this journey swirled in his mind.

Colliding with those dark thoughts were more personal ones. How was he alive with no heartbeat? Or was he even alive? Saelith had called him “darkling” …was it only a matter of time before he succumbed to some sort of corruption? Would he turn on his companions eventually? Would he suffer the same fate as Hadren Kelthorn, devoured by some shadowy beast with nothing left behind? Should he abandon his magic before he was a thrall of the demon, or was it too late? Could he even get rid of the Tome of Unlit Paths? Did he want to?

“You’re doing it again,” Vessa’s voice broke in.

Alric blinked and looked at her. She was grinning. Gods but she was lovely, even after the perils they’d shared. Vessa limped as badly as him and kept touching her side tenderly. She said she’d thought she cracked a rib or two, and her shoulder where the rock had struck her was mottled in gruesome bruises. And yet still: She was lovely. Her lopsided grin was as much a light in the darkness for him as the sun finally appearing overhead.

He returned the grin. “Sorry,” he said, blushing. “I suppose I am.”

“A pip for your thoughts?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, no,” he chuckled sourly, and waved his hand as if repelling a bad smell. “Nobody needs to share the misery of my mind. I apologize. You were saying?”

She paused a beat, as if wondering whether to probe. Instead, she pointed at the low, forested hills ahead of them. “I was saying that Mae thinks we can make it to Vastren Hollow by nightfall if we fancy a bed, but I’m not sure I want to return there. What do you think?”

Alric pursed his lips. “A bed does sound nice, and perhaps there is food remaining there that hasn’t spoiled. But…” a flash of bodies torn apart across the village’s streets filled his vision, and corrupted skratts leaping upon him in the night. He frowned. “I can see avoiding it too.”

“You’re no help,” she laughed. “I just…” she shivered. “You don’t know what I saw there that night. The nursery…” He thought he saw a tear form and she suddenly turned away, rubbing at her face.

“Vessa,” he said gently, then repeated her name. She looked up, eyes wet, face defiant, and sniffed. “On second thought, if an army was going to muster somewhere nearby, they’d pick Vastren Hollow. Indeed, perhaps Orthuun sent the skratt horde there specifically to clear it out, to supply his forces. We’d be safer in the woods, I think. Undetected.”

It was a fanciful theory, and one he didn’t believe. Vessa may have thought so too, but her momentary hard mask dissolved. A warm smile transformed her face, and another tear formed. She let it fall onto her cheek. “Thank you, Alric. I’ll tell her.”

Vessa squeezed his shoulder briefly before padding ahead to catch Maelen, who remained irritable and standoffish since the Starless Rift. The squeeze hurt one of his wounds, but Alric didn’t care. It was a sign of connection and fondness that he held onto, and for a brief time his dark thoughts receded.

By the time he’d come back to the present, they’d entered the tree-packed hills of the Greenwood Rise. It felt strangely unfamiliar. Alric couldn’t have put his finger as to why, but the more accomplished forester Vessa did.

“The insects and birds,” she said, her voice suddenly low. “They’re quiet.”

Yes, that was it exactly. The forest had previously brimmed with ravens, jays, and chittering insects, even in winter. Yet now there was only the rustling of their footsteps on fallen leaves and… nothing. It was almost like being back in the caverns below ground. Alric shivered and scanned the canopy above. There he spied a bird sitting atop a low branch overhead, quietly watching them. Several steps later he saw another, perched and otherwise still. As they passed beneath the second bird, it took flight in a frantic flapping of wings and rustling of leaves, yet at no point did it call out.

Maelen seemed to recognize the same oddity and fell back to join them. Her wary eyes scanned, her hand not far from the wrapped handle of her mace.

“Predator, you think?” she asked Vessa in a low whisper, eager.

“No,” she said simply. “Feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” the warrior growled, and now she did pull her weapon into her fists. As Maelen stalked forward, ready for battle, Vessa shot a worried look at him. He pursed his lips and shrugged.

All that afternoon, the trio moved through the woods, vigilant but sensing no obvious danger other than the preternatural quiet. Their ears led them to a stream, made more vibrant by the recent rains. They paused there to clean themselves and refill waterskins, while Vessa stalked upstream with her bow. When she returned later, she carried three fish tied together with a spare bowstring and a beaming expression. Despite her constant yearning for the city and complaint about the wilds, Alric thought that Vessa was happiest when she’d hunted a meal that could feed her companions. Happier, even, than finding gold to spend on drink and lotus leaf. There was insight there, one perhaps he’d share with her in a quiet moment.

That night, Maelen directed them to make camp at the base of an immense redwood tree. The cooked fish was delicious, and the meal proved to be a welcome counterbalance to the strange, tense silence of the surrounding forest.

After they’d eaten and cleaned up, a howl carried to them through the trees, low and impossibly long, fading into something that sounded like breath being drawn in. After that… the profound silence seemed almost suffocating. They looked at each other nervously, and Maelen suggested they douse the fire and set watch. Alric wasn’t sure he could sleep after that call, but performed his evening tasks dutifully and lay down on his bedroll with staff close at hand. Surprisingly, he was asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.

Alric rarely dreamed, and when he did of late his sleep was plagued by nightmare scenes of either creatures with flashing claws and teeth leaping from the shadows upon him or, almost more horribly, of sitting in his chair in the Inkbinders Lodge while darkness gathered, gathered, and, eventually, consumed everything around him until all was utterly black. These nightmares had him gasping awake, clutching at his chest, eyes straining to ensure he was not blind. In misery, all his worries would come flooding into him then, with the list growing longer each day.

Tonight, however, his dream began with him resting his back against the wide, ancient trunk of a tree, one leg resting idly across an enormous root. It was summertime, or at least the temperature was warm and pleasant. He wore his old scribe’s clothes—not the robe or cloak he’d taken on this journey—a detail he didn’t notice immediately but would remember after waking. Golden sunlight dappled the scene, filtered through the leaves above. Birds twittered and chirped, unseen, from somewhere beyond. The soil beneath him was as comfortable as a feather mattress. A light breeze stirred the leaves and sent the branches above swaying. Alric smiled and sighed with contentment. In that moment, he wanted for nothing in the world.

At the edge of the glade in which Alric lounged, the bushes rustled. A majestic stag stepped forth, its shoulders seemingly as tall as the mage would have been standing, its rack of antlers preposterously large. Looking back on the dream, Alric was surprised he didn’t regard the enormous beast as a threat. Instead, he felt simple awe at such a powerful presence, and humility as it regarded him with its round, brown eyes. It was then Alric noticed that those immense antlers had sprigs of leaves growing from parts of them, and small flowers.

The stag bowed its head, almost imperceptibly, and moved through the glade. As the sunlight played across its flank and back, he thought that perhaps the beast’s hide wasn’t covered in fur but a finely grained bark, almost as if the creature were a wooden construct. When it lifted its cloven hooves, the animal left delicate flowers behind in the low, green grass of the glade. Alric marveled at the little spots of bloom… had they been there before? Why hadn’t the weight of the creature crushed them? Had they grown from its passing? In the moments it took him to ponder those details, the stag was gone.

Alric exhaled, feeling the wonder of the moment, and closed his eyes. The dream ended then, and left in its wake a deep, velvety embrace of sleep.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

He blinked awake. It was daytime, well past dawn. Wasn’t he supposed to have had the last watch of the night? Sitting up, he looked around the campsite. Vessa and Maelen were there, the thief on her side and the warrior on her back, both just beginning to stir. He yawned and stretched, his body complaining at the motion less than any morning in recent memory.

“I just had the most amazing dream,” Vessa purred, stretching an arm skyward.

Later that morning, Vessa was still marveling at their fortune.

“It was the Rootmother, it had to be!” she said excitedly. “All of us having the exact same dream? The tree? The stag? Waking up refreshed, like we’d slept in an inn? It’s the Rootmother, I’d swear my life on it!”

Alric couldn’t argue the point, and even Maelen and her foul temper seemed to accept that they had all received some sort of blessing from Oakton’s most revered goddess.

“Keep your voice down, lass,” the warrior admonished. “It may have been her in our dreams, but something’s still spooked the forest’s wildlife. Remember the howl from last night.”

“What does it mean, though?” Vessa asked urgently, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Alric? Do you think she’s trying to tell us something? To guide us in some way?”

They moved through the Greenwood Rise at a good pace, all of them buoyed by the restful night. Already, the companions had crested the hills and were making their way down the eastern foothills, the trees becoming thinner and further apart. It allowed them to see the wider expanse of land ahead of them, a wrinkled landscape of green hills all the way to the coast, with cloudless blue skies overhead. The journey was a stark contrast to their way west from Leandra’s Rest more than a week before, when this part of their trek had been shrouded in fog. Truly, the Redwood Marches were a wonder of beauty on a clear day.

The only pall was the still-silent woods. They’d seen plenty of birds that morning, and more than a few brown squirrels. But unnatural quiet still hung over the forest, making every step and conversation feel impossibly loud and dangerous.

Alric considered Vessa’s question. “It’s possible that the Rootmother is sending us a message, though I admit it’s a difficult message to interpret. Or perhaps everyone in the area had the same dream, not just us, and it’s the goddess telling us all that we’re safe in her embrace.”

Vessa smirked. “Why Alric… you’re starting to sound like a priest. Going to join the Rootbound when we get back?”

He blinked, thrown off by the comment. Before he could answer, though, Maelen shushed them both.

“Quiet!” she growled. “Listen.”

Alric did. Animals were growling and yipping somewhere beyond a wooded ridge, off to their right. Wolves, perhaps? Or wild dogs of some kind? The sudden animal noise was startling. Alric’s throat went dry.

“Vess, go see,” Maelen whispered. “I’ll bring the lad.”

Without a word, Vessa padded off towards the noise, crouched low and with bow in hand. In moments she’d disappeared over the ridge.

As Alric followed Maelen, staff gripped tight, the sounds grew steadily louder. What he had thought perhaps was a pack of dogs playing now sounded distinctly more aggressive. A sharp whine of pain punctuated a series of frantic, snarling growls.

They found Vessa on one knee at the base of a slender tree, bow drawn and arrow nocked, looking down the slope to a gentle hollow between two low hills. Maelen crouched low near another tree two strides away, and Alric tried his best to mimic her movements.

The scene below made him gasp.

Two packs of wolves clashed there, each with at least two dozen members. One of the groups was primarily brown and white, the other black and gray. The sheer number of creatures was startling… Alric didn’t know his forest lore well, but he didn’t think packs usually grew that large. They snarled and darted and leapt at one another, a mass of bristled fur and gnashing teeth. The conflict was brutal and loud, and already a handful of the animals were lying dead or dying amidst the grass.

As he watched, fascinated, it seemed to Alric that the black wolves were winning this territorial war. Two-thirds of the fallen wolves were from the brown pack, and they seemed the ones yipping and whining, being chased far more often than chasing.

Like a bolt of lightning, realization hit him: Only the brown wolves were making noise. He scrambled to Maelen’s side, squinting. The nearest wolves were perhaps forty paces away and he did his best amidst the chaos to focus on the closest black wolf, who had just made a lunge at an opponent and narrowly missed. It turned its head to the side, giving Alric a perfect profile as it scanned the battlefield for the next attack.

Its eyes were pitch black, like hollows in its dark-furred face.

He tugged at Maelen’s arm. “We have to go,” he hissed.

