SCOTT MATTHEWS
Dusk settled on the ancient Forest of Valshyr. After four long days, the eager moon had its turn in the spotlight. It crested the hills and imposed its will upon the still evening sky. The insects of the forest would normally worship this newcomer, but the air would be quiet this night, as it has for nearly a thousand years. Ordinarily, a harmonic reverie exists in a forest; however, this was no ordinary forest, and this was no ordinary night.
There would be no harmony this evening because there were no leaves, and no insects. As far as the eye can see lie rolling hills filled with one thing…ash. Mountains of decayed life blew across the ancient forest, a blanket of gray waste. Where once stood mountainous oak trees now lies emptiness. Where once a breeze caressed millions of green leaves now lies a void. Where once voiced a chorus of insects now sits silence. Where once lived the great Forest of Valshyr now lives…the Mist.
It twisted and molded to each of the valley’s sensual curves in a sickened embrace. This blanket reflected the light of the moon, while it sucked the light from below. Within this mist, a darkness grew. Shadows were deep and the moon whispered grave thoughts. Once home to storied civilizations, this forsaken land now sits barren.
Nestled in the heart of the mist lies the ruins of Valshyr. Long abandoned, the jeweled spires still stand triumphant along the broken skyline. Giant walls encompass the ruins while wide streets wind through the wreckage, a conduit of blackened ash through a crippled city.
While the moon rises, a sinister shadow lurks across the broken streets. It emerges from the mist and snakes along the stone walls of an ancient cathedral. Along this shadow, a woman walks. Her skin is pale and lifeless and her eyes burn like fire as she staggers through a slanted void where a door once stood. The ancient, elegant framework had not held up to its years, both of the woman, and of the doorway she now occupies.
As she creeps across the broken floor, a stillness captivates the room. The breeze whistles through the open windows and across the shattered rafters, the moon still casts long shadows of a new night, but the center of this broken city was dark…and silent.
The woman lumbers toward the dais at far end of the chamber. Her shadow creeps past rows of petrified, collapsed pews as she basks in the glow of the newly born moon. Even without the moonlight, this figure cast a deep shadow upon the land. In this broken structure, a sharper shadow erupts from her frame, a wide net cast across the floor. This malevolence in the mist confirms that the being was definitely no woman. Not any more.
Atop the raised floor stood a coarse, rock altar. Its sides were rough and porous, worn to a finish over untold years. From this altar, the mist gathered. Thick fog surrounded the rock as an unseen breeze played a haunted melody.
As the female form walked toward the altar, the air began to glow an eerie, sickly yellow as it amplified the feeling of unholiness in the air. Within moments, the light was so bright the woman could no longer gaze upon it. Her eyes burned and her soul ached. She wanted to look away, to end the agony, but she could not…her body was no longer under her control. She continued to step forward, through no effort of her own. Her eyes sizzled as a slow, steady stream dripped down her face. She wanted to cry out in terror, but the ability had long since passed.
Her knees struck the floor. The ancient stone shattered as her body thrust down, followed by the unmistakable sound of splintered bone. Blood pooled into the cracks while the woman’s eyes remained fixed and unmoving. Her body was rigid, with no signs of pain, agony, or free will. As the light pulsed before her, she was entranced, though she no longer had eyes to stare, the empty sockets now the color of the starless night sky.
The mist swirled around the rock and the woman held captive before it. It spun faster as a vortex of sickly sweet light encircled the pair. When the mist settled, the outline of scars, scales, and teeth appeared beyond the rock. A voice boomed from the inhuman visage and echoed throughout the cathedral.
“You have done well, my fallen angel.” The words resonated within the bones of the woman. Their tone was grisly and broken, an overt whisper in the silent hall.
The woman, in full revelry of the being before her, became aware. She felt the absence of sight and the numbness in her legs. She sensed the unholy air and the unnatural silence of the cathedral. Her face, however, did not show pain. It did not show confusion, remorse, or guilt. It showed terror.
“Th…thank you, My L...Lord,” she muttered as she attempted to bow toward the swirling mist. Her arms trembled and her lips quivered as the featureless face absorbed every ounce of fear.
“You have served truly, and faithfully,” the face continued. “As such, you shall be rewarded.”
