Prelude: In the Wake of Nothingness
“Awaken.”
It fell like a droplet of rain, rippling through consciousness and pulling the displaced youths from their slumber. For a moment, they were in damp darkness, the stench of mold pervading their minds, death abound in the catacombs. Some spoke up and heard their questions echoed through the cavernous chamber. Others felt the ground around them, feeling cold, grainy stone. Still more breathed in deeply, and could smell the rust and the salt that lingered within this strange place. But the darkness did not linger, and with the creaking of gears, the crackling of sifting dust, warm light spilled out into the cold room, bringing with it the crying of distant gulls, the whispers of the far off tide.
Two men, broad-shouldered and brazen, peered into the shadows with torchlight. One of them was dressed in plate armor, the other in chainmail, but it was clear from both their gazes that neither were particularly surprised by the appearance of these otherworldly strangers. No, the plate-armored guard almost looked irritated as he turned to his companion. They exchanged a few terse murmurs, before he nodded at the group, one hand gesturing them to follow, before marching off.
There were looks exchanged, but soon, most of the group followed in, tracing that armored man’s steps down the dirt path and into core of the rustic city.
Those that chose to walk off on their own, without following the guard, were paid no heed.
Though it felt as if it were late in the evening, the streets were still filled with bawdy drunks and promiscuous women, burning streetlamps casting warmth and light to chase away the nighttime chill. The clanking of mugs mingled with prayers and toasts, while a rooftop musician played the fiddle, pushing a feverish atmosphere upon the merrymakers. Overhead, the twin moons burned with red light, while the stars themselves aligned themselves in foreign fashions, masked only by the steam that rose from vendors plying their cheap eats. But the small crowds parted in the presence of the armored man, and though a few merrier drunks waved at the ones amongst the outsiders that were cuter, they were left largely unmolested as they trudged through the narrow streets.
Slowly, merriment gave away to silence, until they found themselves standing in an unremarkable plaza devoid of decoration. The buildings around, perhaps belonging to grocers, seamstresses, smiths, were closed today, leaving only a single two-story building glowing in the night’s umbra. Above oak double doors, a sloppily painted sign read ‘Silver Moon Recruiting Office’, while one of the walls of the building was coated with flyers. It took a few moments for any curious youth to decipher it, but despite the foreign script, the meaning was clear soon enough: each flyer was a bounty for monsters and criminals that somehow flew against the ‘common’ sense that they had.
But the armored guard cared not for such details, marching up to the door and pulling it open.
“Get in.”
An order, one backed up by the steel of his gaze and the steel of his blade.
The man himself did not enter, and for good reason. The room, where a receptionist may have been sitting or standing, was filled with disorderly stacks of paperwork, no doubt an immense fire hazard considering all the torches that lined the brick walls. The stench, the aroma of tobacco filled their lungs soon after, and behind them, the door was closed, leaving the displaced, confused youths with the only other individual within.
Seated behind a desk rife with miscellanea, a bespectacled man with crystal blue eyes peered at them. Even in incandescent lighting, his skin was a sickly pallor, blue veins stark beneath translucent flesh. Unlike the armored guard that had deposited them here, this man was dressed in a comfortable, perhaps even sloppy, set of robes. He looked at the motley gaggle of strangers, ran a hand through his combed back hair, and smothered his cigar.
The grandfather clock rang, chiming out midnight.
The silence that followed brought a heavy sigh.
“Well,” he spoke, voice firm despite his sallow frame, “I’d provide you with brochures, but children have the attention span of gnats, and it’s just a waste of good paper anyhow. You’re all kids with functioning minds and an understanding of math and philosophy, yes? Ask and I shall answer.”
From the desk, he pulled a crystal tumbler and a dark brown flask.
“But keep it curt. The talkative ones always die the fastest.”
The clock ticked once more, a pendulum swing for each wretched second.