Perhaps she had the same thought, or perhaps something on his face convinced her. She paused only a breath before nodding once and signaling Vessa. The three of them edged away from the low hilltop and back the way they came.

They neither saw nor heard the wolves that had been stalking them until the attack.

Next: Darkness Spreading [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXVI.

Duskmarch 27, Moonday, Year 731

Everything in Alric’s body ached. Indeed, pain had become such a constant experience these past two days that he hardly knew where to focus on it. He was footsore. His weaker leg complained with every step, worse than at any point in his life. His hips felt pulled out of their sockets. His entire torso itched and burned with half-healed bite marks. He had strained an arm muscle in the climb out of the Starless Rift, and any time he tried to lift something it screamed. Somehow, he’d twisted his neck wrong, so that looking to his right triggered a lightning bolt of agony. Even his jaw ached. The mage couldn’t remember what the embrace of a soft bed was like, how it felt to lose himself in his thoughts without his body demanding attention.

And yet, the mental anguish he experienced was worse. They had failed to keep Saelith the Vanished contained, and now he was free upon the world after centuries of imprisonment. Yesterday, they’d seen a hill giant on the plains, evidence that Orthuun’s army was beginning to assemble. Twice today they’d passed small animals, dead and with either their eyes or faces gone. How long did they have until Oakton and its surrounding settlements were under siege? A year? A month? Could humanity survive the Blind Sovereign’s forces, or were the secrets to defeating the demon lost to time? Did the knowledge of who created Thornmere Hold and the Starless Rift exist in the Inkbinders Lodge somewhere? Were there other caches of ancient artifacts nearby that would prove the key to repelling Orthuun? The implications of this journey swirled in his mind.

Colliding with those dark thoughts were more personal ones. How was he alive with no heartbeat? Or was he even alive? Saelith had called him “darkling” …was it only a matter of time before he succumbed to some sort of corruption? Would he turn on his companions eventually? Would he suffer the same fate as Hadren Kelthorn, devoured by some shadowy beast with nothing left behind? Should he abandon his magic before he was a thrall of the demon, or was it too late? Could he even get rid of the Tome of Unlit Paths? Did he want to?

“You’re doing it again,” Vessa’s voice broke in.

Alric blinked and looked at her. She was grinning. Gods but she was lovely, even after the perils they’d shared. Vessa limped as badly as him and kept touching her side tenderly. She said she’d thought she cracked a rib or two, and her shoulder where the rock had struck her was mottled in gruesome bruises. And yet still: She was lovely. Her lopsided grin was as much a light in the darkness for him as the sun finally appearing overhead.

He returned the grin. “Sorry,” he said, blushing. “I suppose I am.”

“A pip for your thoughts?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, no,” he chuckled sourly, and waved his hand as if repelling a bad smell. “Nobody needs to share the misery of my mind. I apologize. You were saying?”

She paused a beat, as if wondering whether to probe. Instead, she pointed at the low, forested hills ahead of them. “I was saying that Mae thinks we can make it to Vastren Hollow by nightfall if we fancy a bed, but I’m not sure I want to return there. What do you think?”

Alric pursed his lips. “A bed does sound nice, and perhaps there is food remaining there that hasn’t spoiled. But…” a flash of bodies torn apart across the village’s streets filled his vision, and corrupted skratts leaping upon him in the night. He frowned. “I can see avoiding it too.”

“You’re no help,” she laughed. “I just…” she shivered. “You don’t know what I saw there that night. The nursery…” He thought he saw a tear form and she suddenly turned away, rubbing at her face.

“Vessa,” he said gently, then repeated her name. She looked up, eyes wet, face defiant, and sniffed. “On second thought, if an army was going to muster somewhere nearby, they’d pick Vastren Hollow. Indeed, perhaps Orthuun sent the skratt horde there specifically to clear it out, to supply his forces. We’d be safer in the woods, I think. Undetected.”

It was a fanciful theory, and one he didn’t believe. Vessa may have thought so too, but her momentary hard mask dissolved. A warm smile transformed her face, and another tear formed. She let it fall onto her cheek. “Thank you, Alric. I’ll tell her.”

Vessa squeezed his shoulder briefly before padding ahead to catch Maelen, who remained irritable and standoffish since the Starless Rift. The squeeze hurt one of his wounds, but Alric didn’t care. It was a sign of connection and fondness that he held onto, and for a brief time his dark thoughts receded.

By the time he’d come back to the present, they’d entered the tree-packed hills of the Greenwood Rise. It felt strangely unfamiliar. Alric couldn’t have put his finger as to why, but the more accomplished forester Vessa did.

“The insects and birds,” she said, her voice suddenly low. “They’re quiet.”

Yes, that was it exactly. The forest had previously brimmed with ravens, jays, and chittering insects, even in winter. Yet now there was only the rustling of their footsteps on fallen leaves and… nothing. It was almost like being back in the caverns below ground. Alric shivered and scanned the canopy above. There he spied a bird sitting atop a low branch overhead, quietly watching them. Several steps later he saw another, perched and otherwise still. As they passed beneath the second bird, it took flight in a frantic flapping of wings and rustling of leaves, yet at no point did it call out.

Maelen seemed to recognize the same oddity and fell back to join them. Her wary eyes scanned, her hand not far from the wrapped handle of her mace.

“Predator, you think?” she asked Vessa in a low whisper, eager.

“No,” she said simply. “Feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” the warrior growled, and now she did pull her weapon into her fists. As Maelen stalked forward, ready for battle, Vessa shot a worried look at him. He pursed his lips and shrugged.

All that afternoon, the trio moved through the woods, vigilant but sensing no obvious danger other than the preternatural quiet. Their ears led them to a stream, made more vibrant by the recent rains. They paused there to clean themselves and refill waterskins, while Vessa stalked upstream with her bow. When she returned later, she carried three fish tied together with a spare bowstring and a beaming expression. Despite her constant yearning for the city and complaint about the wilds, Alric thought that Vessa was happiest when she’d hunted a meal that could feed her companions. Happier, even, than finding gold to spend on drink and lotus leaf. There was insight there, one perhaps he’d share with her in a quiet moment.

That night, Maelen directed them to make camp at the base of an immense redwood tree. The cooked fish was delicious, and the meal proved to be a welcome counterbalance to the strange, tense silence of the surrounding forest.

After they’d eaten and cleaned up, a howl carried to them through the trees, low and impossibly long, fading into something that sounded like breath being drawn in. After that… the profound silence seemed almost suffocating. They looked at each other nervously, and Maelen suggested they douse the fire and set watch. Alric wasn’t sure he could sleep after that call, but performed his evening tasks dutifully and lay down on his bedroll with staff close at hand. Surprisingly, he was asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.

Alric rarely dreamed, and when he did of late his sleep was plagued by nightmare scenes of either creatures with flashing claws and teeth leaping from the shadows upon him or, almost more horribly, of sitting in his chair in the Inkbinders Lodge while darkness gathered, gathered, and, eventually, consumed everything around him until all was utterly black. These nightmares had him gasping awake, clutching at his chest, eyes straining to ensure he was not blind. In misery, all his worries would come flooding into him then, with the list growing longer each day.

Tonight, however, his dream began with him resting his back against the wide, ancient trunk of a tree, one leg resting idly across an enormous root. It was summertime, or at least the temperature was warm and pleasant. He wore his old scribe’s clothes—not the robe or cloak he’d taken on this journey—a detail he didn’t notice immediately but would remember after waking. Golden sunlight dappled the scene, filtered through the leaves above. Birds twittered and chirped, unseen, from somewhere beyond. The soil beneath him was as comfortable as a feather mattress. A light breeze stirred the leaves and sent the branches above swaying. Alric smiled and sighed with contentment. In that moment, he wanted for nothing in the world.

At the edge of the glade in which Alric lounged, the bushes rustled. A majestic stag stepped forth, its shoulders seemingly as tall as the mage would have been standing, its rack of antlers preposterously large. Looking back on the dream, Alric was surprised he didn’t regard the enormous beast as a threat. Instead, he felt simple awe at such a powerful presence, and humility as it regarded him with its round, brown eyes. It was then Alric noticed that those immense antlers had sprigs of leaves growing from parts of them, and small flowers.

The stag bowed its head, almost imperceptibly, and moved through the glade. As the sunlight played across its flank and back, he thought that perhaps the beast’s hide wasn’t covered in fur but a finely grained bark, almost as if the creature were a wooden construct. When it lifted its cloven hooves, the animal left delicate flowers behind in the low, green grass of the glade. Alric marveled at the little spots of bloom… had they been there before? Why hadn’t the weight of the creature crushed them? Had they grown from its passing? In the moments it took him to ponder those details, the stag was gone.

Alric exhaled, feeling the wonder of the moment, and closed his eyes. The dream ended then, and left in its wake a deep, velvety embrace of sleep.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

He blinked awake. It was daytime, well past dawn. Wasn’t he supposed to have had the last watch of the night? Sitting up, he looked around the campsite. Vessa and Maelen were there, the thief on her side and the warrior on her back, both just beginning to stir. He yawned and stretched, his body complaining at the motion less than any morning in recent memory.

“I just had the most amazing dream,” Vessa purred, stretching an arm skyward.

Later that morning, Vessa was still marveling at their fortune.

“It was the Rootmother, it had to be!” she said excitedly. “All of us having the exact same dream? The tree? The stag? Waking up refreshed, like we’d slept in an inn? It’s the Rootmother, I’d swear my life on it!”

Alric couldn’t argue the point, and even Maelen and her foul temper seemed to accept that they had all received some sort of blessing from Oakton’s most revered goddess.

“Keep your voice down, lass,” the warrior admonished. “It may have been her in our dreams, but something’s still spooked the forest’s wildlife. Remember the howl from last night.”

“What does it mean, though?” Vessa asked urgently, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Alric? Do you think she’s trying to tell us something? To guide us in some way?”

They moved through the Greenwood Rise at a good pace, all of them buoyed by the restful night. Already, the companions had crested the hills and were making their way down the eastern foothills, the trees becoming thinner and further apart. It allowed them to see the wider expanse of land ahead of them, a wrinkled landscape of green hills all the way to the coast, with cloudless blue skies overhead. The journey was a stark contrast to their way west from Leandra’s Rest more than a week before, when this part of their trek had been shrouded in fog. Truly, the Redwood Marches were a wonder of beauty on a clear day.

The only pall was the still-silent woods. They’d seen plenty of birds that morning, and more than a few brown squirrels. But unnatural quiet still hung over the forest, making every step and conversation feel impossibly loud and dangerous.

Alric considered Vessa’s question. “It’s possible that the Rootmother is sending us a message, though I admit it’s a difficult message to interpret. Or perhaps everyone in the area had the same dream, not just us, and it’s the goddess telling us all that we’re safe in her embrace.”

Vessa smirked. “Why Alric… you’re starting to sound like a priest. Going to join the Rootbound when we get back?”

He blinked, thrown off by the comment. Before he could answer, though, Maelen shushed them both.

“Quiet!” she growled. “Listen.”

Alric did. Animals were growling and yipping somewhere beyond a wooded ridge, off to their right. Wolves, perhaps? Or wild dogs of some kind? The sudden animal noise was startling. Alric’s throat went dry.

“Vess, go see,” Maelen whispered. “I’ll bring the lad.”

