Open I have pried the skies above me,
Solace have I sought among the stars;
Journeyed I have to the earth below me,
Seen have I its depths, like blackened chars.
— 'To Sleep, Dreaming' (Contour 3)
***
Solan saw the white orb in front of him fade away. The many letters and symbols of writ he plastered unto the ground 'neath him had faded away with a scrape of his torn boots.
He believed himself to be the knowledgeable of his own soul, but now he could hardly discern what Race he was, or what changes it had undergone when he fell in the Eternal Gale's collapse.
Answers were scant when pertaining to what the Depths does, and how its gears turn, but Solan would be damned if he didn't find at least a clue.
A goal for later.
For now, he beckoned to the Voice of Solitude with a steely gaze, awaiting its trials. No longer was he Solan, the Black Diver of Castle Light, but a nameless soul in likeness to a worthless beggar off the streets.
Not too troubling, but it was enough for him to bolster a motive to regain his erstwhile power.
"A fresh soul's flame rekindled," the Voice of Solitude called out, echoing between the adamant walls. "Strength lies within, slumbering and brought to greater potential. Find it once more, Lone Warrior. You are whom we have been searching for."
Solan tilted his head.
I never understood why you've called me a 'Lone Warrior—'
...Hm?
His fingers, once gripped 'round his blade in preparation for the tribulations ahead, for the trial that would be imposed, unfurled with the next scene.
He remembered, vividly. The first stage was supposed to be an assault of white orbs which he would be required to parry if he didn't desire to become pincushion.
But that isn't the case so far?
He was about to speak to the Voice of Solitude in some vain attempt for a response, but his words died out in his throat with a flash of white encompassing his very being. Blinded, he was blinded and flailed his arms around, eyes burning profusely with tears uncontrollably forming.
It had lasted only a transient instance, before he lowered his arms and felt what was underfoot. A tallgrass prairie, with trees off in the distance denoting a forest. Solan was befuddled for a brief moment, a shake of his head being his reorientation.
His blade resheathed with a form founded by dumbfoundedness. He darted his gaze 'round once more to make out the lands he found himself in.
The trials...? Is this a trial? Where are the trials?
Solan remained steeled for any surprises. Although he was a foolhardy man at times, even within the Depth's confines, he knew when to keep his nerves awake.
High grasses stood tall like cheering hands brushed up to his knees when he began traversing through. Their colored expanse was near unending with how far it crested even to the horizon's genesis.
What island is this? No, I shouldn't be asking too vague a question. What Luminant is this?
Solan couldn't memorize every island he had sailed to. Memorizing islands in general was a fool's endeavour considering how many Driftlands frequently float in and out the Voidsea, coupled with the fact that there were thousands upon thousands of those land formations.
I can't tell.
Surrendering his guesses with the foreign plants, he brushed his hands along the grasses. On their blades were meager dabs of moisture, telling him recent stories of rain that had once graced the land.
He swept his hand away, eyes continuing their examination, feet treading through the fields.
The phantoms of his body being wrung through distorted space-time still ailed him in its clutches. In the end, he bit the interiors of his mouth and pressed on. Ethiron, that Drowned God... was not something he should think about.
Insanity was prevalent in those who sought to study the Depths, and although Solan wasn't one adherent to superstition or rumors, he certainly would not fancy to study the Drowned Gods.
There were enough cults worshipping their reviling existences anyway.
He plucked a piece of wheat, but eventually dropped it when he found no bags to carry it along. A shame, considering he would eventually need sustenance in order to fuel his current vessel.
The more Solan traversed, the more he frowned.
He didn't stand in any trial as invoked by the Voice of Solitude, but the real world itself.
That was terrible, completely disrupting what he needed to accomplish.
Through the Trial of One I am able to gain further strength as if bestowed some greater power. Now...?
He was stuck in his pitiful form for the forthcoming future, and he would have to work menially—through repetitive training—in order to restore his skills and brawn. The revelation came unto him like thunder.
Just as his mood was about to sour further, Solan halted in his tracks.
There was a group he saw traveling together, numbering in three total.
"Sirs! Hello! Sirs!" Solan called out to the green-clad men, their outfits resembling that of a hunter's. "Can you hear me!"
The group of three halted in their steps. They turned his way. Solan could now see them in full from the front, such as the weapons sheathed by their side and just how many compartments their attire had stitched in the form of pockets.