The woman relaxed, though the fear in her heart supplanted any efforts to appear calm. She opened her mouth, but no words would come; instead, the mist grew tighter. It enveloped her body and pressed upon her form, a cocoon of shadow and moonlight. The mist swirled faster until it bound the woman in a sinister vortex. Her meager trappings flung free to expose the wrinkled skin of a woman far beyond her years.
Her eyes contorted in fear and wonder as she was consumed by a torrent of sick, yellow energy. A calm overtook her expression and her face relaxed. Within moments, however, the sedated expression washed away as the pressure culminated around her wrinkled flesh. The energy had nowhere else to go…but in.
She dropped her head, flung out her arms, and let loose an earsplitting scream. The mist continued to press through her mouth, nose, ears, and blackened eye sockets while her arms remained fixed, pinned by the energy as it violated of the prone female form. She began to transform, though this only heightened the pain wracking her old, decrepit body.
As the agony intensified, her wrinkles receded. Her skin tightened and muscle tissue reformed from within. Wrinkled flesh gave way to soft, toned tissue. Flattened breasts reshaped into firm, supple mounds. Matted hair lengthened into a long, flowing mane. Teeth regrew to form jagged, sinister points. Her skin tone grew darker, twisted from a silken white to a polished onyx.
After several moments, the mist diminished and gave way to the penetrating silence of the cathedral. The blackened, toned body of a young woman descended and came to rest on the cold stone, a couched, shapely figure before the stone altar. The mist settled into the crevices of the fractured stone as it leeched its way into the streets of Valshyr.
The young woman gasped for air and her ribs pulsed. Her fingernails scraped against the stone as her hands forged a tight fist. Small nubs formed on her forehead while a ridge chiseled across each shoulder. The nubs grew long and came to sinister points while the ridges expanded and lengthened into long, arm-length appendages behind her kneeling body. When the pain subsided, the polished onyx figure became aware…aware of her transformation, aware of her power, and aware of the face that studied her from altar. She also became aware that, after several terrified minutes of blindness, she could see.
She was not granted any normal vision, however. She opened her eyes to discover loose figures of light swimming through the fog, figures forever bound to the land. As they swirled through the cathedral, they took on the shapes of men and women, their faces in disbelief. The young woman looked upon the figures with a child-like curiosity.
She held up her hand to survey each slender finger and her sickly yellow eyes sharpened as she examined her elegant, toned arms. While she studied her new body, her lips curled into a faint, sinister grin. With her eyes fixed on the back of one hand, she struck out to the side with the other and grasped a shimmering figure by the neck.
The young woman drew her fist tighter to reveal the devilish nails of pure, blackened hatred. She squeezed harder as the spirit twitched violently, then grew limp and dissipated like a snowflake upon the warm ground. Her smile grew and her eyes sharpened at the sight. She then stood, her full, imposing form brought to bear before the rock altar and the twisted face.
The long appendages on her back unfolded to reveal an impressive set of wings of smoke and shadow. Her jeweled, yellow eyes focused with a look of satisfaction. The ancient voice once again boomed as it resonated through the remnants of the cathedral and the bones of his onyx apprentice.
“With duty comes power,” it said, as a father to his enthralled young daughter. “With absolute duty comes absolute power.” Dust fell from the stone walls as new cracks formed in the ancient rock. The voice echoed throughout the fossilized holy site as timbers crashed into the broken stone floor.
The young woman remained silent. She acknowledged her master and brought her legs and feet together. She drew her body to a perfect line and bowed her head. She brought a fist across her bare chest, held for an exaggerated moment, then released.
The voice echoed again, felt more than heard, “this world will burn, my apprentice. And you will be the torch of damnation.” The face dissolved as the mist swept through the ruin’s crumbled windows. As the last remnants swept into the streets of Valshyr, a whisper of evil echoed. “Rise Kryxys…take your place as the harbinger of extinction.”
2: 1.1.2 - The HaloChapter II - The Halo
SCOTT MATTHEWS
Far from desolation of Valshyr lies the sleepy dockside market of Wyvern’s Rest. Months had passed since the events within the ancient cathedral and this sprawling city was anxious to greet the new dawn. A delicate breeze heralded the day as the scent of salt and fish crept across the sleepy pier, packed with ragged gulls and half-starved rats in search of yesterday’s unused treasures. A family of four rushed through the broken cobblestone square as they moved past one stand, then another, oblivious to the frantic calls of the merchants. Everything they owned had been folded, organized, and stowed in their trunks. Every treasure had gone with them, everything else…had not. With determination, they crossed the empty courtyard, once home to the busiest market in all of Kel Doran.