Without a word, Vessa padded off towards the noise, crouched low and with bow in hand. In moments she’d disappeared over the ridge.

As Alric followed Maelen, staff gripped tight, the sounds grew steadily louder. What he had thought perhaps was a pack of dogs playing now sounded distinctly more aggressive. A sharp whine of pain punctuated a series of frantic, snarling growls.

They found Vessa on one knee at the base of a slender tree, bow drawn and arrow nocked, looking down the slope to a gentle hollow between two low hills. Maelen crouched low near another tree two strides away, and Alric tried his best to mimic her movements.

The scene below made him gasp.

Two packs of wolves clashed there, each with at least two dozen members. One of the groups was primarily brown and white, the other black and gray. The sheer number of creatures was startling… Alric didn’t know his forest lore well, but he didn’t think packs usually grew that large. They snarled and darted and leapt at one another, a mass of bristled fur and gnashing teeth. The conflict was brutal and loud, and already a handful of the animals were lying dead or dying amidst the grass.

As he watched, fascinated, it seemed to Alric that the black wolves were winning this territorial war. Two-thirds of the fallen wolves were from the brown pack, and they seemed the ones yipping and whining, being chased far more often than chasing.

Like a bolt of lightning, realization hit him: Only the brown wolves were making noise. He scrambled to Maelen’s side, squinting. The nearest wolves were perhaps forty paces away and he did his best amidst the chaos to focus on the closest black wolf, who had just made a lunge at an opponent and narrowly missed. It turned its head to the side, giving Alric a perfect profile as it scanned the battlefield for the next attack.

Its eyes were pitch black, like hollows in its dark-furred face.

He tugged at Maelen’s arm. “We have to go,” he hissed.

Perhaps she had the same thought, or perhaps something on his face convinced her. She paused only a breath before nodding once and signaling Vessa. The three of them edged away from the low hilltop and back the way they came.

They neither saw nor heard the wolves that had been stalking them until the attack.

Next: Darkness Spreading [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXV.

Duskmarch 25, Hearthday, Year 731, the day of Sweet Requital in Oakton.

Maelen seethed. She would not survive floating eyes of death in the forest, face-eating skratt legions, insane cultists, and skinless nightmares only to be crushed in an earthquake. She would not die with coin-heavy packs that she never spent. Most of all, though, she would absolutely not watch more companions perish. Screw this Starless Rift! She wished she could punch Orthuun the Blind Sovereign square in the jaw.

With red mist clouding her vision, she roared forward, grabbing Alric by his oiled cloak and hauling him alongside her. Maelen’s boots hammered on the cavern floor, a rumble like thunder all around them. Debris skittered and danced, and rocks cascaded from above—at first smaller than a fingernail but soon as large as a fist. A stone glanced off her back and she shouted, “Go! Go!” to Vessa, three steps ahead of her, over the groaning earth.

The black mace’s handle slapped her thigh as she ran, its incessant hum in her ears. Maelen held her torch high, the speed of their flight and shaking ground making the light dance madly. She tripped briefly, her shoulder crunching into the jagged stone wall before rebounding. Yet she could feel none of her injuries as her panic-fueled rage grew.

By the time she’d reached the stone dais below the cavern entrance, Vessa was already climbing the rope hand over hand, her bow slung across her shoulders and heavy pack dangling from her back. She moved like a deer up a hillside, steps light and graceful despite the weight of her gear.

As she watched in horror, a rock from above bounced off the stone wall and struck Vessa hard, and for a moment Maelen thought she would let go and plummet to the floor. She hung limply by one arm, twisting above. Then the lass shook her head, grabbed the rope with her other hand, and repositioned her feet along the wall. Vessa continued upwards.

“Go!” Maelen said to the mage, tossing him bodily atop the dais. “Grab the rope and climb!”

“My staff…” Alric started, as Maelen vaulted to join him. The rumbling floor made even standing upright difficult now. She frowned when she saw the red and purple scraps of wet tissue littered across the dais, remnants of the first of those skinless creatures.

“I’ve got it!” she yelled. “Go!”

“Will the rope hold–?” he began, then saw the look on her face and paled. He turned, gripped the rope, and…

Climbed! Maelen always assumed the young man was weak because of his profession and lamed leg. Yet, she realized suddenly, she’d seen him again and again bash monstrosities with his staff and do real damage. And, she supposed, he compensated for his withered leg by bearing weight with his arms on that same stick every day. She’d never really considered that he might have some physical strength in that lanky torso of his. Without a second glance, the lad was pulling himself upwards, not as gracefully as Vessa but with steady, even movement. Maelen blinked, surprised.

Then something in the darkness crashed, like a boulder being pulverized, and she lurched into action. Maelen dropped the torch to the floor without looking back, picked up Alric’s staff and, in one clean motion, jammed it behind her, wedged between her travel pack and chain shirt. That done, she gripped the rope with thick, calloused hands, and pulled.

Alric’s question hadn’t been wrong. They’d descended one at a time, with lighter packs. Would the rope hold three of them, plus the treasure of the vault? She guessed they’d find out. With a vicious groan, she pulled, muscles bunching. Her boots found the cavern wall. She climbed.

The noise was deafening now, a combination of constant thunder and crashing stone. Twice, rocks as large as her head fell from above, one narrowly missing her arm and another glancing off her pack. Had either struck her, she would have fallen, head over feet, into the darkness. She assumed that Vessa had made it to the surface by the time she’d made half the climb, and soon after the light from above began reaching the glistening, water-stained rock all around her. Maelen was close. She yelled again, shoulders burning and hands aching, for what felt like days. Voices above her urged her on, though she couldn’t make out words over the cacophony of the Starless Rift.

Eventually, hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upwards. Rain spattered across her face. And, just like that, she lay on her back, her panting breath making puffs in the cold winter air. Maelen wasn’t sure how long she lay there, every pain now flooding back, before Vessa called out.

“Look!” she croaked, the lass’ voice raw.

Like a turtle on its back, Maelen rolled awkwardly. She shrugged her shoulders in the steady rain to release the heavy pack and Alric’s staff so she could sit. Maelen glanced at Vessa, who sat three strides away on her knees, mouth open. The lad lay on his side between them, staring in the same direction. Maelen turned to follow their gazes.

The Starless Rift was sealing itself. The two sections of muddy plains now only lay a short leap apart. Even as she watched, still and stunned, the earth rumbled and groaned, each side reaching for the other. Over the next stretch of time—she couldn’t have said how long—the two sides met, the crack sealed. The rumbling thunder echoed across the plain, low and distant, and then fell silent. Only churned soil, the shape of a long crescent, remained.

In that moment, she thought of her mouse Tatter. The little friend had been with her for over two years and survived the worse this world could throw at them. When she’d scampered away in fear from the monstrosities in the shadows below, Maelen assumed they would find each other again. But now, with the Starless Rift closed, any hope of reunion died. The mouse was probably dead, in the darkness and offal stink of those caverns, and if not dead then trapped. A sob threatened to escape her mouth, but blind rage pushed it back. She struck the mud beside her with a fist and growled.

“What is it?” Vessa asked her.

“Get your asses up!” Maelen barked, pushing herself to her feet unsteadily. “We’re leaving this bloody place.”

“Mae?” her friend asked, but the warrior turned her back on her companions and stalked off in the rain, fuming.

She spoke little the rest of the day. It was impossible to know when in the day they’d emerged from the Starless Rift thanks to the steady storm, so she vowed to just keep walking north until it grew dark. Despite their injuries and exhaustion, she pushed them through the mud and rain, with far fewer and shorter breaks than her companions likely deserved. They didn’t push back on her militant march, though; Vessa and Alric were as eager to put distance from the Rift as Maelen.

As the journey lengthened, it became clearer that they’d emerged sometime in the morning. Was it the next day? Surely, they hadn’t spent more than that underground. Regardless, Maelen thought it made the accounting easier for when they’d reach waypoints and landmarks back to Oakton, assuming they made roughly the pace.

The longer they trudged across plains broken by low hills and dark, craggy rocks. As the miles dragged on, Maelen wondered at her own fury. Yes, she’d always been prone to getting into scraps, even as a young girl. But now the simple need for violence threatened to overwhelm her. Any increase in the rainfall, any unexpected slog of mud, any stumble by the mage—they all filled her with rage. Each slight complication, she held herself back from cursing angrily and often failed. Her fists bunched without her realizing it, tightly and painfully until her knuckles ached. Once, when Vessa whispered to her that she thought they should take a rest for Alric’s sake, Maelen barely avoided punching her friend in the jaw.

Was it the mace, she pondered? Surely the thing hummed to her in a tone only she could hear, and it seemed eager for combat. Did the weapon contain some sort of enchantment that manipulated her emotions? The very idea also made her want to strike something and smash it to pulp. But no, she thought the mace’s personality, if one could call it that, was much more jovial than destructive. Now that she considered it, the black weapon was like a mercenary companion of hers from years ago, even before the Larkhands, named Torin Bonebreaker. The man was crude, filthy, and built like a mountain, but always in uncannily good spirits. He looked forward to battle but wasn’t bloodthirsty for it. So too did it seem the mace was a humming, cheerful companion, happy to fight but otherwise just enjoying the traveling life in the beltloop at her hip. “If only it might rain more!” Torin would say if he were with them, “I don’t think the crack of my ass is wet enough yet!”

If not the mace, then why? It was the Starless Rift itself, and those skinless terrors, she realized. The utter wrongness of those creatures, combined with the oppressive darkness and bleak stone all around them, had triggered some animal instinct in her that she now found difficult to shut off. Like a cornered wolf, Maelen was snapping her slathering jaws at anyone who came near, even those meant to comfort her. She hated the uncontrolled feelings of it, but even as she spent the day grimly meditating on her emotions, could do nothing to erase it. Indeed, she almost wished the party would find more minions of Orthuun that she could destroy, that it would somehow purge her lust for violence.

They made camp in the rain, with little conversation amongst the three of them. Perhaps the only words spoken were when Vessa took inventory of their supplies and noted that they only had one more day of dry rations available, and only three torches that were both unused and had survived the constant wet. There was nothing to do about the torches, but Maelen told Vessa to keep an eye out for game on their journey, especially as they entered the forests of the Greenwood Rise. She must not have made the request respectfully, given that Vessa’s response was to spit and turn her back on her. Still, she felt confident that the lass would do some hunting, so mission accomplished.

Duskmarch 26, Stillday, Year 731

Shortly after setting out on the next day, the rain finally broke. By late morning the clouds had parted, showing cracks of blue sky and shedding the entire landscape in glistening, sparkling relief. The contrast from the previous day and horrors of the Starless Rift were stark, though it did little to lessen Maelen’s anger. For Alric and Vessa, however, the change seemed to allow for some light banter, and the two of them laughed several times at something Maelen couldn’t hear. Midday, after Vessa had crept away briefly to kill two chickens she’d spied in the long grass, the lad and lass sat closely and chattered while cleaning the animals. Maelen thought it was only a matter of time until Vessa bedded the mage and hoped she could wait until they’d returned to Oakton. The last thing Maelen needed was babysitting two lovesick kids.

Most of the day, they tromped through grassy plains stretching between occasional sandstone outcroppings. By mid-afternoon, the sky full of puffy clouds, numerous low ridges and scrub forests that preceded the Greenwood Rise appeared on the horizon. The trio topped a rise, and Vessa squinted, stopping abruptly.