They called back his way, and although he wasn't one to judge off of first appearances, their tone was rather... unfriendly? Jeering?
"Ist das ein Bettler?" one said in a foreign language.
"Sieht für mich so aus. Sie sprechen Viktorianisch," the second one replied.
"Hey, ich habe gehört, der Markt sucht nach Leuten wie ihnen. Meinst du, wir könnten einen guten Preis erzielen?" the third... suggested?
Solan raised a brow.
I don't understand a single word they say. The best I can make out is some resemblance to the Canorian tongue.
The longer he studied them, the less he believed them to be hunters at all. Their garb was too gaudy for their sort of work, and the materials looked like the exact ones woven into combat armor.
They also had no spears, the kind of weapon that proved efficacious in the game of hunt. Instead, they grasped jagged machetes and daggers, the latter being a common item found in hunting, but the lacking spears still perturbed him.
Their pockets he could faintly spot glint and hear by distant rattles were stuffed with trinkets. The most notable tell-tale feature giving away their true intentions were their eyes, possessing a vulture's glint which provoked him, sizing him up as meat instead of man. One even licked his teeth as if in jest, though Solan knew it was far from such.
...Definitely not sirs.
A bunch of scoundrels if naught else. He could see the elements of their detestable hands lingering to concealed weapons, and the eerie smiles hidden 'neath their rot-besieged teeth. In the lower lands of Erisia he remembered toiling with these sort of lesser men, and it seemed like it was no longer above him to do so again.
They were walking toward him, hands lingering closely to their blades with an 'affable' demeanor. His time was thinning upon a thread.
There was a certain arithmetic of combat that Solan had educated himself in. A required skill in a Pathfinder's workline. Unfortunately, it was inept with his current equipment and physicality.
Therefore, he chose the next best option, which was fleeing the premises.
Turning tail without a word, Solan made a mad dash behind.
Immediately, he heard flattening stomps behind him, the slick of blade against leather sheath following soon after.
He chanted a forlorn curse.
Gods Below curse these lowly souls...!
His mind throttled like an overheated engine in order to formulate any plans needed for remedying his predicament. A rusted blade was almost worthless but still better than nothing, and the terrain—although seldom useful for setting traps—was useless for him who lacked preparation and tools.
No, it's pointless for me to attempt to flee in the first place.
A realization bestruck him. He was wasting his vigor by attempting to escape those bandits in an unsuitable environment, especially when they didn't seem to relent in any capacity.
Combat was inevitable.
I've four years learning under the best swordsman in Lumen. I'll take my chances in this state.
His body felt weaker, slower, and more disordered than his previous one. However, his memories were in no way afflicted by his bodily reversion.
Placing his hand on the rusted blade in its sheath, he drew and stamped his foot on the ground, swerving back to meet his opponents.
He saw them still numbered in three. They too stopped dead in their tracks to flourish bulky machetes outward to meet his feeble armament.
Solan breathed as calmly as he could. Warfare was paramount to growth, one best observed with the development of certain weapon types—and for somebody as talented as himself (not to toot his own horn).
If anything, he could benefit from this otherwise pointless fight.
"Lassen Sie Ihr Schwert fallen und kommen Sie leise mit, wenn Sie nicht möchten, dass es chaotisch wird," a bandit said, the two others stood beside them, slowly encircling Solan.
The second one replied to their comrade, "Er kann kein Leithanian! Bringen wir das einfach hinter uns!"
Solan still didn't understand them.
The dancing steps of war beat like drums in his heart. He was a disciple taught by its multiple practitioners, and those steps, those dances, have become ingrained in each fiber of his muscles. With this in mind, he would see them executed flawlessly.
When he saw the descent of a blade upon him, a mere twist of his blade redirected it off course in a picture-perfect parry; a satisfying clang accompanying it with yellow sparks.
Redirecting his sword, Solan lodged it upside the assailants' jugular, pulling it out afterward to let streams of blood flow down like waterfall.
Stepping back, he initiated a dodge which left a blade short of his skin from another opponent. He breathed heavily, hastily making space as the one he struck already collapsed, convulsing.
Maestro would be proud.
Those men quickly became maddened folks. One ran his way whilst another attempted, frantically, to tend to their fallen ally's fatal wound.