The clatter of cobblestone gave way to hollow wooden echoes as the family forced their way onto the docks, coming upon a long line of passengers. The sandy haired young boy furrowed his brow and looked around. “Why had they stopped?” he wondered. He attempted to seek out the source of the line. As he looked, however, he discovered strangers, all with their own cases, bags, and a look of anticipation. The young boy climbed his way into his dad’s arms and surveyed the crowd, only to find massive, white sails near the end of the pier. People shoved their way aboard the Promenade while the little boy turned to look back into the empty market.
He peered back across the broken streets and eyed the little shops and fruit stands, now empty, boarded up, or collapsed altogether. The square was unrecognizable, a broken shadow of the city he remembered. The little boy’s eyes followed the roofline of the old inn, coming to rest on a second story window. He squinted, only to discover the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her blonde hair reflected the dawn and her skin glistened like polished porcelain; yet she was sad, a profound longing, a wound that would never heal.
The longer he stared, the worse he felt. By the time he and his family stepped aboard the Promenade, the excitement of the morning had left him. The image of that girl was burned into his memory. He dropped his head and moved along the benches that flanked the ship’s deck and took a seat. While his family exchanged anxious hopes of opportunity, the young boy placed his head into his hands…and cried.
---
The blonde girl sat in the window and sighed as families left their homes and boarded the Promenade. She felt their excitement as their hopes bloomed into reality, and longed for the troubles of Wyvern’s Rest to fall away. She yearned to shed a decade of waste and ruin, then watched as each family fulfilled her dream…to simply leave. Ava felt a small tear race down her cheek, but she ignored it; for it was no different from the one she shed yesterday, or every day before that. Ava learned to ignore her emotions, the brittle seal of a fragile vase; yet as she watched the people she knew escape this place, singular thought surface. “Please…take me with you.”
The crisp, ocean air swept through her open window while those haunted words replayed themselves in her young mind. The sun highlighted her blonde hair and her brilliant blue eyes as the young girl awoke from her daydream, startled and afraid. Consumed by thoughts of her past, she struggled to understand how her life had gone so wrong.
Her senses returned, with them the familiar sight of the market below, the ships docked in the peer, and her favorite place, the old windowsill that overlooked it all. While she peered out the portal of her own prison, she reminisced about her friends, the old market, and a life that got lonelier with each passing year.
“Isn’t that right, bitch?” came a gruff voice from the center of the room. Ava jumped at the words, but continued to gaze out the window. She hated the voice, and the man behind it. She suppressed the hate that swelled when she heard it and the sickness that crept up her stomach with each gristly word from his mouth.
“Did you hear me, wench?” he bellowed again, more intense than before. Ava knew of Varin’s lack of patience. She also knew of his lack of empathy, composure, and common decency. A fat, slobbering man with stubble on his face and a stench about his body, Varin Wray was the epitome of everything Ava hated about Wyvern’s Rest, and men in general. The sight of him made her skin crawl, and his scent became the terror from which her nightmares were born.
Ava realized she had not answered her master’s questions. She learned to retreat inside her own mind, to block out reality. It did nothing, however, to appease her master. With reluctance, Ava let down her feet and stood before the window. She knew the expectation, then clasped her hands and shrugged her shoulders, perceived innocence skillfully etched across her porcelain features.
“Yes,” she stated in a calm, ethereal voice. She realized she had no idea what she agreed to, though history had proven this was always word, when in doubt.
She yearned to expand upon her simple statement. “Yes, you worthless piece of shit. Yes, you mistake upon humanity,” but she knew better. She knew what happened when she spoke out of line…or out of turn…or just, spoke. She knew that her ‘owner’ rarely needed a reason to raise a hand to her beautiful face, yet it happened…frequently.
“Yes…….what,” Varin said in an irreverent tone. The last word dripped from his tongue and Ava sensed the venom that dripped with it. The man wriggled free from his oversized chair and stood, a lure to draw out the young girl’s thoughts. He shuffled his feet to balance himself, though gravity and a long night of whiskey conspired against him.