“What is it?” Alric asked, looking at her with concern.

“It’s…” she licked her lips, sounding uncertain. “A tent, I think.”

Maelen shaded her eyes with one hand. Sure enough, far across the grasslands, near a low-lying ridge, was a structure that looked like a crude tent of some kind. White smoke rose from behind the tent, as if from a campfire. The more Maelen watched it, though, the less sense it made. The structure was somehow out of scale for the distance.

Vessa voiced her thoughts. “But it’s… massive.”

They ducked down in the tall, damp grass. Maelen figured that whoever set up the enormous tent couldn’t see them when they crouched, but equally there was no real place to hide their presence once they started moving. She swore, then tried to reign in her inner rampage.

“We’ve got two choices,” she said. “Backtrack and go a long way around, or head towards it and hope it’s someone willing to talk.”

“Perhaps,” Alric offered. “We wait to see if Vessa and her keen eyes can catch a glimpse of who might be setting up such a large tent in the wilds west of Oakton. Perhaps it’s knights of the Prince.”

“No banner that I saw,” Maelen shook her head. “You, Vess?”

The lass shook her head, rubbing at her bent nose in worry. “No. We’re carrying a lot of loot.” Her eyes scanned across Alric and Maelen. “And we’re awfully injured. We’ll look like easy marks to bandits.”

“But why such a large tent?” Maelen growled, her face a thundercloud of thought. “If you’re bandits, why make a bloody fire and announce yourself to everyone around?”

“It could be Saelith…” Alric whispered, and something prickled along her spine. Maelen still wasn’t convinced that a living being had escaped the Starless Rift, a general of a demon’s armies that was centuries old. But she’d also seen enough to make her cautious.

“Dammit all,” she scowled. “Let’s see if we can swing wide, then. Vess, you lead the way.”

The thief nodded and, still crouching, pushed back the way they’d come. Alric followed directly behind, bent awkwardly and his staff sticking up well above the waving grass. Maelen took up the rear and ventured a glance back towards the tent on the horizon.

Her blood went cold. A towering figure in furs and hides appeared from behind the tent, his head almost as tall as the structure. Even from this distance, Maelen could see that he was thick and heavy, his arms reaching down to his knees beneath broad shoulders. He walked with stooped, swaying steps to the side of the tent and paused, turning his slab of a back to them to look north, presumably at the Greenwood Rise.

“Giant!” Maelen hissed. “Keep your heads low!”

“Giant?” Alric paused, and Maelen shoved him forward. “Ow! Are there giants in the Redwood Marches?”

“There’s bloody one there now, you idiot!” she spat back.

Vessa, pushed her way through the grass, crouching and holding her bow low, leading them in a snaking pattern to a hill where they’d be unseen. It was maybe the worst possible position for Alric, whose lamed leg couldn’t support the crouch without the help of his staff. He fell several times, and each time Maelen unsympathetically dragged him up and barked for him to keep going. By the time they’d circled the low hill and paused, panting, even Maelen’s thighs burned with effort. A hundred bruises, cuts, and strained muscles protested as well. She groaned, stretching the leg and shoulder that hurt the most.

“Giant?” Vessa said, rubbing at her own wounded shoulder, the one struck by the rock. “You sure, Mae?”

She grunted in affirmation.

“It’s all Orthuun,” Alric panted, shaking his head.

“Drop it, lad,” Maelen admonished. “Not everything in the great wilds has to do with the bloody demon.”

“Don’t you see?” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “Saelith the Vanished has arisen! He was one of Orthuun’s ten generals, to lead an army of darkness that will sweep over the land and destroy everything.”

“So?” Maelen scowled.

“So, a general needs an army…” Vessa gasped. “The giant is responding to… some kind of call?”

Alric spread his hands wide, as if revealing a magic trick.

“A general needs an army,” he nodded.

Maelen spat a particularly vile curse that surprised even her with its vitriol.

Next: The Rootmother’s Embrace [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXV.

Duskmarch 25, Hearthday, Year 731, the day of Sweet Requital in Oakton.

Maelen seethed. She would not survive floating eyes of death in the forest, face-eating skratt legions, insane cultists, and skinless nightmares only to be crushed in an earthquake. She would not die with coin-heavy packs that she never spent. Most of all, though, she would absolutely not watch more companions perish. Screw this Starless Rift! She wished she could punch Orthuun the Blind Sovereign square in the jaw.

With red mist clouding her vision, she roared forward, grabbing Alric by his oiled cloak and hauling him alongside her. Maelen’s boots hammered on the cavern floor, a rumble like thunder all around them. Debris skittered and danced, and rocks cascaded from above—at first smaller than a fingernail but soon as large as a fist. A stone glanced off her back and she shouted, “Go! Go!” to Vessa, three steps ahead of her, over the groaning earth.

The black mace’s handle slapped her thigh as she ran, its incessant hum in her ears. Maelen held her torch high, the speed of their flight and shaking ground making the light dance madly. She tripped briefly, her shoulder crunching into the jagged stone wall before rebounding. Yet she could feel none of her injuries as her panic-fueled rage grew.

By the time she’d reached the stone dais below the cavern entrance, Vessa was already climbing the rope hand over hand, her bow slung across her shoulders and heavy pack dangling from her back. She moved like a deer up a hillside, steps light and graceful despite the weight of her gear.

As she watched in horror, a rock from above bounced off the stone wall and struck Vessa hard, and for a moment Maelen thought she would let go and plummet to the floor. She hung limply by one arm, twisting above. Then the lass shook her head, grabbed the rope with her other hand, and repositioned her feet along the wall. Vessa continued upwards.

“Go!” Maelen said to the mage, tossing him bodily atop the dais. “Grab the rope and climb!”

“My staff…” Alric started, as Maelen vaulted to join him. The rumbling floor made even standing upright difficult now. She frowned when she saw the red and purple scraps of wet tissue littered across the dais, remnants of the first of those skinless creatures.

“I’ve got it!” she yelled. “Go!”

“Will the rope hold–?” he began, then saw the look on her face and paled. He turned, gripped the rope, and…

Climbed! Maelen always assumed the young man was weak because of his profession and lamed leg. Yet, she realized suddenly, she’d seen him again and again bash monstrosities with his staff and do real damage. And, she supposed, he compensated for his withered leg by bearing weight with his arms on that same stick every day. She’d never really considered that he might have some physical strength in that lanky torso of his. Without a second glance, the lad was pulling himself upwards, not as gracefully as Vessa but with steady, even movement. Maelen blinked, surprised.

Then something in the darkness crashed, like a boulder being pulverized, and she lurched into action. Maelen dropped the torch to the floor without looking back, picked up Alric’s staff and, in one clean motion, jammed it behind her, wedged between her travel pack and chain shirt. That done, she gripped the rope with thick, calloused hands, and pulled.

Alric’s question hadn’t been wrong. They’d descended one at a time, with lighter packs. Would the rope hold three of them, plus the treasure of the vault? She guessed they’d find out. With a vicious groan, she pulled, muscles bunching. Her boots found the cavern wall. She climbed.

The noise was deafening now, a combination of constant thunder and crashing stone. Twice, rocks as large as her head fell from above, one narrowly missing her arm and another glancing off her pack. Had either struck her, she would have fallen, head over feet, into the darkness. She assumed that Vessa had made it to the surface by the time she’d made half the climb, and soon after the light from above began reaching the glistening, water-stained rock all around her. Maelen was close. She yelled again, shoulders burning and hands aching, for what felt like days. Voices above her urged her on, though she couldn’t make out words over the cacophony of the Starless Rift.

Eventually, hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upwards. Rain spattered across her face. And, just like that, she lay on her back, her panting breath making puffs in the cold winter air. Maelen wasn’t sure how long she lay there, every pain now flooding back, before Vessa called out.

“Look!” she croaked, the lass’ voice raw.

Like a turtle on its back, Maelen rolled awkwardly. She shrugged her shoulders in the steady rain to release the heavy pack and Alric’s staff so she could sit. Maelen glanced at Vessa, who sat three strides away on her knees, mouth open. The lad lay on his side between them, staring in the same direction. Maelen turned to follow their gazes.

The Starless Rift was sealing itself. The two sections of muddy plains now only lay a short leap apart. Even as she watched, still and stunned, the earth rumbled and groaned, each side reaching for the other. Over the next stretch of time—she couldn’t have said how long—the two sides met, the crack sealed. The rumbling thunder echoed across the plain, low and distant, and then fell silent. Only churned soil, the shape of a long crescent, remained.

In that moment, she thought of her mouse Tatter. The little friend had been with her for over two years and survived the worse this world could throw at them. When she’d scampered away in fear from the monstrosities in the shadows below, Maelen assumed they would find each other again. But now, with the Starless Rift closed, any hope of reunion died. The mouse was probably dead, in the darkness and offal stink of those caverns, and if not dead then trapped. A sob threatened to escape her mouth, but blind rage pushed it back. She struck the mud beside her with a fist and growled.

“What is it?” Vessa asked her.

“Get your asses up!” Maelen barked, pushing herself to her feet unsteadily. “We’re leaving this bloody place.”

“Mae?” her friend asked, but the warrior turned her back on her companions and stalked off in the rain, fuming.

She spoke little the rest of the day. It was impossible to know when in the day they’d emerged from the Starless Rift thanks to the steady storm, so she vowed to just keep walking north until it grew dark. Despite their injuries and exhaustion, she pushed them through the mud and rain, with far fewer and shorter breaks than her companions likely deserved. They didn’t push back on her militant march, though; Vessa and Alric were as eager to put distance from the Rift as Maelen.

As the journey lengthened, it became clearer that they’d emerged sometime in the morning. Was it the next day? Surely, they hadn’t spent more than that underground. Regardless, Maelen thought it made the accounting easier for when they’d reach waypoints and landmarks back to Oakton, assuming they made roughly the pace.

The longer they trudged across plains broken by low hills and dark, craggy rocks. As the miles dragged on, Maelen wondered at her own fury. Yes, she’d always been prone to getting into scraps, even as a young girl. But now the simple need for violence threatened to overwhelm her. Any increase in the rainfall, any unexpected slog of mud, any stumble by the mage—they all filled her with rage. Each slight complication, she held herself back from cursing angrily and often failed. Her fists bunched without her realizing it, tightly and painfully until her knuckles ached. Once, when Vessa whispered to her that she thought they should take a rest for Alric’s sake, Maelen barely avoided punching her friend in the jaw.

Was it the mace, she pondered? Surely the thing hummed to her in a tone only she could hear, and it seemed eager for combat. Did the weapon contain some sort of enchantment that manipulated her emotions? The very idea also made her want to strike something and smash it to pulp. But no, she thought the mace’s personality, if one could call it that, was much more jovial than destructive. Now that she considered it, the black weapon was like a mercenary companion of hers from years ago, even before the Larkhands, named Torin Bonebreaker. The man was crude, filthy, and built like a mountain, but always in uncannily good spirits. He looked forward to battle but wasn’t bloodthirsty for it. So too did it seem the mace was a humming, cheerful companion, happy to fight but otherwise just enjoying the traveling life in the beltloop at her hip. “If only it might rain more!” Torin would say if he were with them, “I don’t think the crack of my ass is wet enough yet!”

