"The corpse before us is not yet counted among the dead. There is little we can do here. Let us move on." The voice, a mere whisper, passed through the ear of one among the party who trod through the ruins of that distant, nameless village, or worse, one utterly relinquished by the fading recollections of a lost time. The shrouded figures, not ten in number, men or something near men, moved slow, as though they feared awakening some slumbering terror.
They wore no mark of guilt. They did not skulk, but moved with a gait so slow it was as if a ghost walked in their wake. In their hands they bore crude, hand-wrought spirit-lamps, their light an emerald green, or a stark red, or a deep indigo blue. One of them raised a hand, signalling they should part ways. The scent of foul, putrefying corpses hung heavy in the air, a stink bound to the bitter, deep-rooted spirits that would not depart.
Some among them heard the clash of blades though no steel remained. Others heard the screams of men when not a single word was spoken, only the rush of the fresh river's current before the village, beneath the old bridge they had crossed. The village ground was slicked with blood, as if a rain of crimson liquid had poured down, yet it was only the pooling from the scores of wretchedly arrayed corpses.
"Back away. I shall take this one. She must be a source of semi-pure energy. Ha. A feast this shall be." One of the figures set his lamp before the belly of a girl. Her form was a spectacle of horror: a carrion sight, maggots boring out of her still-rolling eye sockets. Her tongue was splayed, forked, a piece of it gone, stretched long to the cleavage of her chest where a creature had gnawed and ripped. And yes, she still breathed, her spirit trapped in the ruin of her body, in endless torment.
They were beyond morality, watching the light drawn from the woman's form. Her spittle was black, repulsive and vile, enough to make some of the company, passing on to the next corpse to pull out the last remnants of the soul, retch. "Did I not tell you that we could not take much from a corpse such as this? At most we could stuff it into a doll or a puppet." The voice was clear yet low, as if afraid some creature nestled in the village's crevices might hear and come for them.
"Who does not love a beautiful doll, eh—" A great claw, an arm-length blade attached to the limb of some thing many times their height. It stood among the group as they drew the essence from the pitiful, moaning woman, her light snatched away piece by piece. The claw took one of the lamp-wielding seekers, holding him aloft in a withered hand. It opened its maw... All who witnessed the hideous sight could only cover their mouths, unable to move or offer succor.
Man after man began to flee, like thieves running from a woodsman, but not one escaped. They knew now they would die in silence, without even hope. The thing was too tall. Its body was wound about with its own intestines. It laughed, a sound rippling through its flesh. It had no head. One arm was a blade the size of a giant bear's tusk, yet this bear had a skull for a head, rust-colored black fur only when molting, and a vast eye set into its very chest.
"What. Are. They. Doing. They. Will. Die. Help. Them."
He could not form a whole thought, could only watch them. They were bitten like hot bread stuffed with berry jam falling from the vine, gnawed like a rat chewing the skin from one's feet in sleep, chewed till not a bone was left for remembrance. The village's blurred image, a ruin, the sound of the black tide of the blood of the dead who had fallen but not truly died. All the sounds passed through his ears, masked by his long hair that shrouded all sight.
"Run! Do not stand still! I... I cannot stop it. Stop it! Do not kill them! Stop!" He pleaded. But none stirred. They were frozen. To run was to surely perish. The path of those who swallow others must, as prophecy foretold, be left to fate, unchanging.
The ruined, burnt houses began to collapse. They remained silent, as if crazed. Still, as if mad. It was not a body that trembled, but eyes ablaze, eyes filled with countless souls within them. Their bodies took fire, withered hands clenched, as if caught in the blast of men who believed they fought for their own, only for it to be the utter folly of a war leader.
"No!" He rushed to embrace every falling form, but the vision ended. He could not speak. He was confused within himself. His hands trembled with pain. He screamed. He did not know why he existed.
Thunk...
"The arrow you used to strike him, I believe it will not control him for long. We should remove it. At least he might suffer less. At least he should have clothes. He is utterly naked." Porson spoke softly, gazing at Him. He walked slowly, calm in himself, though nothing remained within. He met no one's eyes, only looked down at the special wooden road beneath his feet, a smooth surface that made wheeled travel swift.
Though the silver blood-dragging sword was no longer with Him, trusting the unpredictable was too dangerous, too much to control. No one dared risk it, for the multitude of souls within him, and the complex memories that made him seem like a madman in the name of something not called "human."
"Listen to me, you ancient tortoise. Where are our trade goods? Here, currency is the tooth of a fish, or crystal eyes from a sea creature. The gold dust you have left is worthless. The Church where you can gorge yourself on light and the artwork on the ceiling will do you no good, I tell you." Helm sharply cut in, arguing against the action. But as he rambled on about the edge of town, a place smelling of the sea and the mingled scent of fruit from the enormous Levill pine trees—which resembled a huge fusion of maple and pine—their fruit was sweet and crisp like grapes, the size of a coconut, with a juice sweeter than the fruit itself.
