Convoys were notoriously difficult to rob, much less infiltrate, but Aetmir was a stubborn man. The ground shifted beneath him as the wagon lurched forward, the smooth cobbles of Stahlrest's city streets blurring into a gray streak. He clung tightly to the undercarriage of the cart, hoping his plan would go off without a hitch. Gears and cogs ground against one another within the walls as two armored pairs of legs hopped off of the cart on either side. The massive, arched gateway leading to the northern trade routes creaked open, allowing the first of many carts to pass through. From his inverted perch, Aetmir saw hundreds of tiny, dark tendrils try to sweep into the city through the parted gates.
Wispy tentacles of Gloom fizzled and dispersed among the bright light that emanated from the arcane sun constructed thousands of feet above Stahlrest. Those artificial stars were the only thing keeping civilization alive, providing light for crops and a shield against the Gloom. Though, it didn't only have positive affects. Much of the high elf population firmly believed that, should they not be bathed in the Sol's light at all times, they would wither away or go blind. Aetmir never gave their theories much credit, of course—he knew a few street rats with that noble lineage. The final cart in the convoy, his cart, wheeled past the gates. Men shouted again, this time in a language he didn't understand, and the steel-plated gate to Stahlrest clanged shut behind them.
“Got your dragon mask, Ayla? You'll need it if you want to be let into Hope's Cradle,” a masculine, gruff voice said to Aetmir's right.
“'Course I do, Tano!” replied an airy and feminine voice to his left. “After all, I'm not stupid like Hawk up there.”
“Hey, I may be stupid,” a third voice, craggily and strained, called down from the top of the cart, “but at least I'm useful in a scrap!”
The guards—Duskwalkers from the guild of the same name—picked up their pace as banter continued to fly between them. Pressure built in Aetmir's core as his heavy belongings, tucked into the pocket formed by his limbs, pressed against him. When Tano and Ayla had reached the front of the wagon, he let go, falling about a foot towards the ground below. He landed on his back with a soft thump, sinking slightly into the muck-covered soil. The mud was cool against his exposed arms, reeking of old, settled decay. Aetmir waited there, staring at the night sky for a long moment before getting to his feet. His shield, sword, and satchel tumbled to the ground in front of him. The convoy's lanterns flickered in the darkness as a juvenile Gloom Cloud consumed their procession.
“Probably shouldn't make that a habit, huh?” he whispered to himself, rising to his feet. He brushed the mud from his purple skin and sleeveless jerkin. After slinging the shield across his back and fastening the sword to his side, he stooped down and reached inside of the satchel. Two small, pointed caps glinted a silvery white in the moonlight as he pressed them into the tips of curled horns on either side of his head. With a self-satisfied tail-swish, he cleaned off the stubborn grime that clung to the side of his bag and situated it on the opposite hip from his sword. With his thoughts reeling, Aetmir walked at an angle away from the convoy into the cool night air.
Hours crawled by as Aetmir trudged along an overgrown side path mentioned in a log book that Stenbower had kept locked away in his closet. The book was more of a personal journal than an informational guide, speaking at lengths about his travels and experiences. Its final entry brought up the path Stenbower took on the day he left, all the while alluding that he would be meeting his friend at some unnamed clearing. Two years had passed since the old dwarf had left, and all leads had grown cold. The only thing you leave me as a cluewas a note in your journal? Damn you, old man!
“Aetmir,” he recalled the hastily written foot note of the final entry in Stenbower's journal, “if you are reading this, I suppose it has been at least two years and I have not returned.” Teeth ground against each other as he found strength to wrench the words from his mind. “Find my old bag in a small grotto along the trail. In it will be another journal, one containing details of what is to come, and my final gift to you. I love you, son. I'm sorry.” His breath caught on the last memorized words and he wiped away stagnant tears from his pupilless, red, left eye. An itchy, frigid sensation crawled around beneath the worn leather eye patch on his right, though there were no tears. Damn you indeed.
Foliage continued to darken in coloration as Aetmir traveled further from the city. The once verdant leaves and grass found beneath the city's stellar engine gave way to dark shades of red and lavender. Brambles twisted up from the mud in large, winding bushes, holding the remains of small animals caught in the thorny trap. The Sister Moon's light peeked through thick clouds, casting an eerie glow over the ground. Aetmir spotted a small break in the thick, umbral vegetation ahead of him and picked up his marching pace.
With some effort, Aetmir pushed through the overgrown hedge, stumbling over branches and briars. Emerging on the other side, he was greeted with a small, circular clearing some twenty foot in diameter. Large stones jutted up from the black moss-covered soil and a moldering log sat across the right edge of the grotto. One of the rocks looked to have been chiseled flat to act as crude furniture. The stench of rancid offal filled his nose as he stepped toward the center. Stenbower's ornate leather bag rested against the back of the flat rock, right next to the source of the smell.
A white hare lay on the ground, gutted and lifeless, next to the satchel. Aetmir's nose wrinkled as he tip-toed around it, grabbing the mossy strap hanging loosely from a broken branch in the mud. Despite the item having sat there for an extended period of time, it certainly looked like it was still brand new; smell and lichen growth aside, anyway. There was a soft squelching sound as the leather satchel was hauled from the layered mud, and he took a step back to not wretch from the stench. What just slaughters a rabbit and leaves a body like that?