If not the mace, then why? It was the Starless Rift itself, and those skinless terrors, she realized. The utter wrongness of those creatures, combined with the oppressive darkness and bleak stone all around them, had triggered some animal instinct in her that she now found difficult to shut off. Like a cornered wolf, Maelen was snapping her slathering jaws at anyone who came near, even those meant to comfort her. She hated the uncontrolled feelings of it, but even as she spent the day grimly meditating on her emotions, could do nothing to erase it. Indeed, she almost wished the party would find more minions of Orthuun that she could destroy, that it would somehow purge her lust for violence.

They made camp in the rain, with little conversation amongst the three of them. Perhaps the only words spoken were when Vessa took inventory of their supplies and noted that they only had one more day of dry rations available, and only three torches that were both unused and had survived the constant wet. There was nothing to do about the torches, but Maelen told Vessa to keep an eye out for game on their journey, especially as they entered the forests of the Greenwood Rise. She must not have made the request respectfully, given that Vessa’s response was to spit and turn her back on her. Still, she felt confident that the lass would do some hunting, so mission accomplished.

Duskmarch 26, Stillday, Year 731

Shortly after setting out on the next day, the rain finally broke. By late morning the clouds had parted, showing cracks of blue sky and shedding the entire landscape in glistening, sparkling relief. The contrast from the previous day and horrors of the Starless Rift were stark, though it did little to lessen Maelen’s anger. For Alric and Vessa, however, the change seemed to allow for some light banter, and the two of them laughed several times at something Maelen couldn’t hear. Midday, after Vessa had crept away briefly to kill two chickens she’d spied in the long grass, the lad and lass sat closely and chattered while cleaning the animals. Maelen thought it was only a matter of time until Vessa bedded the mage and hoped she could wait until they’d returned to Oakton. The last thing Maelen needed was babysitting two lovesick kids.

Most of the day, they tromped through grassy plains stretching between occasional sandstone outcroppings. By mid-afternoon, the sky full of puffy clouds, numerous low ridges and scrub forests that preceded the Greenwood Rise appeared on the horizon. The trio topped a rise, and Vessa squinted, stopping abruptly.

“What is it?” Alric asked, looking at her with concern.

“It’s…” she licked her lips, sounding uncertain. “A tent, I think.”

Maelen shaded her eyes with one hand. Sure enough, far across the grasslands, near a low-lying ridge, was a structure that looked like a crude tent of some kind. White smoke rose from behind the tent, as if from a campfire. The more Maelen watched it, though, the less sense it made. The structure was somehow out of scale for the distance.

Vessa voiced her thoughts. “But it’s… massive.”

They ducked down in the tall, damp grass. Maelen figured that whoever set up the enormous tent couldn’t see them when they crouched, but equally there was no real place to hide their presence once they started moving. She swore, then tried to reign in her inner rampage.

“We’ve got two choices,” she said. “Backtrack and go a long way around, or head towards it and hope it’s someone willing to talk.”

“Perhaps,” Alric offered. “We wait to see if Vessa and her keen eyes can catch a glimpse of who might be setting up such a large tent in the wilds west of Oakton. Perhaps it’s knights of the Prince.”

“No banner that I saw,” Maelen shook her head. “You, Vess?”

The lass shook her head, rubbing at her bent nose in worry. “No. We’re carrying a lot of loot.” Her eyes scanned across Alric and Maelen. “And we’re awfully injured. We’ll look like easy marks to bandits.”

“But why such a large tent?” Maelen growled, her face a thundercloud of thought. “If you’re bandits, why make a bloody fire and announce yourself to everyone around?”

“It could be Saelith…” Alric whispered, and something prickled along her spine. Maelen still wasn’t convinced that a living being had escaped the Starless Rift, a general of a demon’s armies that was centuries old. But she’d also seen enough to make her cautious.

“Dammit all,” she scowled. “Let’s see if we can swing wide, then. Vess, you lead the way.”

The thief nodded and, still crouching, pushed back the way they’d come. Alric followed directly behind, bent awkwardly and his staff sticking up well above the waving grass. Maelen took up the rear and ventured a glance back towards the tent on the horizon.

Her blood went cold. A towering figure in furs and hides appeared from behind the tent, his head almost as tall as the structure. Even from this distance, Maelen could see that he was thick and heavy, his arms reaching down to his knees beneath broad shoulders. He walked with stooped, swaying steps to the side of the tent and paused, turning his slab of a back to them to look north, presumably at the Greenwood Rise.

“Giant!” Maelen hissed. “Keep your heads low!”

“Giant?” Alric paused, and Maelen shoved him forward. “Ow! Are there giants in the Redwood Marches?”

“There’s bloody one there now, you idiot!” she spat back.

Vessa, pushed her way through the grass, crouching and holding her bow low, leading them in a snaking pattern to a hill where they’d be unseen. It was maybe the worst possible position for Alric, whose lamed leg couldn’t support the crouch without the help of his staff. He fell several times, and each time Maelen unsympathetically dragged him up and barked for him to keep going. By the time they’d circled the low hill and paused, panting, even Maelen’s thighs burned with effort. A hundred bruises, cuts, and strained muscles protested as well. She groaned, stretching the leg and shoulder that hurt the most.

“Giant?” Vessa said, rubbing at her own wounded shoulder, the one struck by the rock. “You sure, Mae?”

She grunted in affirmation.

“It’s all Orthuun,” Alric panted, shaking his head.

“Drop it, lad,” Maelen admonished. “Not everything in the great wilds has to do with the bloody demon.”

“Don’t you see?” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “Saelith the Vanished has arisen! He was one of Orthuun’s ten generals, to lead an army of darkness that will sweep over the land and destroy everything.”

“So?” Maelen scowled.

“So, a general needs an army…” Vessa gasped. “The giant is responding to… some kind of call?”

Alric spread his hands wide, as if revealing a magic trick.

“A general needs an army,” he nodded.

Maelen spat a particularly vile curse that surprised even her with its vitriol.

Next: The Rootmother’s Embrace [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXIII.

Duskmarch 24, Goldday, Year 731.

Alric sat paralyzed for a moment, stunned by Maelen’s sudden charge. He knew that she considered violence as a way of solving most problems, but he’d seen her use restraint before. Not this time. Alric hadn’t even been able to count all the skinless, blind aberrations crawling over the tomb and scraping at the protective runes before she’d left their sheltered corridor with an angry shout. If there had been any hope of subtlety, it was gone. Now they would fight. What he didn’t know is how they’d survive.

The closest monstrosity was a mere ten strides away, and Maelen closed the distance before the creature even registered her presence. With a mighty swing, the warrior clubbed the thing to the smooth, basalt floor, and a second strike caved its head in. The horror unraveled, as if its bones had suddenly disappeared, spilling muscles and viscera at Maelen’s feet. She immediately thrust her torch into the mass, scorching it with a wild-eyed yell of triumph.

Two more creatures abandoned their tasks, heads rising like rabbits to focus on the brief scuffle. With unnerving, jerky speed, they were loping towards her with snuffling, wet breaths, overwide mouths clacking their sharp teeth. Alric saw more of them stirring at the edges of torchlight. In moments, she would be mobbed by more of the things than even the mighty Maelen Marrosen could handle.

Alric pulled a scroll from his belt, one he’d found within Thornmere Hold.

“Help me!” he hissed at Vessa, who was just as wide-eyed and shocked, her head darting left and right, tracking the creatures. Alric pushed the torch into her hand. “Hold this.”

He’d hoped to have time someday to translate the spell upon the scroll fully to memory, but that day would never come. The mage didn’t know how to help Maelen, who seemed in some sort of berserk rage, but he could at least help Vessa survive this situation. Without sparing another thought, his eyes roamed over the parchment, his lips mumbling the words and pulling the power forth. As he spoke, the scroll’s edges blackened as if thrown in a fire, rapidly spreading and consuming the document.

Alric had often wondered at the power of inscribing a spell, allowing anyone to use its magic. It was something he had hoped to try one day, to take the power of Orthuun and translate it into readable text upon a scroll. Regardless, the intricacies of scroll work evaded him. Somehow, he innately knew the scroll-spell’s effect, how to pronounce the alien words, only when staring directly at the parchment and widening his awareness. The how and why of it was surreal. So much of the knowledge surrounding magic eluded his comprehension.

The effect, however, was immediate. Vessa gasped as enormous raven’s wings, black as night, burst from her back. Alric plucked the torch from her startled fingers, his head spinning as the spell transmitted through him and vanished, the scroll now nothing more than ash fragments falling to the stone floor. Abstractly, he noted that the magic from the scroll felt somehow cleaner, less tied to demonic power… less corrupting. An observation for another day.

“Go!” he cried out. “Fly above their reach! Help Maelen!”

“But—how?” she faltered.

“No time! Don’t think! Go now!” he urged.

With a flap of those ebon wings, she launched herself up and towards the domed ceiling, stirring his cloak with the wind of her departure. He had only a vague idea of how long those wings would remain, but he hoped desperately it was long enough to escape this place, once Maelen and he had been overwhelmed by clacking teeth and bloodstained fingers.

As quickly as she’d left, he could no longer see Vessa in the gloom. Yet an arrow shaft appeared suddenly upon one of the skinless monsters, and it shrieked a teakettle wheeze of pain, arching its ropy back and searching skyward with its eyeless head.

Moments later, something clattered within the inner circle of runes and smoke began filling the tomb. Another arrow took a creature through its neck and it slumped to the floor, unraveling as it did so into a pile of gore. The sound of enormous wings flapping echoed in the chamber. Vessa was raining death and havoc from above, and he grinned fiercely.

Out of the shadows, an abomination scampered at Alric, its hands held out from its skinless body, clawed fingers flexing. The thing was considerably smaller than the one that had mauled him earlier, but still his legs momentarily went weak, his bladder threatening to betray him. He had only a breath to ready himself and then it was upon him, snuffling wetly, grasping, and clacking sharp teeth. The stench of rotten meat filled his nose. Alric clenched his jaw and swung the torch as hard as he could manage, directly into the shining muscles and tendons of its chest. It shrieked, rearing back, and he followed it, the torch still pressed into the terror’s torso.

Then, the body erupted in flames, like a campfire’s tinder suddenly catching. In a brilliant sheath of orange flame that lit the entire room around them, the thing continued its teakettle whistling and rolled frantically on the stone floor. Alric stepped back, eyes wide, as he saw two more of the abominations stalking at him, mere strides away, stark shadows dancing across their hideous forms. They circled their burning companion, teeth clacking, crouched to leap.

An arrow struck the flaming creature, silencing it as it smoldered upon the stone. Alric edged back, torch held up defensively.

Whether they coordinated their attack or simply shared similar instincts, both horrible creatures hurled themselves upon him simultaneously, one from the left of the blackened mass and one from the right. Alric hit the first with his torch but then he went down under their wet, stinking bodies. He felt teeth tear into his shoulder while another clacked frantically near one ear. He panicked and screamed.

Alric didn’t know how long he pushed and batted with his torch, screaming himself hoarse as the things tore and ripped at him. Perhaps it was a mere eyeblink of time or perhaps much longer. Whatever the case, he almost didn’t notice that one of the creatures suddenly disappeared.

Maelen hooked the shaft of her black mace around the neck of a skinless terror and pulled it off him. The thing bucked and flailed its limbs, teeth gnashing in empty air. Alric kicked his own tormenter, gaining some distance for a breath, and sobbed.

