Whispers in the Mist
The cool morning air of Misthåvn raised gooseflesh along my arms and legs as I descended the stairs into our tavern's nearly empty common room. The perpetual pall of twilight left light refracting in strange, shifting patterns on the glass windows. Drakharis waited by the hearth, nursing an ale. The pelt of an albino mournfang, a large furry creature that looks like a dog if you melded it with a boar and triple the size, drapes over his mountainous frame, a massive great axe strapped to his back. The flickering fire sends shadows dancing over his onyx skin.
Hearing my approach, he turns to greet me, beard beads and weapons clinking with his every movement. Sharp hazel eyes lock on mine and soften slightly at the edges. He spoke in a voice like a landslide, "Xariel told me the salient points. Are you sure this is the path forward, Sylryn?"
"I am," I replied, stepping closer and resting a hand on his bicep, "The chains binding the Herald are threads of the Architect's schemes. If we shatter them, not only will we gain a potent ally, but we will also push back the influence of the Disciples of Tzeentch. To falter is to fall, and I will not accept failure."
Xariel lounged, leaning back in a chair and twirling an arrow between her fingers. "The real question, Drak," she purrs, "is whether you're ready to enjoy the carnage. After all, you've been itching for a fight."
A savage grin split the stony edifice of Drak's face, "Indeed, I'll be glad to be rid of this place. The land of shadows is starting to grate on me. I long to feel the light of Hysh on my skin. Aqshy and Chamon should be a fine diversion."
"It should talk about a day to reach the Eluathi coven on foot. Bargaining for passage shouldn't prove too difficult. They will likely have us participate in their gladiatorial rites and gift some blood in tithe," I say, mentally plotting out the route. "Then another two to get to the Auric Gate; a day and a half if I summon steeds for us."
Drakharis nods, hefting his pack, "Lead the way."
The three of us exit the inn, stepping into the swaying alleys of the City of Scoundrels. Misthåvn was a floating city, thousands of boats lashed together, moored to the coast. Unseen eyes prick at my skin, and we navigate the labyrinthine alleyways. Xariel's relaxed demeanor is a stark contrast to the palpable danger. None of the city's various reprobates accost us, and soon, we step from the gangplank onto the void black earth.
The realm's omnipresent mists coil and swirl around us, shrouding the jagged, rocky landscape in an impenetrable haze. I lead the way, following the shifting winds of Aqshian magic to the realmgate. Drakharis and Xariel follow behind. Each step in the Realm of Shadow is treacherous, the mist and lurking darkness concealing craters and sheer drops. Our passage is slow and deliberate.
Telling time is difficult in a realm devoid of Hysh's radiant touch. Roughly two hours or so after decamping from Misthåvn, the path constricts to a dilapidated crumbling stone bridge. It stretches precariously across a chasm cloaked in dense, swirling mists. Sporadic flashes of eldritch green and violet light pierce the darkness from the impossibly deep void below, casting eerie reflections on the decaying stonework. Slick black moss grows from the cracks. One mistake would send a hapless traveler tumbling into the void, never to be seen again.
Xariel steps forward, turning and flashing a cocky grin. "A test of balance then," she quips, smirking a challenge. Without bothering to wait for a response, she flits over the crumbling bridge, her lithe form dancing effortlessly across the treacherous surface. Her piercings jingle, chiming a faint melody against the eerie silence of Ulgu.
She pauses at the midpoint, calling back in a lilting, teasing tone. "You know, this is quite dangerous, Syl. You best be careful; we wouldn't want you to slip." She pirouettes to face Drakharis and me, raking her lascivious gaze over my body. "We have so much riding on those perfect legs of yours, after all." She holds her arms out dramatically, part challenge, part invitation. "Come, my prophetess. Let me show my devotion and guide you through this danger."
I smile indulgently at her theatrics and step onto the bridge, my movements poised, deliberate, and filled with preternatural grace. As I near the vexing archer, I step on a patch of moss, hiding a deceptively large crack, and the stone gives way.
Xariel darts forward, snatching my hand and pulling me into her, steadying me. She traces her thumb along the creases in my palm— gentle and deliberate. "There now," she murmurs, her voice soft and intimate, "I've got you." Her pink eyes glitter with a mixture of amusement and something far hungrier.
Her touch is lightning, my skin tingling where her thumb brushes against my palm. She's savoring the moment with a softness that is a teasing dichotomy to her usual boldness that catches me off guard.
I know I should pull away—my footing stable once more— but I can't bring myself to move. Not yet. That look in her eyes, that heady mix of amusement and desire, stirs something deep inside, something I dare not name.