Varin managed to right himself, only to witness the morning sun pour through the window, straight through his young ‘prize.’ The sour, hateful man, saw something beautiful; a rare accomplishment in a world clouded in darkness. The beam of light struck Ava’s sheer pink nightgown and made it transparent, a soft halo that encompassed the otherwise perfect female form.
“Yes……..my king,” she said under her breath.
The words were a wretched poison. Varin Wray was no more a king than the lepers outside the city; however, in this inn…in this city…in this god-forsaken world, this young angel must revere him. She refused to face him, but she did not have to. She was young, but she knew what it meant when a man stared at her, or when they suddenly fell silent. She understood their thoughts, just as she understood Varin’s…and she hated them for it.
Ava’s eyes drifted from the docks and the lonely market below. She gazed upon her windowsill as a child would a broken toy. She reached for the drapes, to face her prison, then noticed her arms. She saw her delicate skin reflect through the sheer fabric. She looked again and saw her legs, her stomach, and her chest. The shy, innocent teen stood before the window fully clothed, but might as well have been completely naked, all thanks to the sun, the one thing she still loved in this dark, unforgiving world.
Ava made a revelation in that moment. She realized she didn’t care. She didn’t care that a hideous man stared at her or that the market below could see her. In that moment of self-revelation, she became numb. She lost the desire to care and the will to dream. She lost herself to the most reprehensible being she knew, and the ‘customers’ he brought her every night. She lost herself to the perversion that would sit and watch from his over-sized chair.
The young girl turned her attention back to her window, and joyous line of passengers. Her feeling of loneliness turned to jealousy, then to resentment as the recognition increased, of people she knew, of friends she would lose. Her eyes scanned the crowd of faces and the people that would leave her behind. They came across a tall young man with long hair, pulled tight behind his head. While the rest of the crowd looked forward, he looked back, his eyes locked on the old Inn…on Ava’s window.
She leaned forward and reached out, placing a slender hand on her window. “Taryn,” she whispered. “Not you too.” Her heart ached as the slender man stared back through her window. His apologetic eyes remained fixed, even though the crowd pressed him forward. As he was pushed up the pier, he mouthed a simple statement that only Ava could see…I’m sorry.
Ava collapsed back onto her windowsill. She blocked out the man in the room, and the life she led. She blocked it all from her mind and just stared…at the people, at the ships, at the lives that were not hers. The tear returned to her cheek as she stared out over the harbor. Her eyes returned to Taryn and the Promenade. While the vessel of hopes and dreams left the docks, those familiar words crept back into her mind, “please, take me with you.”
3: 1.1.3 - Black WaterChapter III - Black Water
SCOTT MATTHEWS
Life aboard the Promenade was full of hope. The deck bustled with excitement, a stark contrast to the life they left behind. With the great city of Wyvern’s Rest in despair, families and merchants deserted in search of prosperity in other regions of Cyrea. As they sailed away, many passengers looked back into the desolate skyline. Some reminisced of opportunities lost, others condemned the crumbled walls and empty spires. They severed their ties to years’ of pain and suffering - a debt never to be repaid.
The ship was alive with chatter and conversation, but the sandy haired little boy sat motionless, his head still submerged in his hands. The image of the girl in the window continued to haunt his thoughts. His mother knelt before him and pushed his hair away from his freckled face, wishing there was more she could do for her baby boy. She looked to her husband and gave a sympathetic shrug, but they both shared in the same confusion. He scanned the ship to derive his son’s sudden despair, but came up empty.
A carnival atmosphere permeated the vessel as people sang and danced away the thoughts of years lost, yet the boy’s mood remained unmoved. His restless sister gave up on her parents’ attempts and sought to immerse herself in the excitement of the Promenade. She peered through the sea of arms and legs to catch a glimpse of a man juggling near the stairs. Her eyes grew wide with excitement.
“Daddy!” she cried out, as she pulled away. “Daddy, it’s a show. Let’s go!” The little girl tugged and twisted to free herself from her father’s grasp. She darted through the crowd while she navigated the maze of trunks, legs, and possessions. Her heart raced as she hurdled several small, ripped bags, then ran head long into something solid. With a “thump,” the girl collapsed onto the deck. Her sandy hair fell into a tangled mess, her mother’s careful knot a distant memory. She pulled her hair aside, only to reveal the concerned expression of a tall, long-haired young man.