The warrior looked awful, covered in gore and with several gaping bite marks marring her skin. One eye had swollen shut, and that side of her face looked disfigured and mottled. Yet she wrestled with the abomination, arms corded in muscle, as it struggled to free itself from the headlock and assault her. It did so, bursting free with a teakettle shriek, and then Maelen stumbled. Teeth scissoring madly, the eyeless creature reared, ready to pounce upon the warrior. Maelen glared up but her mace clattered to the stone floor. She was spent.

Then, in a burst of air, Vessa rocketed from nowhere to tackle the terror with a shout of “Nooo!” Alric saw a flash of her pale skin, black-feathered wings, and then Vessa and the skinless thing were rolling away from them in a bundle of red muscle, ebon feathers, and furious struggle.

The creature he’d kicked away was on him again, its weight pressing down upon him. The stink of offal filled his nose, teeth clacked inches from his face. Alric flapped his free hand towards Maelen and found her boot. He murmured magic words he didn’t understand, drawing on Orthuun’s power, feeling his entire body go numb. Alric felt with certainty his own impending death in this underground tomb, mauled and eaten by these creatures from some other world. He would channel as much magic as he could muster to heal Maelen before he expired.

The thing atop him shuddered, then went slack, its muscles drooping beneath his hands. Slimy muscles and organs slid over him, melting across his body like sap over a trapped insect. Alric sputtered and thrashed, trying to get himself clear of the mess and understand what was happening.

Then the torches went out.

Alric knew, in that moment, that Saelith the Vanished, general of Orthuun the Blind Sovereign, had broken free of its tomb. More of the creatures must have stayed at their tasks, defacing the protective runes. Or perhaps the damage that had already been done was enough. Whatever the case, Saelith’s tomb was breached. Death would take them. Despair filled him.

“Mistsong…” a sibilant voice, harsh and light, whispered in his ear. Alric flinched away from the sound, throwing his hands up protectively.

“Mistsong…” it repeated. “I would speak with thee…”

“Wh-what?” Alric gasped. “Who?”

“Kelthorn the Unlit is no longer of use to me. But thee…” it whispered in delight, and then inhaled deeply, as if smelling a rose. “I sense the Night Crown’s touch upon thee. He Who Knows No Dawn has taken thine heart. Darkened thine blood. Thou art part of the Endless Black now.”

“No… no, I don’t want it…” Alric shook his head.

The voice tsked. “Thine wants matter not. Take my hand, little darkling. Let us blanket this land and prepare for the End.”

Though he was utterly blind in the oppressive darkness, Alric could feel a hand being offered, a hand as large as his chest. He wouldn’t have been able to explain how, or why he knew the figure before him was immensely tall and thin, with rag-like robes floating around him as if underwater. It crouched over him, arm outstretched.

The seer Wink’s words flashed in his mind: When you get to the cliff’s edge, little mouse: Don’t jump. Run or fight, but don’t jump into the darkness! 

Alric swallowed and then slumped to his back. “No,” he whispered, barely audible. “I won’t… come with you. Kill me. Take the book… I won’t…” his own words trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence, depleted of willpower.

The voice tsked again, the hissing voice directly in his ear. “Thou art weak. Watch thine cities blacken, darkling, and then will I offer again. Until then… gather thy power.”

Then the voice laughed, a light and chilling sound, echoing within the vast chamber.

Alric’s eyes fluttered in the darkness. He felt he couldn’t catch a breath, that his hollow and heartless chest was grasping for something it couldn’t quite reach. His limbs were numb and lifeless.

The laughter in the chamber vanished.

Endless void enveloped him, and all was black.

Next: What Was Left [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXII.

Duskmarch 24, Goldday, Year 731.

“By the Rootmother’s teat,” Maelen swore, looking out over the black pool.

Alric sidled up at her shoulder, holding his guttering torch out over the water and straining to see as far as possible. “If we swim,” he said cautiously. “We’ll have no light. And we’ll freeze.”

“I know, lad,” she spat curtly. “But my rope is currently dangling at the cliff’s edge. You see a way to climb these walls? Or move the rubble from the other passage?” She ground her teeth, rage bubbling behind her eyes. This cursed Starless Rift!

“We could return to where we started,” Vessa said in a low voice. She stood on the other side of the mage, the three of them atop a stone dais only wide enough for them to stand abreast. Beyond the lip of the dais… water, smooth and black and seemingly endless. “Weren’t there other passages from there?”

“There were,” Alric said absently, his eyes still searching. “But I feel… we’re close to something. Beyond the water.”

Again, anger flooded her mind, and she almost swatted the lad. His vague proclamations… look where they’d gotten them: deep underground with skinless terrors stalking every shadow. Her hands shook, and she clenched her grips around the mace and torch. Maelen wanted very much to fight, to hurt something.

With a growl, she cocked her arm sideways and hurled her torch out over the water, like skipping a stone across Lake Miren. The torch swung end over end into the darkness, illuminating the cavern in chaotic, dancing shadow as it flew. Then it disappeared into the water with a brief hiss, the pool rippling out from its impact.

“What did you do that for?!” Vessa asked incredulously. With only Alric’s low torch, the cavern felt very dark.

“It was almost done anyway,” she grunted. “Wanted to see how far it went.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “Okay. I saw the shore, which makes the pool… what? Maybe thirty strides across?”

“And nothing from the water stirred,” Alric said in a low voice. “So perhaps there aren’t predators awaiting us below the surface. Good idea, Maelen.”

Maelen grunted again. She hadn’t even thought about there being nasties in the water, and seeing the opposite shore was a boon. Truth be told, she’d thrown the torch in anger, not strategy. With effort, she reigned in her inner tumult. Maelen still wanted to fight something—to batter it with her mace until it stopped moving—but there was no use butting heads with her companions in the meantime. She exhaled loudly.

“We swim,” she said decisively. “I’m listening if you have ideas how to keep our gear dry, particularly the torches and tinderboxes. Assume it’s too deep to stand.”

While Alric’s light died, they debated ways of crossing the water. None of them could come up with an alternative to swimming, not without Maelen’s rope and pitons. The most pressing issue, they decided, was how to keep their most important gear—torches, tinderboxes, Vessa’s bow, rations—dry. Assuming they survived the crossing, the next question was how they’d warm themselves, as the water felt icy chill and their body heat was already low.

Only Vessa possessed an oiled cloak, and it became the basis of their plan. They wrapped their vital items in it, tied with belts and full of air. Alric insisted the Tome of Unlit Paths be at the center of the bundle, because he said its demonic powers may help keep the other items dry. Maelen thought that all sounded like bunk, that what he truly cared about was the safety of the book, but she held her tongue. Vessa, the strongest swimmer, would hold her bow above the water as she moved, so it would be up to Maelen and Alric to guide the floating bundle.

While they organized, Maelen lit another torch. It was a waste, as she’d just need to leave it on this side of the pool, but Alric’s flame had all but guttered out by the time she’d sparked hers to life. They finished adding items to the mass, including boots and scrolls, Malen’s chain shirt, Vessa’s quiver of arrows and smoke bombs. Maelen groused that it would be too heavy to float, but Alric disagreed.

Still, the mage decided he could not struggle with his staff the same way Vessa would her bow, so begrudgingly agreed to leave it on this side of the pool. Vessa did the same with her shortsword, saying it would drag her down while swimming.  They both looked at Maelen’s hip, where the mace thrummed to her ears alone. She scoffed when she saw their worried glances.

“I’ve got it,” she grinned. “The mace comes with me.”

With the bundle secured, Maelen propped the torch upright with two rocks, as close to the water’s edge as she could manage. Then she frowned, staring at the still, black pool for several heartbeats. Was anything waiting for them below the surface, ready to pull them under? She didn’t see any movement. Dammit all and this place! With an unhappy grunt, she plunged into the water.

The cold of it constricted her chest and stole her breath, and immediately the weight of her mace and clothes pulled her down. She used one hand and foot to steady herself on the rocky wall, and said, as confidently as she could manage.

“Day’s not getting shorter. H-hand me the bundle and let’s go.”

Alric had stripped his tattered robes, and he looked pale, thin, and cold in his smallclothes, with angry-looking wounds everywhere on his shoulders and neck. He eased himself into the pool feet first, grimacing at the cold. When he slid all the way in, he gasped and sputtered. It was no surprise to Maelen that the lad wasn’t much of a swimmer. Still, he struggled his way forward in the open water, holding one side of the bobbing mass of Vessa’s cloak, while Maelen continued pushing her way along the wall. While they worked out their rhythm, Vessa glided past them easily, swimming with long, lithe strokes of her legs past the lad and holding her bow aloft.

Now that she was fully immersed, she realized the subtly rank smell of the water. Disease and parasites weren’t something she’d even considered, but now it felt as if somehow filth slid along her skin, black oily fingers caressing her. She spit any wetness from her lips.

“C-careful of not getting the water in your m-mouth!” she gasped at her companions. They didn’t say anything back, but she felt confident they’d heard her.

It was slow going, and the cold threatened to rob her of her strength even as the weight of the mace pulled at her. In a sudden flash of emotion, she missed her mouse Tatter. The little thing had been with her for the past two years, a constant source of companionship without asking for anything but scraps of food in return. Yet the Starless Rift had swallowed little Tatter, as surely as it had snuffed the lives of those unknown priests. Maelen wondered if the mouse had scurried out of the cavern system or was huddling, cold and fearful, in a small crevice somewhere. It was a gloomy train of thought.

At some point her teeth began chattering, and she clenched her jaw shut painfully. The lad moved methodically but never fell back or went under. She could see him in the flickering, fading orange light as a rippling shape beyond the bulk of the cloak, which bobbed like a bulbous sea creature between them.

Once they’d neared the opposite shore, the light from the torch was only a vague, dancing glimmer behind them, doing little to illuminate the way. Maelen pulled with her hand and pushed with her bare foot along the rough rock, her other hand guiding their gear. Her own breath filled her ears, panting in quick, short puffs now. She lost sight of the mage, and her teeth chattered too much for her to risk speaking. All the while, she imagined more of those skinless monstrosities clutching at her legs from below, pulling her into the inky blackness of the befouled water. She visualized withering from whatever plague awaited her, then rising as a mindless zombie. Tatter’s small corpse, curled in a ball somewhere nearby and forgotten, swam in her thoughts. Maelen would never admit it to anyone, but real fear gripped her in those moments, replaced by a seething, roiling anger.

Ahead, something splashed and her heart nearly stopped.

“V-Vess?” she said, her voice much weaker than she’d expected, her lips trembling with cold.

“H-here,” she stuttered back. “Made it. Oh!”

Maelen wanted to ask what that meant, but all her willpower was used to keep pulling herself forward with numb limbs. Vessa’s voice wasn’t that far ahead, she thought desperately, so the shore must be…

Her knee struck rock and she stumbled, her face momentarily dipping into the oily water. She spat and sputtered, and with a flailing, flopping effort she was glad no one could see, pushed herself up the rocky shelf to the other side of the pool. With straining muscles, she pulled the cloak and its contents after her, reaching for Alric as she did so. They clasped cold hands, and the lad gasped and stumbled forward towards her.

“S-so c-c-cold,” he stuttered, barely audible.