"Scheiße! Steh auf, steh auf!" the one attempting, but failing to treat their comrade, yelled.
"Ich werde diesen Kerl umbringen!" the one advancing his way cursed.
Solan met the one who charged him headlong, recounting the calculus of blades in quick thought. His form shifted into yet another parry, letting the bandit's folly be known as he slicked his blade—looping it across the bandit's own—and then let it glide against their collar bone.
He backed away, a light kick to the bandit who staggered back gripping their now blood-let scapula.
Block, parry, dodge, those are the fundamentals.
A shout came from the injured bandit's mouth as their other companion cursed, abandoning his felled ally and turning his way. Sixfold rage was layered over their glooming eyes, as they moved in tandem with each other.
Two against one. Might I succeed?
Solan sucked in his lips and ignored the sweat on his palms.
Blades, sailing from left and right, were attempting to gore him.
He successfully parried them both in quick succession with the aid of Ether fueling his reflexes, once again backing away so they would not dog-pile or grapple him.
"Verdammt bastard!" one of the bandits screamed, swinging with wild abandon.
"Bastard? That's rich coming from you, scoundrel!" Solan taunted back. It was the first coherent word he heard from them.
I ought to attune the Song someway as a translator—nay, I'll just kill them.
He cut off his thoughts there in order to redirect his parry to his second opponent. Ether burned in his veins and proliferated his strength. He took a gambit, heaving forward to enter the offensive.
A risk, especially when it was against uneven numbers, but...!
His thrust struck true against the injured bandit, digging its way 'neath their hard ribs.
A perfect counter. The dancing steps served him well.
Solan then maneuvered and ran it across like a cleaver through bone-meat, hearing the bandit's torment, making sure to release one of his hands to grapple their sword arm in place.
Biting the interior of his mouth, he leaned forward to spit blood into the second bandit's eyes. A curse left them, and Solan pushed the bandit he stabbed in front in order to use as a meat shield to divert the blinded one.
When will you collapse?
Solan scrunched his brows in stress as he continued to slide his rusted blade like a saw, producing a sound of flesh grinding against bone.
He could feel resistance start to leave the bandit. While they were still alive, he made sure to keep swerving their body to shield against the strafing opponent—who he was confident was now spouting foreign curses his way.
With the last vestiges of life liberated from the bandit his blade was feasting upon, Solan finally retracted his weapon. Disposing his inferior sword, he snatched the more pristine machete from their now deceased form, entering a 'Fool's Guard.'
...A worthless guard, he would find.
A bolt was lodged into his shoulder while he was still in the stance. His body couldn't react in time, the discrepancy between dexterity, speed, and strength of his previous one irked him further.
What is that contraption? A strange firearm?
The remaining bandit, who was once holding a machete, now gripped a device being the culprit which shot a sharp bolt into his arm. They had retreated back, most likely to utilize that ranged weapon with greater efficacy, and Solan could barely even react.
Clicking his tongue, he charged forward and let the adrenaline numb his flaring pain.
The bandit had reloaded his device once more, settling a sharp bolt atop a stretched string.
A second bolt was fired with a resounding click. It met Solan's machete, and it was cut in half; revealing his own folly.
Being split, its two pieces punctured his arm and chest.
...I should've diverted it instead. Damn it all.
Well, there was no use crying over spilled Megalodaunt milk.
Ether flooded the regions of his foot, and he made a dash forward. There was a third bolt loaded then fired, and Solan made sure to bash it away with the machete's blunt side, before lunging.
He tackled the bandit and raised his machete, only to find that a side dagger had found its new home in his liver.
It's a blunder alright. Tch.
Solan grit his teeth and drove his weapon down on the bandit whose blocking arm caught it by flesh. Blood began to pool around as they flailed against one another, rolling across the prairie, pushing steel away with hands now gnarled and marred, and throwing crass words with each grunt.
A localized pond ran carmine between the high grasses from their lifeblood.
Sometimes, I ponder... what drives people to such incorrigible vices. Well, the Scholars probably know.
Solan eventually found himself laying on his back with a mutilated corpse beside him. Well, he fared no better, being just as, if not more mutilated than them.
If I were given a few minutes longer to adjust to this body, they wouldn't have stood a chance.
The pains surging through his body festered, but began to become numb the more blood he lost. His skin was pale as his body was splashed red, the Suncross hanging skyward between white clouds being the only blurry sight he could make out.