Aetmir moved to the lone, mushroom covered log and sat, facing away from the gore. He reached into the abandoned satchel. Nothing. He reached deeper, his entire arm disappearing into the bag, yet it found no bottom. With a puzzled frown, Aetmir brought the bag up to his face and peered in. Darkness. He winked and furrowed his brows in thought. I've heard of these, I think. Used by travelers to lighten the load of their packs. How in the Hells do I use one?
Several, agonizing minutes rolled by and still Aetmir felt nothing within the satchel. Finally, irritated at the luggage, he overturned the open bag in front of him. To his surprise, several things began to tumble out. The first item was a rough, burlap sack tied shut around the top with thin twine. It impacted the soft ground with a thud and the tell-tale sound of clinking glass rang out. Next was a leather-bound journal that hosted thick, yellowed pages—it landed neatly on the sack below. Following close behind was a forged, bronze key with a small scrap of paper tied to the end.
Aetmir sat back down on the decomposing log, stunned that all of those items could fit inside. He grinned, picking up the journal and key to set beside him. The large sack contained a preserved ham, smoked and aged cheeses, and two bottles of Blackthorne's Raspberry Mead—one of his favorites. Aetmir picked up the key, unfolding the small note that was tied to the loop on its end. The script was written in Dwarvish and it took him a moment to sound out the words in proper fashion.
“A, the key is for the trap door under my bed. I know you hate being on your own, so I hope the food finds you well—have lunch on me. Keep the bag, I think you'll like it. —Alfor.”
The key pressed tight against his palm as his fist balled around it. A single tear fell from his face, landing on the clenched hand below. Aetmir let out a strained laugh and grabbed the sack of food. Lunch, after all, was on his missing father. So, he sat in the last known location of Alforbulim Stenbower, his adoptive father, and ate lunch. Part way through his second bottle of raspberry mead, the smell of decay grew more pungent, turning sickly sweet as it drifted on the wind.
Whispers floated around the grotto's exterior, circling around and swirling just beyond the dark hedge boundary. Fear shivered down his spine all the way through the tip of his tail as goosebumps ran along his arms. Without thinking, he tossed the bottle aside and hurriedly stuffed the remaining items into the bottomless satchel. Shit! That's a big Gloom Cloud—time to go!
Aetmir ripped his sword out of the scabbard and grabbed the shield from his back in a fluid motion as he stood, new bottomless bag slung across his shoulders. Determination, terror, and excitement all surged through him as he plunged through the hedges, back onto the dirt road. The whispering grew louder, and the Gloom Cloud loomed some hundred feet behind him, roiling up into the air. Dark, rolling mists like a churning wave spilled over itself as it billowed towards him.
Frigid air rushed past as he sprinted down the road, the chill a sure sign that the Gloom was closing in. Whispers turned to howls and the gusts of wind brought reverberations of clawed hands gouging into the soft earth. Something grasped at Aetmir's tail and he whirled around, slashing blindly at the entity. Steel crunched through bone, cleaving it from the body of whatever just touched him. It screeched, shrill and blood curdling as it collapsed, writhing about on the ground.
More scrabbling echoed along the path as Aetmir ran, voices of people lost to the Gloom calling out for him to stop and join them. Letting go of the shield, it fell behind him as he continued his sprint. With his now-free hand, he flipped open his original satchel and dug through it frantically. Seconds later, steel links of a chain attached to a Tenebrous Bulb caught his fingertips. He latched onto it, thinking the command word over and over in his head. Lux! Lux, damn it! Glow!
It exploded with bright, initially light as he raised it above his head, spilling out around him as his pace slowed. The Gloom Cloud crashed around him like a violent tsunami, battering the barrier of light like waves against a salt-crusted crag. Nothing could be seen through the dark mist as it swirled and roiled around the perimeter. Outlines of broken, shattered, and mutated bodies shambled just beyond the reach of the luminous bulb.
“Silhouettes... shit,” Aetmir panted. “This was a dumb idea.”
Voices hissed and taunted him from the whirling void during his slow trek back down the path, towards Stahlrest. Saccharine sweet odors of rot filled the freezing air, forcing his nose to crinkle with every breath. It wasn't uncommon for those brave enough leaving the walls of a Bastion alone to go missing for months, only for their husk to show up meandering around the city. The dried up shell of what used to be a man lay slain on the road as Aetmir walked around it on his way back.
Swollen, bulbous bodies writhed around the barrier of light. Their faces, haunted by hollow eye sockets inset with lavender pinpoints of light, stared passed him into the distance. The looming Gloom Cloud began to shift as he trudged through the stirred-up muck that was now the pathway. Giggles and cackles began to replace the baying calls of the Lost, voices dying in the air beneath their volume. Wind whirled, mists swirled, and the fog began to shift away from Aetmir, taking the Silhouettes with it.
In mere moments, the darkness around him cleared and the Cloud rolled across the landscape in search of its next victim. He let out a sigh of relief and relaxed his posture. Steel skidded and slipped as he locked the sword back into its scabbard. The dirt road stretched onwards ahead of him, ravaged by the bony fingers and thin feet that chased him moments prior.
“I need to find some help if I ever want to...” he trailed off, winking back stress-induced tears. “To find that damn dwarf, Alforbulim Stenbower.”
