The air was crisp as Durian enjoyed his morning run. His watch started on the seventh spin, but the young soldier always rose a few turns early, keen as he was on entering tourney. Young, clad only in a short pair of woolen trousers, he made quite an image of pastoral vigor. Skin bronzed by field work and a tangle of unkempt black locks contributed to the twenty-year-old’s farmer-turned-soldier charm.
Pausing on top of a hill overlooking the town of Praeta, Durian pushed sweaty bangs from emerald eyes. Sitting down with a grunt, he reached for the water skin he had set down a few laps ago. Its black leather was marked with a white sigil, inducing magical cooling. It was one of only few magic items in this provincial hamlet, and Durian had won it in a drunken gamble with the druid Bucelas. A good natured and fair, if overly indulgent, man, the druid also served as a sort of alderman and so dealt regularly with guardsmen and soldiers like Durian. Thirst quenched, Durian’s attention turned away from his waterskin and towards the vista before him. Sun-stained red brick roofs covered white stone homes, clustered by a bend in a gently flowing river. A few boats rested at the meager docks, none worth the title of “ship”. In the distance, a stepped mountainside was pockmarked with rice paddies and grazing animals. Some farmers were out already, grazing the region’s famous sheepdogs. The name was literal, these creatures appeared as stocky wolves with hooves, although possessing docility and luxurious wool. Such strange beasts were common on the Republic’s outskirts.
Durian’s repast was interrupted by a loud bang and a cry of “TABERNAE IS CLOSED!” His lips curled in a sneer at the all-too-familiar scene. Whereas Bucelas was a beloved lush, the woman Marchesa was a degenerate and one not even of good humor. Though a strong believer in Citizenship as well as the Convivial Virtues, Durian privately held doubts about the recent enfranchisement of Styrians such as her. Knife-eared, albino and nocturnal, these cave-dwellers were rumored to be hematophages. A subterranean warrior culture, they had recently served as Republican mercenaries and so impressed the Senators that they won the rights of free men and women for many of their number.
Marchesa had been abandoned by one such war band. To be so gluttonous of wine and powders as to irritate even a Styrian war-chief was almost impressive. Durian privately hoped the woman would move on once her chest of looted silver had completed its slow conversion to wine and vomit. Short, lanky and boney, but with graceful lines of face, the Styrian woman was snarling at the tabernae owner, only to be met with a slammed door. She was something to behold. A black, hooded toga with an odor of wine was pulled over her face to prevent the harshness of the twin suns from damaging her alabaster skin. She also appeared to have foregone footwear, and her feet were soot-stained, as if they had freshly trod through a fireplace.
Durian balked at the woman’s chosen direction of travel. While Praeta itself was safe, just past its borders was a wild and rugged wasteland full of ruins both mighty and ancient. Fishing at the river, rice harvesting, and wool gathering were safe and fruitful crafts. None ventured further east. Towards the west, the scale and quality of Republican civilization and its architecture and roads only increased. Towards the east, there were no roads. Marchesa’s drunken, sun-blinded wobble was directed just so. Durian might have warned her off, had he already been at his guard post. Instead, with dismay, he saw the cave-dweller pass by the sleeping form of his fellow guardsman, Rellick. Not a morning person that man.
Durian’s face was the first thing the pudgy Rellick saw. Not yet fully aware, he only dimly understood. The Styrian had wandered off. Durian took Rellick’s rifle and a kris, to save the drunk from the dangers of roaming beasts and unsure terrain. As the youth broke into a sprint, Rellick blinked and reality caught up with him. Idiot kid! Fitness routines and the sparring pits were no preparation for the waste. Scrambling to his feet, Rellick raced to the small barracks to wake his fellow soldiers. It looked like another day of caves and corpses.
Marchesa’s skull was throbbing. The mark of a truly prodigious drunk, to drink so long and so heavily as to face a roll of still-inebriate hangovers. The rage behind her eyes rolled in many directions. First, at that tabernae proprietor. Second, at Bucelas and his pitying gaze. Was she truly to be denied that right of veterans the world over, to choose a drinker’s death? Though always a hedonist, as most Styrians, what had doomed Marchesa to the bottle was the end of the Republic’s border-setting campaign. In the absence of the cold and exhilarating rush of battle, what was the point of anything? These Republicans had won a peace for this western slice of fertile soil and misty forest, but Marchesa had not wanted such a peace. Her bloodthirsty streak had sent her afoul of Republican war law, and though a citizen she remained, her bar from military service was absolute.
Too drunk to think coherently, our lady in fuligin sought a cave to fall over in. Praeta, due to its geographic location, was close to subterranean ruins of the waste, which were uninhabited by organized society. This was for good reason. Not even cave-dwellers, such as Styrians, bothered with these mysterious structures. The Huangliang Seinlin, the rainforest which bloomed eastward into the mountain valleys which Praeta sat at the entrance to, was infamous for its flooded cavern ruins. Traps of praxes both technical and magical, as well as wyrded beasts, guarded archaeological secrets here.
These considerations were far from Marchesa’s grape-soaked thoughts. The woman proceeded noisily through the increasingly verdant greenery. Past a particularly thick patch of stone oaks, she found blessed shade. A clearing by the side of a modest pool of water was canopied both by an impressively thick forest cover as well as a rocky overhang. Nearing the ends of her energy and wakefulness, the Styrian made out a crumbling tower built into the side of the rocky outcropping. Sighing relief and seeking rescue from gnats and misty humidity, Marchesa’s liquor-animated limbs took her forward and into the structure.
Durian swore as vines snagged on the ill-fitting cloak he had snatched from Rellick. Sweat now soaking through him, our gallant knight breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted Marchesa in a grove, past the tangle of trees he was making his way through.