Before Taryn could assess the little girl’s injuries, she bolted upright and shot across the Promenade’s deck in search of the ‘show.’ Moments later, her father burst through the crowd with a mixture of panic and anger across his face. Taryn stood, stepped aside, and pointed in the direction the little girl. As the nervous father swept past, the young man smiled and gave a gentle nod of understanding.
Taryn’s face was still full of life, though time in Wyvern’s Rest had aged him considerably. His brown eyes gave the appearance of warmth and honesty, though a deeper look revealed years of mistakes and regret. His dark hair was long, pulled into a tight, well-maintained knot. He hoped for a look of sophistication, but knew it was merely to keep it out of his eyes.
Taryn chuckled and gave an honest shake of his head as he watched the anxious father bound across the deck. The slender young man stood light on his feet as the sails let loose. The hope of the passengers filled the giant cloth, urging the Promenade further away from the ruin of Wyvern’s Rest. Taryn looked into sails and felt an incredible weight lift from him his chest. He closed his eyes as the canvas flapped and stretched, the air filling them to their limit. He heard the rope strain and the knots squeeze to their moorings. For the moment, the past few years fluttered away, filled with air and blown out to sea. He opened his eyes and surveyed the other passengers. Several had joined Taryn, their gaze set into the giant sails. Others sat in quiet reverence, content to stare back into the city as the crumbled skyline grew ever smaller.
“Excuse me, sir…Pardon me, ma’am,” Taryn stated as he worked his way toward the back of the ship. He thought of his old home and the closure in seeing it disappear beyond the horizon. He continued across the deck and saw a concerned mother as she clung to the arms of a young boy, his face a mask of intense sadness. Taryn found it hard to pull his eyes away, captivated by his innocence and how one so young could feel such loss.
As Taryn stared, his own sense of longing overtook him and thoughts of his own loss stirred. While the crowd around him churned with excitement, Taryn’s memories fell back to the beautiful blonde woman and her imprisonment within the inn. He remembered Ava’s soft, blue eyes and her genuine smile. He ached for the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice. A darkness consumed him, even aboard the ship that would take him away from all the pain.
With resolve, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and another on his tearful mother. Their faces looked to his, both marred with countless layers of dirt, the scars of a tough life on an unforgiving street. Her clothes stuck to her bony shoulders and her cheeks were sunken and filthy; yet, even in their suffering, something existed within this woman that sent a wave of emotion through Taryn…hope.
In all her hurt and pain, a smile crept across her face. She acknowledged Taryn and looked back to her son. The sandy haired boy, eyes swollen and red, lifted his head. Though another tear had worked its way free, it was plain to see their smiles had comforted him. The little boy let go of the anguish and swept his arms around his mother. A warmth washed over Taryn as he fought back thoughts of Ava and the pain of leaving.
When Taryn arrived at the back of the vessel, the troubles of Wyvern’s Rest were disappearing from sight. A calm enveloped him as he looked at his former home. Between the haze of the fog and the morning sun, a soft glow had enshrouded the city. He looked upon the fallen citadel and forgot the helplessness and despair. He forgot about the collapsed buildings and the crumbled walls. He forgot about the murderers, robbers, and mercenaries that now called Wyvern’s Rest home. For a brief moment, he looked upon the city as he remembered, a shiny jewel nestled against the black waters of the Abyssal Sea.
As Taryn reminisced, a slow murmur crept from the front of the Promenade. At first, it was like a small ripple in a large pond. In time, the echoes of concern grew to panic as passengers inched their way toward the back of the ship. Soon, grown men pushed and shoved their way through to escape whatever loomed ahead. Women, children, rich, poor…all were fair game as it became survival of the fittest aboard the once joyful deck.
In the excitement, Taryn heard a muffled scream. He looked down and saw three small children pressed against the back rail as the ship’s complement backed up. Helpless and pinned, he knew what would happen if the passengers did not come to their senses. The children cried, but their bodies were trapped against the wooden frame, the air escaping before anyone could heed their call.