“G-get the gear with me,” she puffed, barely recognizing her own voice. “N-need to light a t-t-torch.”

Blindness and cold combined to make her hands clumsy and stupid. It took forever for the two of them to wrestle the cloak up onto the rocky ground, near Vessa’s voice. As they drew closer, the thief joined in pulling the bundle.

“I’ve got it,” she whispered. “Go get warm, keep going past me.”

Warm? Maelen’s mind worked as sluggishly as her feet, but she let the lass fumble with the belts and knots while she stumbled away from the water’s edge. There, as she’d said, warm air touched her face. She moved towards it like a bee to a flower, her hands outstretched. Somewhere nearby, she heard Alric fall and curse in pain as he did likewise.

By the time she’d found the heat’s source, she was no less confused. It wasn’t a fire and shed no light, but there was simply… hot air, blowing up from the earth like some sort of summer wind. Whatever the source, she dropped next to it and let the air wash over her. Maelen closed her eyes with pleasure, her teeth eventually stopping their chatter and feeling returning to her limbs like needle pricks.

Behind her, flickers of light signaled Vessa lighting a torch, which meant both the tinderboxes and torches had survived the journey. She turned to see the lass padding over to them with a wide grin on her face. With the light, Maelen could see the cloak opened wide, their possessions lying in a wide, scattered clump on the rocky floor. Beyond, the black water shimmered, still recovering from their passing.

“Amazing,” Alric sighed. She turned back to see that they both huddled over a hole in the rock, perhaps a full stride across. It was from the hole that the hot air blew. “Is it a natural phenomenon, or some enchantment?” he asked, seemingly to himself. She looked up, seeing that the ceiling overhead also had a hole in it, pulling the air upwards.  

“It’s the first good thing we’ve found in this awful place,” Vessa said, still whispering, joining them around the hole. “Let’s not worry why or how it’s here. Just enjoy it.”

“Aye,” Maelen agreed. She thought Vessa was right to keep her voice low. “When you’re warmed enough, help me get any damp gear from the rain over here, and some rations. We won’t leave until we’re dry and fed.”

“Thank the Rootmother,” Vessa saluted, and closed her eyes in the warmth.

They used a full torch’s light to stay by the hole and its pocket of warm air, their spirits rising. The respite wasn’t enough to banish the images of the skinless, eyeless horrors that prowled the Starless Rift, or the ghastly ritual circle of Hadren Kelthorn, or even the terrifying, freezing trek across the black pool. But, at least for a brief while, the nightmares of this place faded into the background.

Vessa even found a small, flat wall of rock where someone—presumably the poor souls who’d been torn apart—had hammered pegs and hung hooded cloaks even better oiled and resistant to water than Vessa’s, each an identical dark gray. Alric and Vessa debated why the three garments were here and how they’d been used, adding even more speculation as to the Rift’s former occupants. In the end, though, they left the mystery unsolved and agreed that the cloaks would aid them all. One even fit Alric’s tall, lanky frame, and proved to be a passable replacement for his shredded robes.

Maelen and Alric lit new torches from the dying flames of the last one. She judged they had more than enough light to last them through exploring the caverns and back to the surface, assuming this underground complex wasn’t sprawling. Still, no use being wasteful. Her angry throw of the torch across the water suddenly flashed in her mind, and she growled in embarrassment at the memory.

“Ready?” she said, more gruffly than she intended. Her two companions nodded back. They grimly moved towards the opening at the far end of the chamber.

She led them through a craggy, winding corridor of stone. With the odd column of air behind them, the horror of this place returned, tingling along her spine and keeping her eyes flicking at shadows warily. Every step they took sounded too loud to Maelen’s ears. Around every bend in the rock, she expected a vile monstrosity to leap at her with blind eyes and outstretched claws.

Eventually, Maelen heard noises from up ahead, her jaw clenching in fear. She stopped the others and jerked a chin at Vessa to move forward, at the edge of her torchlight.

“Careful, lass,” she whispered. Wide-eyed, Vessa nodded, and with an arrow nocked on her bow, padded ahead in a crouch.

One foot after the other, Maelen moved in a slow stalk. Whatever was making noise beyond her light, it wasn’t a single creature. Several bodies moved in the darkness with shuffled feet and labored breathing. She could hear Alric’s panting breath behind her. The lad was terrified, and rightly so. Still, she wished he was quieter.

Vessa had paused at the end of the corridor, a doorless entrance to a large chamber beyond. She beckoned them to her with a jerk of her chin. The three of them crouched, torchlight flickering across what could only have been the tomb of Saelith the Vanished.

It was the first crafted place they’d seen within the Starless Rift, a perfect square carved with exacting precision, larger than her light could reach. The walls seemed to be formed from dark basalt blocks, somehow fused together, and along each wall were carved recessed circles, some smooth and clean, others rough-edged or broken, no two identical. The ceiling above arched into a shallow dome, at the center of which was an enormous circular relief whose exact design she couldn’t make out in the dim shadows. Indeed, Maelen blinked several times to be sure, but it seemed as if the chamber itself somehow suppressed the light from the torches, keeping everything within the tomb muted and dull.

Directly below the circle in the ceiling was another circle, depressed within the smooth stone floor. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if the form of a man lay within, robed all in black, on its back with arms and legs spread wide. All around the circular depression were a multitude of runes, more than on the doors of Thornmere Hold, more than had circled Hadren Kelthorn, rings and rings of symbols radiating out from the open grave.

Those sigils were breaking.

Spiderwebs of cracks ran from the depression and through the runic writing, each one glowing faintly gray in the darkness, a pale and eerie light like the eyes of Sarin the Night Captain or those floating wisps in the forest.

All these details Maelen absorbed in an instant, but it was not where her eyes lingered. Instead, her mouth went dry at the sight of a small legion of those skinless terrors, scampering and snuffling across the scene. They were not the larger versions like the one that had almost killed Alric, but instead the size of a child. Small comfort, though, because as she watched the eyeless monstrosities, their shining muscles and sinew exposed, she counted four… six… at least nine of the things. Far too many to fight, that was certain.

What were those abominations doing, though? Some capered at the walls, clawing at the recessed circles and leaving long, bloody trails as they did so. Some crouched outside the rings of runes, their heads down, like they were feasting upon or biting the stone. Finally, two of the creatures knelt at the edge of the circular depression, their arms outstretched, ropy strings of blood and gore falling into the tomb itself. Even as Maelen watched the creatures, like ants on an anthill, her eyes flicked to those spiderwebbed cracks as they lengthened and spread.

Alric spoke her realization aloud.

“They’re breaking him out,” he whispered in horror. “They’re freeing Saelith.”

“What do we do?” Vessa answered back, barely audible.

A red mist clouded Maelen’s vision. All her fear and pain roiled in her gut, expanding to her now-shaking fists. Curse this damned demon and the misery he brings! Flashes of Vastren Hollow and the massacre there swam in her mind. Death and shadows, everywhere Orthuun’s name is spoken. She heard something growling, low and deadly, and it took several heartbeats to realize the sound came from her own throat.

“Mae?” Vessa turned to her in alarm.

Maelen barely heard her. Screw this place and these otherworldly blights! She was not the victim here, not the prey! She was Marr the Merciless! She didn’t sit on her bloody hands while something gnawed her face! She could almost feel Sarin the Night Captain’s touch upon her skull, the world dimming and turning to darkness. She shook her head angrily at the memory. One hand gripped her black mace, the other a flickering torch, her knuckles turning white. Rage flooded her mind.

Screw it.

She charged, roaring defiance.

Next: Saelith’s Tomb [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXII.

Duskmarch 24, Goldday, Year 731.

“By the Rootmother’s teat,” Maelen swore, looking out over the black pool.

Alric sidled up at her shoulder, holding his guttering torch out over the water and straining to see as far as possible. “If we swim,” he said cautiously. “We’ll have no light. And we’ll freeze.”

“I know, lad,” she spat curtly. “But my rope is currently dangling at the cliff’s edge. You see a way to climb these walls? Or move the rubble from the other passage?” She ground her teeth, rage bubbling behind her eyes. This cursed Starless Rift!

“We could return to where we started,” Vessa said in a low voice. She stood on the other side of the mage, the three of them atop a stone dais only wide enough for them to stand abreast. Beyond the lip of the dais… water, smooth and black and seemingly endless. “Weren’t there other passages from there?”

“There were,” Alric said absently, his eyes still searching. “But I feel… we’re close to something. Beyond the water.”

Again, anger flooded her mind, and she almost swatted the lad. His vague proclamations… look where they’d gotten them: deep underground with skinless terrors stalking every shadow. Her hands shook, and she clenched her grips around the mace and torch. Maelen wanted very much to fight, to hurt something.

With a growl, she cocked her arm sideways and hurled her torch out over the water, like skipping a stone across Lake Miren. The torch swung end over end into the darkness, illuminating the cavern in chaotic, dancing shadow as it flew. Then it disappeared into the water with a brief hiss, the pool rippling out from its impact.

“What did you do that for?!” Vessa asked incredulously. With only Alric’s low torch, the cavern felt very dark.

“It was almost done anyway,” she grunted. “Wanted to see how far it went.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “Okay. I saw the shore, which makes the pool… what? Maybe thirty strides across?”

“And nothing from the water stirred,” Alric said in a low voice. “So perhaps there aren’t predators awaiting us below the surface. Good idea, Maelen.”

Maelen grunted again. She hadn’t even thought about there being nasties in the water, and seeing the opposite shore was a boon. Truth be told, she’d thrown the torch in anger, not strategy. With effort, she reigned in her inner tumult. Maelen still wanted to fight something—to batter it with her mace until it stopped moving—but there was no use butting heads with her companions in the meantime. She exhaled loudly.

“We swim,” she said decisively. “I’m listening if you have ideas how to keep our gear dry, particularly the torches and tinderboxes. Assume it’s too deep to stand.”

While Alric’s light died, they debated ways of crossing the water. None of them could come up with an alternative to swimming, not without Maelen’s rope and pitons. The most pressing issue, they decided, was how to keep their most important gear—torches, tinderboxes, Vessa’s bow, rations—dry. Assuming they survived the crossing, the next question was how they’d warm themselves, as the water felt icy chill and their body heat was already low.

Only Vessa possessed an oiled cloak, and it became the basis of their plan. They wrapped their vital items in it, tied with belts and full of air. Alric insisted the Tome of Unlit Paths be at the center of the bundle, because he said its demonic powers may help keep the other items dry. Maelen thought that all sounded like bunk, that what he truly cared about was the safety of the book, but she held her tongue. Vessa, the strongest swimmer, would hold her bow above the water as she moved, so it would be up to Maelen and Alric to guide the floating bundle.

While they organized, Maelen lit another torch. It was a waste, as she’d just need to leave it on this side of the pool, but Alric’s flame had all but guttered out by the time she’d sparked hers to life. They finished adding items to the mass, including boots and scrolls, Malen’s chain shirt, Vessa’s quiver of arrows and smoke bombs. Maelen groused that it would be too heavy to float, but Alric disagreed.

Still, the mage decided he could not struggle with his staff the same way Vessa would her bow, so begrudgingly agreed to leave it on this side of the pool. Vessa did the same with her shortsword, saying it would drag her down while swimming.  They both looked at Maelen’s hip, where the mace thrummed to her ears alone. She scoffed when she saw their worried glances.