...No, is that even the Suncross?
Solan's eyes widened. It didn't fix his failing sight, but he could ascertain further detail from the celestial object. It was round in shape, not cross-shaped as he remembered so.
Have I gone delusional? What happened to the Suncross—
Before his thoughts could complete, sensations of chains clasping his arms in vice grip were felt all throughout his soul. Solan could see his own body now, before a million tons weighed down on himself with the chain's measly tug. Another tug, and his soul jolted beyond his body's whims, being dragged down e'er further into the ground; wherein only the pitch-black illuminated his sights.
Not now! Not the Depths! I need answers!
Salty water rushed into his mouth, nostrils, pores, and ears. It filled his entire being, bloating his bladder from the inside, foam regurgitating just about the ridges of his mouth each breath he attempted to take. Even then, in spite of his bulging body, Solan... strangely wasn't ailed with discomfort..
His gaze turned. He saw a familiar landscape protruded with corals of myriad colors, a lumiascent glow bathed in contrast with the sick, green hue of the ocean floor. It was the place all souls went upon death on the Surface.
He knew it to be the First Layer of the Depths, Scyphozia.
...Now he had to worry about escaping.
Just his luck.
***
The Third Gift,
The Tide is fast approaching, and the darkened dusk draws near.
Rising and falling. the two defining terms of all history, ebbing and flowing like the waves.
Just as the tempest-torn sea quells the ember-born flame, the passage of time quells the traces of memory. as the tide smoothens rock, so does time dull the mind...
— 'To Sleep, Dreaming' (Contour 3)
***
A/N: I actually considered making Solan completely mute... but decided against it. I might change my mind, though.
Also, I'll be listing terminologies from Deepwoken down here that readers most likely don't know. Did this so the story won't be half info-dump about Solan recounting everything he knows when a new terminology is brought up.
Lumen: Name of Deepwoken's world.
The Surface: The half of Lumen where life resides. Rest is consumed by the Voidsea.
Luminants: Name of Lumen's continents.
Trial of One: An Origin you can pick in Deepwoken to start off the game where you go through a trial with the Voice of Solitude as your narrator and level your Power up, kick-starting your progression at a higher Power compared to other Origins. Solan has this as his Origin. Called the 'Lone Warrior' Origin.
The Depths: An eldritch force consuming worlds, not necessarily below the Surface, as it is also above it. As above, so below. Souls become 'Drowned' when physical bodies die, being sent to the Depths, or they can enter the Depths on their own. Structure, order, and logic cannot be applied to the Depths.
Second Layer: Second Layer of the Depths. Only called the Second Layer because it's the second ever discovered.
The Eternal Gale: Name of the Second Layer of the Depths.
New Kyrsa, the Sleeping City: Name of the city which resides in the Eternal Gale.
Kyrsans: Race of alien people who reside in the Eternal Gale, belonging to the city of New Kyrsa.
Kyrsgarde: Kyrsan military force.
Drowned Gods: Slumbering beings of incomprehensible power. Not much is known about them, other than they have Scions and Shrines dedicated to them which can invoke their power. If they awake, the world ends.
Ethiron, the Maelstrom's Eye: Drowned God of Sky, Gale, and Pressure. Resides in the Second Layer, slumbering.
The Song: The source of 'magic' in Deepwoken. A gift accessible by humanity and mutated monsters.
Ether: Energy source in people to conjure the Song's usages, such as Mantras.
Mantra: Basically skills and magic spells casted via the Song. There are physical Mantras and Attunement Mantras.
Suncross: Lumen's sun.
Driftlands: Lands that drifted in and out the Voidsea. The passage of time doesn't affect them.
Voidsea: Most of Lumen has been consumed by the Voidsea which is said to be a byproduct of the Depths, where conventional laws of the world are worthless.
Stars Above: Exasperated phrase that refers to the Celestials in likeness to, "Oh my God!" Or another way to refer to the Celestials in general.
Gods Below: Exasperated phrase that refers to the Drowned Gods in likeness to, "Oh my God!" Or another way to refer to the Drowned Gods in general.
Divers: An organization of people who venture to the Depths to explore it and fend off the horrors in its womb. Researchers in some aspects. They stem from the Citadel of Markor.
Black Divers: High-ranking Divers.