The frigid mists caress my cheeks, accentuating the heat rising beneath the skin. "Thank you," I whisper, squeezing her hand.
From behind, Drakharis rumbles, bemused irritation lacing his tone, "If you're done playing games, I'd like to get to the coven before nightfall.
Xariel flashes an impish grin over my shoulder, "Oh, don't worry, Drak. I'll hold your hand, too, if you ask nicely."
With a grunt of affirmation, Drakharis strides onto the bridge, raw power tempered with unassailable control. The dilapidated stone groans under his considerable weight, but his steps show no hint of hesitation. His hazel eyes rake over the two of us when he reaches us. His eyes linger on my stiletto heels.
"Your shoes are ill-suited to this crumbling bridge. I will carry you to the other side." His voice is dispassionate, but the softness in his eyes belies his care.
Xariel pouts but releases my hand, and I turn to face Drak. Without a word, he ducks and grabs my wrist, pulling my arm around his neck. In one fluid motion, he scoops me off my feet, pulling me into a princess carry like I weigh nothing.
His long strides bring us back to solid ground without further incident. He sets me down gently and rests a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once before continuing down the way.
After several hours of trudging through the blackened landscape of Ulgu, the ever-present mist thickens, icy tendrils coiling around us like the grasping hands of the dead. Everything beyond a few paces vanishes into a wall of black fog; even the sound of our footfalls is smothered by the cloying mist. The air here is different— heavier, burdened with latent tension that sets my nerves alight.
Drakharis closes the distance between us, "Something is amiss," his hazel eyes searching the encroaching haze. His great-axe slides from its holster at his back, silent, save for the soft rasp of fur on steel.
Xariel stops fidgeting with the arrow in her hands, her smile freezing. She tilts her head, listening intently, "Did you hear that?" she whispers, her voice barely audible.
The faintest scrape—claw on stone— whispers through the mist, rustling following from every direction. I clench the handle of my whip, unwinding the bladed tail.
The first attack comes without warning, a glint of spinning metal flying from the fog, leaving roiling eddies in its wake. Drakharis ducks, swinging his massive axe in an arc to meet the humanoid rat-man rushing him. He bellows, his axe cleaving through the creature's blade raised to block; his axe barely slowed, biting into its torso, nearly bisecting thing. "Skaven," Drakharis spits.
Where there is one of the rats, there are a dozen. True to form, eleven more humanoid rats skulk out of the mist. They're clad in black rags, holding a blade dripping green poison in each hand and another clasped in their tail.
The runes on my choker glow with a royal purple light. Shadows gather between my hands, condensing further and further before erupting in an instant; the shadows, coiling and undulating like living tendrils of darkness, slither into the nostrils and maws of the creatures surrounding us, filling their lungs with suffocating gloom. They flail and claw at their throats. Their black, beady eyes bulge in terror, and their sharp teeth snap ineffectually at the air as they try to scream, their agony an exquisite symphony.
Xariel leaps backward, her piercing-laden form twisting as she deftly knocks and fires two arrows in quick succession. The barbed arrowheads pierce the hearts of her two assailants. They fall, purple-tinged foam spewing from their mouth.
Two Skaven Gutter Runners pounce on Drakharis; he catches one by the throat, the other ducking under his guard to make two quick slashes at his exposed abdomen. He clenches his fist, and with a sickening snap, the creature falls limp.
Four Gutter Runners rush me, two launching two spinning stars, one flying wide, the other sinking into my thigh. As the other two rats leap, the glow of the runes on my choker blaze with an otherworldly purple.
Words spill from my lips, my voice not entirely my own, as if two beings are speaking simultaneously, "Witness the ecstasy of ruin!"
The world holds its breath, a tense silence stretching impossibly thin. Above us, reality buckles and tears, an ornate mirror forcing its way into existence—a warped and shimmering portal carved from baroque obsidian, veined with molten gold. The mist that cloaked the battlefield recoils in awe, momentarily banished by the mirror's unholy brilliance.
Cracks race and dance across the mirror's surface like the web of some insane spider, each crevice pulsing a decadent purple light. Then, with a deafening crash, it shatters— fragments of razor-sharp obsidian cascading in a deluge of death. The shards dance through the air, glinting like malevolent stars before plummeting down, slicing through mist and flesh as if they were not there.
As the last fragment strikes the ground, the mirror's frame disintegrates into fine, glittering ash. When the dust settles, all that remains of the ambushing force are mutilated corpses coated in glittering dust.
I stand at the epicenter, the chaotic beauty of ruin etched into my being, the voice of my god still reverberating on my lips.