“Hold a moment” came Durian’s shout. A step forward led however to a loss of footing, tangling the soldier in vines and roots. He had been unheeded anyhow, as Marchesa had wandered off in the confusion. Getting his bearings, Durian took in his surrounds. Though dangerous, the Huangliang Seinlin was beautiful. This glade was formed around a pool of water, its origin high above, flowing at a variable rate from the rocky outcrop. Durian mused that Bucelas may compose an interesting pastoral about such a location. Then he saw what stood built into the granitic walls of this storybook glade. A most terrible ruin. Once of handsome midnight stone, the tower was now weather-worn and crumbling. Durian knew of the vast subterranean ruins which dominated the underside of the rainforest, and so he shivered in fear. The ruins were, after a fashion, perfect border security. That Praeta was largely unmanned was in a part a result of this. No eastern power was mad enough to make their way through this tangle of ruins and rainforests, nor was Durian sure there even were powers to the east.
A deep breath or two and a centering thought. Durian checked that his kris was secured at the belt and unslung his rifle. He advanced slowly but surely, steeling himself with each step. The ruined spire was less foreboding on closer inspection, and hints of faint white light came from inside, undulating steadily. The archway leading inside opened to a small, unfurnished room at the center of which stood a spiral staircase downwards. The faint glow was coming from the damp and dripping ceiling, which had accumulated patches of bioluminescent moss in its centuries of disuse. A wet trail of footprints, progressively less blackened by ash as they went on, led down the staircase. Wanting to spend as little time in this creepy structure as possible, Durian hurried down, hoping to catch the drunk ex-mercenary before she ended up cracking her head open or getting eaten by some beastie.
In the time it took Durian to disentangle himself from the local greenery, Marchesa had blissfully made it quite a bit further. She didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings but was pleased to replace the harsh light of sun with the faint light of glowmoss. Half-stumbling down the spiral staircase, the woman steadied herself at the bottom. Through yet another portal, she stepped into what appeared to be a large sewer chamber. Though the water was clean, what other goal could there be for long lines of black stone cut into channels for water? Here too there were patches of glowmoss illuminating the space, though less effectively as the ceilings rose to great heights. The passageways were unnaturally broad, and it was along one of these that Marchesa found herself traveling, now almost as if by instinct. Stepping through a nearby portcullis, she was briefly blinded by the sudden blaze of torchlight. Sconces all along the walls of the smaller chamber had come alight upon her entry, but our drunken heroine took little notice. Her attention was caught instead by a basin at the center of the hall, from which a familiar and heavy scent of iron came. There may be some truth to the rumors of hematophagy that dogged the Styrians. Marching right towards the deep chalice, our fey mosquito drank deep and long. Then she felt a click deep inside. Something suddenly wasn’t connected to something else, as though a gyroscope had come apart somewhere beneath her chest. Her hand went towards her heart. Another click, and this time she crumpled with a groan.
A low whistle escaped Durian as he exited the spiral staircase onto a stone walkway running parallel to a maze of flowing channels of water. The ceilings here were tremendously tall, as large a cavern as Durian had ever seen. Light was dim here, with such an extent for the glowmoss to illuminate, but travel was possible. Durian gingerly stepped further along the walkway, looking for any signs of the Styrian drunkard. As he moved, the youth could make out a statue of some white material, starkly contrasting the black stone of the surrounding architecture. The sculpture was of a beautiful youth, sat in contemplation on a stone carved with exquisite and wondrous winged serpents. The youth himself was framed by chiropteran wings and was as dark as he was compelling. His ankles were in chains, at the foot of which lay a shattered example of some ancient mechanical praxis. Durian noted with curiosity that the shackle was wrought in silver, with the rest of the sculpture this strange white stone. His hand naturally went to feel the smooth and cold metal, which was connected to chains leading towards a nearby gate. Durian saw torchlight suddenly blaze from the gate and shot to his feet. As he ran towards the light, fully expecting Marchesa to have been mangled by some trap, another flare of light came. A bright, strong, and piercing red, evocative of lightning and danger briefly blinded the soldier. Blinking away tears, he felt a sudden searing pain at his wrist. Another step forward took him tumbling once more to the ground. The silver band about the statue’s ankle had moved, as if by magic, to Durian’s wrist. It was itself now gleaming red with heat, and the man screamed as his wrist was seared. Blearily, as the pain ebbed, he saw that the statue no longer sat upon its reptilian throne. Still grounded from the pain, Durian struggled to his feet. From his wrist to the portcullis nearby stretched a silver chain, no longer red with heat. From the door came a hot mist of steam, obscuring the view. Struggling to move forward, if only to find what so bound him now if not the statue, Durian managed to get to the gateway and rest his arm against cool black stone. He peered in.
Limbs and blood. Hot breath, the sense of distance. A sudden shudder as eyesight unused for centuries was restored. Gleaming, smiling fangs, opening wide. This elation, of life, of return, was cut short before footing could even be regained. Searing pain around the ankle, and the resumption of that cursed chain of silver. A bestial howl rang out, and a kaleidoscope of reds and ultraviolets was released. Swinging its eyes to the door, this resurrected sentience saw a biped not totally unfamiliar in biology. They both crumpled.
Durian’s last vision before being buffeted by that extraplanar scream was of Marchesa, but not Marchesa. The woman was standing nude, staring at the entrance, with some vast reptilian skull worn seemingly as a crown. At her ankle was the other end of Durian’s chain, and he noticed her skin had turned from alabaster to a sooty grey. The woman’s eyes flashed red, and his vigor left him.