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Authors: Michael Watson
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through dozens of cracks in the ceiling. A long crevasse
ran along the center of the roof, casting a highway of light among the smaller
pools of gold upon the stone floor. Much of the chamber was bare, the floor a
seamless piece of black stone dusted with pebbles and debris from the cracks
above. On the far side of the room the base of the spire descended from the
roof, a thin pyramid that merged into the far wall. A great pile of rubble,
twenty feet tall, lay at the base of the spire, ringed by a skirt of scattered
debris. A lone figure lay face down and unmoving on the floor, a discarded
scrap of life. Tyrissa recognized it from a distance. It was Tsellien. She
hadn’t come back through Edgewatch for a terrible reason.
Any earlier hesitation forgotten, Tyrissa broke
into a sprint across the grand hall, boots crunching against the layer of
pebbles and dust that coated parts of the floor, each step a grinding echo in
the cavernous and otherwise silent space. A curious flash of warmth washed over
her as she drew near, like a rush of blood to the head. Tsellien was long dead,
though well preserved. No smell of decay hung in the air and at a glance the
warrior could have been mistaken for unconscious were it not for the thin knife
buried deep in the nape of her neck. A dried patch of blood encircled her head,
a profane halo. Her sword lay nearby, the blade broken and the crystalline orb
shattered.
Tyrissa kept a few steps away from the corpse,
unsure of what to do. She looked around for anything that would shed further light
on what happened here. The giant pile of rubble at the base of the spire wasn’t
made of stones fallen in from the hilltop, but held shapes. Judging by the many
stone limbs and faces among the rubble, it looked to be the collapsed statue of
some monstrous creature. A neatly arranged circle of stones sat nearby and
around that was a ring of runes sketched onto the floor with white chalk. Three
human skulls, picked clean to a bright white sat evenly spaced atop the stones,
staring inward at the center. It was a ritual circle, straight from the
stories. Tyrissa moved closer and saw that the three skulls gazed at a pointed,
pyramidal gem in the middle of the macabre arrangement. It shone with gentle
silver light and beckoned with a slight tug in her heart that begged for
Tyrissa to take it away from this terrible place. Just as she moved to do so,
the shadows at the base of the ruined statue began to boil, bubbles and coils
of animate darkness leaping among the rubble.
“I wouldn’t disturb that, were I you,” said a
chorus of voices that came from all directions. Tyrissa raised her staff to a
defensive pose on pure reflex, only to lose focus as a patch of shadow detached
itself from the rubble and flowed towards the gem. It stopped on the opposite
side of the stone ring and grew upward. From the moving shadows emerged a black
outline, a silhouette. It grew in mass and paled to an ashen gray humanoid
form. Tyrissa found herself backing away with eyes fixed on the shifting shape
and fear rising ever higher in her gut.
It came into focus as an approximation of a human
figure, hairless and naked, but utterly androgynous, like a template that
needed severe refinement. Its face was dominated by a wide, gaping mouth lined
with too many narrow, white teeth. Behind the teeth lay only a black void. Its
eyes were a milky white and without pupils, but Tyrissa could feel that it was
looking right at her. Or perhaps through her. It flexed its overly large hands,
the fingers ending in curved black talons.
“Daemon,” Tyrissa said, her throat tightening in
dread. A creature of mythology, of fiction stood before her. No, not fiction.
They were the very real puppet masters of the Cleanse, the whisperers that
turned men into savage, depraved beasts.
Its face split into a broad, feral smile.
“A sharp girl. My name is Xivo. Will you tell me
yours?”
“No.” Daemons were featured in many of her
favorite epics and
ran along the center of the roof, casting a highway of light among the smaller
pools of gold upon the stone floor. Much of the chamber was bare, the floor a
seamless piece of black stone dusted with pebbles and debris from the cracks
above. On the far side of the room the base of the spire descended from the
roof, a thin pyramid that merged into the far wall. A great pile of rubble,
twenty feet tall, lay at the base of the spire, ringed by a skirt of scattered
debris. A lone figure lay face down and unmoving on the floor, a discarded
scrap of life. Tyrissa recognized it from a distance. It was Tsellien. She
hadn’t come back through Edgewatch for a terrible reason.
Any earlier hesitation forgotten, Tyrissa broke
into a sprint across the grand hall, boots crunching against the layer of
pebbles and dust that coated parts of the floor, each step a grinding echo in
the cavernous and otherwise silent space. A curious flash of warmth washed over
her as she drew near, like a rush of blood to the head. Tsellien was long dead,
though well preserved. No smell of decay hung in the air and at a glance the
warrior could have been mistaken for unconscious were it not for the thin knife
buried deep in the nape of her neck. A dried patch of blood encircled her head,
a profane halo. Her sword lay nearby, the blade broken and the crystalline orb
shattered.
Tyrissa kept a few steps away from the corpse,
unsure of what to do. She looked around for anything that would shed further light
on what happened here. The giant pile of rubble at the base of the spire wasn’t
made of stones fallen in from the hilltop, but held shapes. Judging by the many
stone limbs and faces among the rubble, it looked to be the collapsed statue of
some monstrous creature. A neatly arranged circle of stones sat nearby and
around that was a ring of runes sketched onto the floor with white chalk. Three
human skulls, picked clean to a bright white sat evenly spaced atop the stones,
staring inward at the center. It was a ritual circle, straight from the
stories. Tyrissa moved closer and saw that the three skulls gazed at a pointed,
pyramidal gem in the middle of the macabre arrangement. It shone with gentle
silver light and beckoned with a slight tug in her heart that begged for
Tyrissa to take it away from this terrible place. Just as she moved to do so,
the shadows at the base of the ruined statue began to boil, bubbles and coils
of animate darkness leaping among the rubble.
“I wouldn’t disturb that, were I you,” said a
chorus of voices that came from all directions. Tyrissa raised her staff to a
defensive pose on pure reflex, only to lose focus as a patch of shadow detached
itself from the rubble and flowed towards the gem. It stopped on the opposite
side of the stone ring and grew upward. From the moving shadows emerged a black
outline, a silhouette. It grew in mass and paled to an ashen gray humanoid
form. Tyrissa found herself backing away with eyes fixed on the shifting shape
and fear rising ever higher in her gut.
It came into focus as an approximation of a human
figure, hairless and naked, but utterly androgynous, like a template that
needed severe refinement. Its face was dominated by a wide, gaping mouth lined
with too many narrow, white teeth. Behind the teeth lay only a black void. Its
eyes were a milky white and without pupils, but Tyrissa could feel that it was
looking right at her. Or perhaps through her. It flexed its overly large hands,
the fingers ending in curved black talons.
“Daemon,” Tyrissa said, her throat tightening in
dread. A creature of mythology, of fiction stood before her. No, not fiction.
They were the very real puppet masters of the Cleanse, the whisperers that
turned men into savage, depraved beasts.
Its face split into a broad, feral smile.
“A sharp girl. My name is Xivo. Will you tell me
yours?”
“No.” Daemons were featured in many of her
favorite epics and
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