"What will you do next? I gave you the General's feather. I want to know if Lord Chennel truly came to warn about the war, or if he was merely following the King, a man even we do not understand. Where has he gone now? His memory—" Vionneer's voice was firm, yet she broke off, as if struggling to recall, the effort making it harder. Even Helm felt the truth of it, but chose silence.
She led the pair, accompanied by the ancient sage, Willvex, who floated slightly above the ground. He spoke no direct words, choosing to answer with soft noises in his throat before turning to greet the townsfolk with a wide smile. But the faces of those who saw the visitors or mere passers-by were filled with suspicion. Several merchants called out to them with respect, thanking the wanderers, even the words of a few vagabonds: Thank you for agreeing to be forgotten. As if they had seen stranger things.
"The tailor shop at the edge of town is not good. Do not rush, Priest." Willvex, the ancient sage, turned to speak. Time wore on. The trek to a spot outside of town, amidst the forest, the hills, and the wooden cliffs, was strangely suffocating. Some of the people along the path seemed afraid of Him, the one walking last, separated from the others. His hands were dry, bone-sheathed. His body was thin and pitiful. He carried no sword. His body was not stained with blood, yet his hands were coated with a thick, dark-red liquid that dripped onto the path.
He could walk straight, but in this state, wearing no clothes at all, no one dared to approach. Perhaps not even a long-eared dog would walk near him. They walked alongside the sea breeze from the town front or the ship harbor. "Master, are you all right? Your spirit has been trembling for too long. And what about the giant ship? There is no answer—"
"Calm down, calm down, my dear apprentice. They mean no harm. Do not be alarmed." The sage, concerned for his student, or perhaps the one behind the wall, behind a wreck like the bone of a giant manta ray the size of the surrounding two-story houses—the lower part small to support the larger upper house—spoke through a direct flow of mana. This was from the ledge ahead, or the back of the town. It was a thoroughfare.
"That is precisely right, my studious girl. Ha ha. If we meant ill, the heads of those at the harbor would be off their shoulders by now. Oh, and where is the student, I wonder? Not far, I think, with a voice so clear." Helm interrupted the stable mana flow with his spirit. He laughed a teasing laugh that made Vionneer clutch her head.
This town's edge was ringed with rock face, earth face, and a wooden cliff formed by vines interwoven with the earth until it was all wood. The wooden houses, small yet sturdy at the base, bore the weight of the larger upper sections without fear of falling. Conveyor belts for goods to the surrounding homes cast moving shadows overhead, a common sight for the townspeople, drawing the eye upwards when goods or valuables passed by. In the nearby alleys, the pungent odor of liquor distilled from the mucus of the eight-legged fish made Helm nauseous. "How can they drink such filth? The mere thought makes me want to puke. It is disgusting."
"Here, after the sea war... many types of fish could no longer sense the pure spirit. Mana no longer guides them. The last time was when you used that ancient ship before, creating a huge surge of mana flow. It should improve a little after this." Willvex, the ancient sage, smiled at Helm, baffling him. Helm turned to Porson, who only shrugged. The priest knew in his heart: all sages, all beings higher than them, knew nothing would truly improve. He looked forward, for now it seemed the shadow from the cliff behind the town was a fissure they could pass through. Strange, gnarled trees lined up beautifully from the top of the cliff, dangling down systematically, giving the wooden cliff its name.
"Beyond this road behind the town... we will emerge somewhere else. Provided there are no giant birds' shrieks or Wyvaris playing hide-and-seek to ambush travelers along the way." The sage spoke in a dry voice, laced with humor, yet seeming to hide many things. Everyone knew, but they did not care. For a warrior, whatever happens is fate, or worse, the wheel of karma. Not only the warrior bowed his head; those who fought in the war could never smile afterward... unless...
The three made no reply, choosing to press on. But just then... He vanished. A vanishing, yet nearby. For Vionneer's sight, faster than the others due to her hidden nature, turned and found Him sitting cross-legged, naked, playing with a small cat.
Many people were terrified of this creature, which resembled a "human" yet was too far removed to be called such. "Master, is everything all right? The center of town I see now seems very different."
But the ancient sage, Willvex, chose silence. No one spoke. They all saw Him, sitting cross-legged, playing with the small, rabbit-eared cat. Its fur was soft and fluffy, but the hand that touched it was rougher than a broken blade. The cat trembled in His palm. Was he trying to be gentle, or merely trying to understand? The edge of this town was so beautiful, so pleasant, that one wished it would stay forever, never changing. All that serenity was but a strange memory, a memory where the townspeople thought the sight was merely a madman, or a stray demon, or a newly awakened devil... But no. He was only a thing that wished to begin to understand something no one dared to embrace.
"Are you alright?" Porson spoke clearly, kneeling down. Helm followed, saying nothing, but drawing his bow without even saying why. The journey now lay ahead toward the heart of the Senifort Kingdom, to pass through the place they had left, or the place they once were, for all who had known it.
The glowing rectangular stone slabs, inscribed with the detached, whispering language of souls. They knew something followed. The intrusive thoughts, their strangeness, the distorted memories—some fading, some resurfacing. They avoided many things, the lack of understanding that no description could ever convey.
They... traveled on. For what purpose?