“S-Stop” Taryn muttered. No one listened. “You…You must stop this!” His words grew agitated, but that did not yield the herd of frantic passengers. He braced his feet and pushed against the throng of bodies, but had no effect. He screamed and cursed as they continued to compress against the rail, “Stop, dammit! You must stop this madness!!” But Taryn might as well have been cursing at a dead man.
Desperate, he climbed onto the rail. His hands latched onto tethered ropes as he clawed his way up random arms and legs. He crested the mob in one final effort to convince them to stand down. As he peered over their heads, the source of their fear materialized in the distance. Another ship steamed toward them. This was no ordinary ship, however. It was like death upon the black water. Its hull was a ghostly black, blended seamlessly with the water below. Its sails were full, triumphant, and absorbed the light around them. The goal of these pirates was not to frighten; it was to ignite terror, to strike a chord deep within the soul of their victims, to pray upon their fears and quiet the hearts of courage before any shots were fired.
Taryn knew of pirates in this area. In Wyvern’s Rest, those that frequented the Guilded Wyrmling Inn often spun tales of these high seas mercenaries, though the fear he now felt seemed oddly absent from all those well-worded stories. The young man’s eyes widened, then heard wooden boards creak and groan under the strain. He looked back to the rail and to the pinned children, their lifeless bodies tangled in a mass of legs and feet, crushed against the contorted rails.
A loud “snap” shot across the deck. The ship’s tired rail gave way as dozens spilled from the back of the Promenade into the cool waters of the Abyssal Sea. Men, women, and children all fell in a chaotic blend of humanity and splintered wood, culminating in the water below. Several jumped to safety or clung to tethered ropes; but as more climbed on, the belly of the ship groaned. A low, dull ache reverberated throughout the ship, an ache every passenger felt.
A series of shattered echoes shot through the air as the ropes slackened. Shadows loomed large as the rear mast gave way. Maddened screams rang out as the massive pole crashed through the remnants of the back rail, spilling over the deck. Several passengers plummeted over the edge while others braced themselves for the impact…with disastrous results. The enormous mast carved a hole through the forecastle on its way into the sea before landing across the helpless victims below.
The panic turned into terror as the passengers no longer had an avenue of escape. Men and women hurdled the rails while most clogged the main stairways to the belly of the ship. Others crammed into small rooms flanking the center of the deck and huddled together for safety.
Taryn dangled over the back of the Promenade, his boot caught in a rope as he hung upside down a few feet from the water. His mind reeled at his fate and the rope still clung to the hull. In that moment, he had a decision, jump into the chilled water, or climb his way up and prepare for whatever comes.
Taryn had never been a strong man, nor had he ever needed to be brave, but he managed to muster a combination of both as he reached up and scaled toward the deck. While other passengers jumped over the edge, the young man pulled himself up and emerged back into the light. He surveyed the wreckage. The scores of Promenade passengers was reduced to a few dozen fighting men, ready to defend their families. All others had cowered below deck or joined the women and children in the sea.
He continued to scan the deck and saw the faces of the brave few, some equipped, some not, all of them scared out of their minds. A few had crude weapons, but most had nothing. They scoured the ship for any implement that would serve as a weapon, the naive hope it would be effective against a combat-trained pirate. Taryn thought to himself, “this is madness! What hopes would we have in repelling boarders? What would they even want?” And the most important question of all, “what am I doing?!”
Taryn had little time to reflect, however. As the black ship approached, it let loose a volley from its front catapults, a fiery barrage meant to instill dread in the hearts of anyone left onboard. As the projectiles exploded across the deck, many that were brave enough to stand and fight realized they were not. They joined the others, flung themselves overboard, and escaped the fiery explosions, some engulfed in flames, some to simply flee. Taryn’s heart sank as more defenders preferred their chances in the Abyssal Sea.
Pirates swooped down from their sails and landed on the deck of the Promenade, their screams meant to create nightmares in children and able-bodied men alike. Taryn scavenged for the only weapon he could find, a large pole that had snapped when the mast collapsed into the sea. It was splintered and bent, more suitable for firewood than as a weapon. He squeezed the end and felt the splinters wedge between his fingertips. The young man looked up when he heard a mighty roar. Wooden planks fell across the sea, the gap between the vessels now bridged. For the first time in his young life, Taryn felt sheer terror.
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