“I’ve got it,” she grinned. “The mace comes with me.”

With the bundle secured, Maelen propped the torch upright with two rocks, as close to the water’s edge as she could manage. Then she frowned, staring at the still, black pool for several heartbeats. Was anything waiting for them below the surface, ready to pull them under? She didn’t see any movement. Dammit all and this place! With an unhappy grunt, she plunged into the water.

The cold of it constricted her chest and stole her breath, and immediately the weight of her mace and clothes pulled her down. She used one hand and foot to steady herself on the rocky wall, and said, as confidently as she could manage.

“Day’s not getting shorter. H-hand me the bundle and let’s go.”

Alric had stripped his tattered robes, and he looked pale, thin, and cold in his smallclothes, with angry-looking wounds everywhere on his shoulders and neck. He eased himself into the pool feet first, grimacing at the cold. When he slid all the way in, he gasped and sputtered. It was no surprise to Maelen that the lad wasn’t much of a swimmer. Still, he struggled his way forward in the open water, holding one side of the bobbing mass of Vessa’s cloak, while Maelen continued pushing her way along the wall. While they worked out their rhythm, Vessa glided past them easily, swimming with long, lithe strokes of her legs past the lad and holding her bow aloft.

Now that she was fully immersed, she realized the subtly rank smell of the water. Disease and parasites weren’t something she’d even considered, but now it felt as if somehow filth slid along her skin, black oily fingers caressing her. She spit any wetness from her lips.

“C-careful of not getting the water in your m-mouth!” she gasped at her companions. They didn’t say anything back, but she felt confident they’d heard her.

It was slow going, and the cold threatened to rob her of her strength even as the weight of the mace pulled at her. In a sudden flash of emotion, she missed her mouse Tatter. The little thing had been with her for the past two years, a constant source of companionship without asking for anything but scraps of food in return. Yet the Starless Rift had swallowed little Tatter, as surely as it had snuffed the lives of those unknown priests. Maelen wondered if the mouse had scurried out of the cavern system or was huddling, cold and fearful, in a small crevice somewhere. It was a gloomy train of thought.

At some point her teeth began chattering, and she clenched her jaw shut painfully. The lad moved methodically but never fell back or went under. She could see him in the flickering, fading orange light as a rippling shape beyond the bulk of the cloak, which bobbed like a bulbous sea creature between them.

Once they’d neared the opposite shore, the light from the torch was only a vague, dancing glimmer behind them, doing little to illuminate the way. Maelen pulled with her hand and pushed with her bare foot along the rough rock, her other hand guiding their gear. Her own breath filled her ears, panting in quick, short puffs now. She lost sight of the mage, and her teeth chattered too much for her to risk speaking. All the while, she imagined more of those skinless monstrosities clutching at her legs from below, pulling her into the inky blackness of the befouled water. She visualized withering from whatever plague awaited her, then rising as a mindless zombie. Tatter’s small corpse, curled in a ball somewhere nearby and forgotten, swam in her thoughts. Maelen would never admit it to anyone, but real fear gripped her in those moments, replaced by a seething, roiling anger.

Ahead, something splashed and her heart nearly stopped.

“V-Vess?” she said, her voice much weaker than she’d expected, her lips trembling with cold.

“H-here,” she stuttered back. “Made it. Oh!”

Maelen wanted to ask what that meant, but all her willpower was used to keep pulling herself forward with numb limbs. Vessa’s voice wasn’t that far ahead, she thought desperately, so the shore must be…

Her knee struck rock and she stumbled, her face momentarily dipping into the oily water. She spat and sputtered, and with a flailing, flopping effort she was glad no one could see, pushed herself up the rocky shelf to the other side of the pool. With straining muscles, she pulled the cloak and its contents after her, reaching for Alric as she did so. They clasped cold hands, and the lad gasped and stumbled forward towards her.

“S-so c-c-cold,” he stuttered, barely audible.

“G-get the gear with me,” she puffed, barely recognizing her own voice. “N-need to light a t-t-torch.”

Blindness and cold combined to make her hands clumsy and stupid. It took forever for the two of them to wrestle the cloak up onto the rocky ground, near Vessa’s voice. As they drew closer, the thief joined in pulling the bundle.

“I’ve got it,” she whispered. “Go get warm, keep going past me.”

Warm? Maelen’s mind worked as sluggishly as her feet, but she let the lass fumble with the belts and knots while she stumbled away from the water’s edge. There, as she’d said, warm air touched her face. She moved towards it like a bee to a flower, her hands outstretched. Somewhere nearby, she heard Alric fall and curse in pain as he did likewise.

By the time she’d found the heat’s source, she was no less confused. It wasn’t a fire and shed no light, but there was simply… hot air, blowing up from the earth like some sort of summer wind. Whatever the source, she dropped next to it and let the air wash over her. Maelen closed her eyes with pleasure, her teeth eventually stopping their chatter and feeling returning to her limbs like needle pricks.

Behind her, flickers of light signaled Vessa lighting a torch, which meant both the tinderboxes and torches had survived the journey. She turned to see the lass padding over to them with a wide grin on her face. With the light, Maelen could see the cloak opened wide, their possessions lying in a wide, scattered clump on the rocky floor. Beyond, the black water shimmered, still recovering from their passing.

“Amazing,” Alric sighed. She turned back to see that they both huddled over a hole in the rock, perhaps a full stride across. It was from the hole that the hot air blew. “Is it a natural phenomenon, or some enchantment?” he asked, seemingly to himself. She looked up, seeing that the ceiling overhead also had a hole in it, pulling the air upwards.  

“It’s the first good thing we’ve found in this awful place,” Vessa said, still whispering, joining them around the hole. “Let’s not worry why or how it’s here. Just enjoy it.”

“Aye,” Maelen agreed. She thought Vessa was right to keep her voice low. “When you’re warmed enough, help me get any damp gear from the rain over here, and some rations. We won’t leave until we’re dry and fed.”

“Thank the Rootmother,” Vessa saluted, and closed her eyes in the warmth.

They used a full torch’s light to stay by the hole and its pocket of warm air, their spirits rising. The respite wasn’t enough to banish the images of the skinless, eyeless horrors that prowled the Starless Rift, or the ghastly ritual circle of Hadren Kelthorn, or even the terrifying, freezing trek across the black pool. But, at least for a brief while, the nightmares of this place faded into the background.

Vessa even found a small, flat wall of rock where someone—presumably the poor souls who’d been torn apart—had hammered pegs and hung hooded cloaks even better oiled and resistant to water than Vessa’s, each an identical dark gray. Alric and Vessa debated why the three garments were here and how they’d been used, adding even more speculation as to the Rift’s former occupants. In the end, though, they left the mystery unsolved and agreed that the cloaks would aid them all. One even fit Alric’s tall, lanky frame, and proved to be a passable replacement for his shredded robes.

Maelen and Alric lit new torches from the dying flames of the last one. She judged they had more than enough light to last them through exploring the caverns and back to the surface, assuming this underground complex wasn’t sprawling. Still, no use being wasteful. Her angry throw of the torch across the water suddenly flashed in her mind, and she growled in embarrassment at the memory.

“Ready?” she said, more gruffly than she intended. Her two companions nodded back. They grimly moved towards the opening at the far end of the chamber.

She led them through a craggy, winding corridor of stone. With the odd column of air behind them, the horror of this place returned, tingling along her spine and keeping her eyes flicking at shadows warily. Every step they took sounded too loud to Maelen’s ears. Around every bend in the rock, she expected a vile monstrosity to leap at her with blind eyes and outstretched claws.

Eventually, Maelen heard noises from up ahead, her jaw clenching in fear. She stopped the others and jerked a chin at Vessa to move forward, at the edge of her torchlight.

“Careful, lass,” she whispered. Wide-eyed, Vessa nodded, and with an arrow nocked on her bow, padded ahead in a crouch.

One foot after the other, Maelen moved in a slow stalk. Whatever was making noise beyond her light, it wasn’t a single creature. Several bodies moved in the darkness with shuffled feet and labored breathing. She could hear Alric’s panting breath behind her. The lad was terrified, and rightly so. Still, she wished he was quieter.

Vessa had paused at the end of the corridor, a doorless entrance to a large chamber beyond. She beckoned them to her with a jerk of her chin. The three of them crouched, torchlight flickering across what could only have been the tomb of Saelith the Vanished.

It was the first crafted place they’d seen within the Starless Rift, a perfect square carved with exacting precision, larger than her light could reach. The walls seemed to be formed from dark basalt blocks, somehow fused together, and along each wall were carved recessed circles, some smooth and clean, others rough-edged or broken, no two identical. The ceiling above arched into a shallow dome, at the center of which was an enormous circular relief whose exact design she couldn’t make out in the dim shadows. Indeed, Maelen blinked several times to be sure, but it seemed as if the chamber itself somehow suppressed the light from the torches, keeping everything within the tomb muted and dull.

Directly below the circle in the ceiling was another circle, depressed within the smooth stone floor. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if the form of a man lay within, robed all in black, on its back with arms and legs spread wide. All around the circular depression were a multitude of runes, more than on the doors of Thornmere Hold, more than had circled Hadren Kelthorn, rings and rings of symbols radiating out from the open grave.

Those sigils were breaking.

Spiderwebs of cracks ran from the depression and through the runic writing, each one glowing faintly gray in the darkness, a pale and eerie light like the eyes of Sarin the Night Captain or those floating wisps in the forest.

All these details Maelen absorbed in an instant, but it was not where her eyes lingered. Instead, her mouth went dry at the sight of a small legion of those skinless terrors, scampering and snuffling across the scene. They were not the larger versions like the one that had almost killed Alric, but instead the size of a child. Small comfort, though, because as she watched the eyeless monstrosities, their shining muscles and sinew exposed, she counted four… six… at least nine of the things. Far too many to fight, that was certain.

What were those abominations doing, though? Some capered at the walls, clawing at the recessed circles and leaving long, bloody trails as they did so. Some crouched outside the rings of runes, their heads down, like they were feasting upon or biting the stone. Finally, two of the creatures knelt at the edge of the circular depression, their arms outstretched, ropy strings of blood and gore falling into the tomb itself. Even as Maelen watched the creatures, like ants on an anthill, her eyes flicked to those spiderwebbed cracks as they lengthened and spread.

Alric spoke her realization aloud.

“They’re breaking him out,” he whispered in horror. “They’re freeing Saelith.”

“What do we do?” Vessa answered back, barely audible.

A red mist clouded Maelen’s vision. All her fear and pain roiled in her gut, expanding to her now-shaking fists. Curse this damned demon and the misery he brings! Flashes of Vastren Hollow and the massacre there swam in her mind. Death and shadows, everywhere Orthuun’s name is spoken. She heard something growling, low and deadly, and it took several heartbeats to realize the sound came from her own throat.

“Mae?” Vessa turned to her in alarm.

Maelen barely heard her. Screw this place and these otherworldly blights! She was not the victim here, not the prey! She was Marr the Merciless! She didn’t sit on her bloody hands while something gnawed her face! She could almost feel Sarin the Night Captain’s touch upon her skull, the world dimming and turning to darkness. She shook her head angrily at the memory. One hand gripped her black mace, the other a flickering torch, her knuckles turning white. Rage flooded her mind.

Screw it.

She charged, roaring defiance.

Next: Saelith’s Tomb [with game notes]